BLACK WINDS

by

Luther Giordano

&

Nancy Edgington

Copyright © 2010 by Luther Giordano & Nancy Edgington.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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BOOK ONE

Foreword

Appearing above Zoran, the fleet hung in space for the few moments necessary for its commanders to issue their final attack orders. No one admired the sparkling blue and green of the planet below them: they were here to kill, to exterminate. All of the savagery and power of modern weaponry bombarded the planet, redundantly at the last as new volcanic fissures covered those senior to them by scant moments. The people on the planet died in the first moments of the attack.

Wearing gray robes or in blue or green uniforms, the commanders of the ships congratulated themselves. The Brotherhood of Zoran had died with its home world. On every civilized world across the galaxy, the hunt for all who had been off world was already under way. They would also die.

The Order of the Masters of the Chaos out of the Darkness rejoiced. Their long war with the Brotherhood of Zoran was over. They had won.

The Path to the Modern Imperium

by Ronnel Latten

The history of the galaxy may be divided into three periods: the Age of the Algolana, the Darkness, and the present era. The time before the Algolana can at best only be conjectured. It is understood that there were civilized worlds because the Algolana conquered them. Little is left of these cultures. The Algolana appeared in the skies of every populated world bringing fire, death, and the worship of their God. The peoples of each world tore down their cities to build the altars of God upon the bare rock and then died in their billions upon those altars. The legends speak of God Himself visible in the air above the altars, consuming the souls of those sacrificed in horror and agony.

Of the Algolana themselves, still less has been known. The Children of God are described as wearing demonic armor designed to terrify the beholder. They killed men, women, children, the young and the old without compunction or compassion. All sinners died for the glory of their God. Even the faces of the Algolana were covered; there is no description of their form. Since the Judgment of God fell more heavily on the non-human races, it is assumed that they were humanoid. The few surviving bits of armor lend support to this thesis.

Then, in one day if we are to believe the tradition, the Algolana were gone. Primitive, superstitious cultures maintain legends that God took them bodily to His heaven and that they will return one day to finish the Judgment of God. The Darkness descended at this time and for millennia the peoples of the galaxy have struggled to regain their civilization, until our modern era. Ironically, it was those worlds that had most cooperated with the Algolana who recovered first and who progressed most quickly. They had not suffered the depths and breadth of destruction of the others. Non-humanoid races appeared, to be viewed with suspicion by the tolerant and fear by others lest they cause the Algolana to return.

Out of the Chaos and the Darkness, two groups having galactic-wide significance emerged. The first, the Order of Masters of the Chaos out of the Darkness, preached order, discipline, and security. They worked tirelessly to restore a galactic civilization. Our modern era dates from the establishment of the Rajkar Imperium with the assistance of the Masters. The beliefs of the second group, the Brotherhood of Zoran, centered on the individual and the right of choice. They held choice to be the greatest good and, organized as a military society, fought as mercenaries (both men and women) for dissident worlds opposed to the new galactic order. Twenty years ago, they and their home planet were destroyed by a combined fleet of the civilized worlds led by the highest Masters of Darkness. Since then, the forces of order have been inexorably prevailing. The House of Rajkar is triumphantly restoring civilization to its pre-Algolana heights.

The Algolana: A Scholar’s View

by Regin Mellor

CHAPTER ONE

She drew the hot, fetid air into her lungs. Lightning flashed through the heavy black clouds, illuminating the jumble of buildings below. Each stroke tore through the darkness, revealing the source of the pervading stench: the filth and garbage, the rot of a backwash port, a place of ancient and degraded evil. Its smell filled Sarr’a’s nostrils reminding her with each breath why she hated this city. Its inhabitants’ fear and cowardice stank in its every corner, festering in the darkness, cowering from and cursing even the fitful light the clouds grudgingly allowed to pass. She did not permit any distractions from her task.

Ships, rising cathedral-like from the muck, refracted the strokes to mocking, ephemeral rainbows. Warehouses and shipping offices and bars and hovels were like medieval litter. Streets through this district not too far from the field were narrow and twisted. Wide avenues weren’t necessary here: the cargoes were only stored for transshipment. Local cargo . . . well, the local cargo didn’t need wide roads.

They were moving again, the boy and the girl, still confident that no one was following them and that they were safe. Safe in this very nasty city. Refugee camps are like that and for all its age Darnath was still a refugee camp. Founded by humans and others running from the Algolana, before the Chaos, before the Darkness, they had thought the endless night and ceaseless storms would protect them. Before this bit of hopeful superstition could be put to the test, the Algolana had disappeared. Descendants of those refugees had cowered for generations; their memories of the stars caught up in a complex religious mystery. They had of course destroyed their ships when they landed. Sarr’a spat. And that was what religion and cowardice did for you. Those things most feared by your ancestors became the objects of your worship and adoration. The ships on the field near the city carried them on pilgrimage to those stars, a pilgrimage required if they were to have any hope of salvation. And the captains sold them into slavery on a thousand worlds, most with starry nights.

Enough of history and religion. Sarr’a moved in close synchrony with the pair then pushed ahead as they neared an area of deeper shadow. Moving lightly, she allowed the next flash to show her to the three waiting figures. They saw a small person dressed in the common clothing of the streets. Stifled, muttered curses confirmed their departure.

This was boring, incredibly boring. And irrational. These last three had sense. The two already rotting four alleys back had ignored the warning and had been a quick, pleasant diversion. This was the smuggler’s district: interfere and die. It must be a very high reward that so many thought they would risk it.

Smugglers. Sarr’a’s thoughts were bitter as she moved to cover the progress of the two below. Smuggler, she corrected derisively, and on a child’s mission. Her orders were to bring these two children to him. And they were stupid children, though the girl at least was full-grown. They didn’t even sense that she was there: in front of them, behind them, above them. But they were to arrive unharmed at the meeting place. Her orders were explicit. She smiled unpleasantly to herself. He knew better than to give her any room for interpretation.

Why had she been sent? Who were these two blind idiots playing games in the dark? What did he want them for? Something truly unpleasant, she hoped. Knowing him, it probably was. And why send her? Anger and resentment rose in her throat to be controlled automatically as she continued to scan. One more block and he would have them. Luck and joy to the three of them in that meeting, she thought sarcastically.

Something in the shadows to her left shifted slightly; she was already facing him when he spoke.

“There you are.” The tone was self-satisfied, smug. “I knew one of you would be along.” He wore the black hood of an Ylgaran assassin and had the conceit of the guild to a full measure. “But they cannot be as important as I was told. You are only a boy. And a small boy at that.”

This one was not a local: he was foolishly ignorant as well.

Lightning flashed again as Sarr’a moved toward him. She was accustomed to the insult, but it still cut. This one, she would enjoy. Then, he made it worse.

“I will share the reward with . . . ”

Black rage boiled from within her at the mention of blood money. Her knife, which should have sent intestines tumbling to the ground, skittered across his body armor. Angry at her carelessness, she felt a rising joy in the intensity, the now of combat even with this scum. As Sarr’a moved forward again, her dark eyes began to dance and death shone from them. The assassin’s smile froze as he realized that her knife had not broken on his armor, as it should, as it must have. Reaching for her with his own blade, he felt an agony searing through him as his right hand was parted from his arm. Then he died drowning in blood, her knife in his throat.

Pulling free, Sarr’a whirled to face the man behind her. Recognition was quick and, also, surprise. He hadn’t mentioned any others and certainly not Reth. Both of them to watch two children? Reth spoke before she sorted through her anger.

“This one wasn’t alone. I was sent to watch your back.”

Mentally, she shrugged. Any assistant to this offal would not have been a problem.

Reth’s tone was coolly sarcastic as he continued, aware that she didn’t care. “They’re all right. They’ll be with him in a minute.”

They watched the boy and girl go through the door before he spoke again.

“He said you needed discipline and he’s right.”

Sarr’a winced at the cold appraisal from the older man. She accepted it because he had been her teacher and he was Reth. She didn’t like it. The rage was folding back into the corner of herself where it ordinarily lay hidden.

“What now?” she asked, cleaning her blade and sheathing it.

Reth listened for a moment, then, pulling her close, pointed to a man standing in shadow across the square.

“My assignment is to watch that one. He’s good enough to make it interesting.” He grinned down at her. “Yes, you missed him, too.”

He watched as she winced again. That one she was supposed to know on sight and he was dangerous.

Stepping back stiffly, she asked, “And my orders?”

“You’re to go home, commander. He’ll be there soon.” And half to himself, he continued. “I wonder who these two are who need such impressive protection?”

So, he hadn’t told Reth either, which was unusual.

Reth was gone with no further ceremony, although half consciously now she watched his progress around the square. Home, he had said. Bile rose again in her throat. No, not home, but certainly closer than this.

Sarr’a turned her back and followed orders.

* * *

Lady Ylana was shaking. The door had opened, revealing a dark, hellish pit.

“There can be nothing in there that can help us. Fior was wrong.”

With the certainty that his teacher was never wrong, Nat replied, “Where else can we go? This is our only contact and we have no other way off this world.” He took her arm to draw her forward. “We must.”

With the door closed behind them, they moved among figures barely visible in the dim light. What they could see would have been an education in decadence had they been more sophisticated. It was merely disgusting because they were not.

Inside, the air was thick with the smoke of a hundred narcotics. Sweet spice warred with acrid across the sour stench of ancient vomit. Nat drew Ylana forward and ragged bundles around the room stirred. It was rare that the more affluent members of society came here. It was even rarer that they were young innocents. Here people took great care not to be recognized; that was a decision most had made long ago. It was a mistake, however, to assume that they did not see. One near the door slipped out and was followed shortly by another. Two others half rose and settled back as the pair’s destination became apparent.

In an alcove of the room, lit by a single beam of light, sat a man with a red beard. More accurately, perhaps, there was a red beard. The man was in shadow.

“There,” said the boy with some relief. “That’s the one.” They walked across the room to the alcove. “We were told . . . ”

“You were told that I could help you. Sit down.”

They sat across the table from him and grimaced as the light shone fully on their faces, further eclipsing his.

“And how can I help you?” His voice was harsh.

“We need transport.”

It was Nat who spoke, his voice hushed and furtive. He leaned across the table hoping to penetrate the gloom. Sitting gingerly with her handkerchief pressed to her nose, Lady Ylana tried to ignore the filth on the table. This was difficult because some of it was crawling toward her.

“Transport where? Across the city, boy?” The voice was becoming derisive.

“Off-world,” Nat looked around uneasily.

“That’s more expensive, boy. I need more information for that. Who are you, to start?”

“That’s none of your business.” Ylana spoke sharply then gagged as she breathed air in unfiltered.

Red Beard laughed and continued speaking to the boy.

“Is this flower of virtue someone’s daughter or the wife of some official of the Imperium, perhaps? That is expensive. You are my business, little one.” This last in sarcasm to the girl who seemed too naïve or perhaps too stupid to understand his meaning.

She threw a pouch on the table.

“Is that enough?”

He poured the contents into his hand.

“Not bad, gentle Lady. But only half of what you have.”

“How do you know what we have?” Nat tried to reenter the conversation.

“It is my job to know, boy.”

Red Beard waited until a second pouch had joined the first and he had examined the contents, then he leaned forward, his face almost in the light.

“I have been instructed where to take you.” The boy’s eyes widened. “For now, you will wait at the warehouse of the merchant Skairos. You will be escorted there. Do as you are told or no one will help you.”

He settled back in his chair. Behind him, one of several heaps of rags stirred and rose. The man thus revealed gestured peremptorily toward an exit they had not noticed and they followed.

After they were gone, a hooded and cloaked thing moved across the main room to follow. Red Beard rose and the thing stopped as at some unseen boundary. Hate and will flashed between the two.

“They’re mine,” hissed Red Beard, a spark of green from his eyes.

Growling a deep guttural challenge, the thing moved no farther. It stood and quivered with impotent rage as Red Beard sat back in his chair and considered the problems posed by the two who had just left.

They were Master of Darkness Baltash Fior’s pawns. Fior himself had requested that they be transported to Askarn. And the request had come directly to him, which was cause for concern. He didn’t like attracting the attention of a Master and would like to know how it had happened. He would know.

Those two were simply pawns, tools in the Master’s game. He was almost certain of that although habit and inclination made him suspect such obvious stupidity. Sitting across the table from the most notorious criminal in at least this section of the galaxy, their concern had been with the dirt and the smells. The smile hidden in his beard was sardonic. His reputation was both earned and carefully calculated. Their ignorance was almost insulting and, perhaps, illuminating.

He turned and signaled to another of the men behind him who came forward immediately.

“Tell Reth to bring the colonel along. I think we will stir all of this together and see what develops. Has Sarr’a left?”

There was a nod. Red Beard laughed quietly.

“Then we’ll surprise her with some guests.”

He would play this game until he had all the answers he required.

He rose and once again noted the figure still glaring across the room. That was perhaps more interesting even than Fior. Why did they care so much about these two? Customarily careful to avoid involvement in human affairs, the Xackarn were not fond of attracting attention to themselves either. For one of them to come to Darnath was almost unprecedented. Running from the Algolana, the demons who had seemed to have a special hatred of the nonhuman, the human refugees had naturally killed all nonhumans within a year after landing, lest they attract those demons. The Xackarn considered this world a mausoleum and they did not visit their dead. That question was not, however, of pressing importance. He filed it for future thought.

* * *

Across the square, the colonel had seen the two he was following enter the smuggler bar. He was far too well known to risk following them there. Leaning back against the wall behind him, he considered the matter. The boy, Nat Bahadur, was some kind of student and the girl, Lady Ylana, was of the minor nobility with, apparently, political aspirations. They were neither of any consequence. Master of Darkness Baltash Fior was. The colonel had learned that these two were involved in some plan of Fior’s and he had, of course, followed.

There were only two Masters of real importance: Lord Sartak of the Imperium and Master Baltash Fior, currently of the Confederation. Their plots and maneuverings against each other were constant and extremely dangerous to anyone caught up in them. He had to know why Fior was contacting the smugglers, especially this smuggler who was extremely vicious and the most deadly. Masters of Darkness did not deal with criminals, at least not openly. Criminals were an affront to order.

Lord Sartak was interested too; his proffered reward for the capture of these two alive was a staggering sum. It seemed unlikely that Red Beard would pass up the opportunity to collect it. He had certainly seen to it that no one else would. The colonel, carefully and cautiously following the pair, had sensed their shadow and counted the bodies.

He began a careful circuit of the building, looking for other exits that they might use. Timing between the lightning flashes was difficult. Moving quietly down the alley behind the building, he abruptly felt his feet knocked from under him and he fell. His attempt to roll was countered by the weight of a man who quickly secured the colonel’s hands tightly behind his back. He was hauled to his feet.

“You know who I am, Colonel Murthoc.”

The colonel’s eyes had widened slightly as he registered the man known to invariably be at Red Beard’s side.

“My orders are to get you to their next meeting. It’ll be easier on both of us if you walk to my ship.”

Reth watched the colonel weighing the odds.

“Your choice, Colonel. He’ll understand if you don’t arrive in one piece.” Smiling slightly, he baited the hook. “And you do want to know what’s happening, don’t you?”

As he definitely did want to know what was happening, Colonel Murthoc nodded and Reth pointed him in the direction of the port and into the belly of the beast.

* * *

Ylana was working the intricate figures of a ritual diplomatic evening in her mind: Good evening, your Grace, deep curtsey, polite nod to an acquaintance, the slow dance of protocol. Anything to distract her nose from the smell of this warehouse. She had heard that you could learn to ignore the disgusting, but she knew that for a lie. Her stomach twisted with each breath.

She and Nat had followed the repellent man who had appeared at Red Beard’s side as he dismissed them. They had been rushed hurriedly at this criminal toad’s insistence, herded impertinently through narrow alleys filled with rotting garbage until he had turned sharply into the door of this warehouse. Now they had been waiting for hours alone in the darkness.

Ylana was certain that there were rats. And worse. She could hear the movement in the blackness around her. She stood as close to Nat as she dared, not that he would probably be much protection. She knew very little about this boy who seemed to be Master Fior’s disciple. He didn’t wear the robe of a novice and he didn’t have the arrogance of a Master. The two of them had traveled together, following the directions of the Master, without becoming friends or even talking much.

Besides, Ylana reminded herself sharply, the point of her being here on this mission was to show that she could do as well as a man. Master Tarrask had said so. Better even. She was tired of all those patronizing idiots. Resolutely, she ignored the rats. And the worse. And squealed as Red Beard materialized out of the darkness in front of her.

“Put these on.” It was the same voice, as coldly jeering as before. He shoved dark robes at them. “You’re traveling as pilgrims. Move. Quickly! Your ship lifts soon.”

The cloth felt dirty and coarse under Ylana’s fingers as she pulled it around her, covering herself from the shoulders to the ground. She flinched as Red Beard yanked the hood up over her head, then shivered as his fingers seemed to linger in her hair.

“Cover your faces. You do want to leave here, don’t you? Or would you rather stay with me, little one?”

Ylana, repelled by the leering coarseness in his voice, pulled the robe more tightly around her body.

“Leave her alone!” Nat’s voice was belligerent, but he too was muffled in a dark pilgrim’s robe.

“Certainly, certainly, sir.” The smuggler’s voice was openly mocking.

Their innocence was astounding. He could sell both of them on any of a hundred worlds and easily make up the costs of this operation. Perhaps later.

“We will go to the ship now. You will keep your mouths shut or you will be left behind.”

Outside, the air was still hot and foul. Despite the hours that had passed, it was still dark; the lightning was still flashing. Recalling that this world had only a brown dwarf star as its sun and clutching the long robe, which threatened to trip him, Nat followed the smuggler. Worrying that this was a trick, that the man was somehow going to sell them out, he felt helpless. First all those questions, then the admission that he knew where to take them. He was almost certainly cheating Master Fior. But Nat also felt the thrill that a spaceport always gave him. His childhood had been restricted; this adventure was exhilarating.

Rising above them was an ugly ship. She was an old freighter bearing the scars of her journeys. Red Beard spoke quietly to a member of the crew who seemed to be in charge of the loading. They were waved aboard and stepped through the airlock directly into the hold. In back of them, the double doors clanged shut leaving the smuggler behind.

The smell was already worse than the city outside.

CHAPTER TWO

Inside the hold, it was dark and cold compared to the outside. The captain was cooling his engines, but apparently had no power for the lights. Nat and Ylana groped their way through the darkness and the mass of people around them. Unseen, but clearly heard were the sounds of illness and fear: wheezing, coughing, vomiting, and crying. Their stomachs were almost too overwhelmed to react, too tired to twist into the now familiar knots. They found an empty bunk and huddled together for warmth, forgetting for a time that they were still strangers in the awfulness around them.

Lifting off, the ship fought its way up through the clouds, engines screaming under the acceleration, clawing through the heavy atmosphere. Inside, Nat and Ylana were strapped down, but the thin padding beneath them did little save bunch up to cause excruciating pain as they were slammed back against it. They could feel the heat of the engines rising through the floor now, causing the plates to buckle and pop. Finally, after one last terrifying shudder that seemed to be the ship pulling apart, they were beyond the planet’s grasp. Then a deeper, more brutal shudder began as the hyperdrive cut in.

Old and incapable of direct travel, the ship had to make jump after jump with long pauses between as engines recycled and its course was recalculated. With every jump, it was as though they were being twisted inside out; the ship lacked full energy suppression fields and kept what she had for the crew.

Ylana could taste blood and vomit in her mouth. That had been the fourth jump and it felt like the universe was spinning around her head. Nat moved beside her.

“Listen,” he said.

Outside the hull there were metallic scraping noises. Hearing people around them struggling up from their bunks, Nat and Ylana moved to sit up. Her head pounded with the movement and the scream of the hatch cut through her skull as though it were being torn open above her eyes. Troopers in the blue of the Imperium came through to the hold, their handguns drawn and bright lights flashing before them. Most of the cargo seemed too dazed by the stresses of their journey to react. A few screamed, then were quiet as the squad leader spoke.

“The two of you know who we want. Get out here quickly or I’ll start shooting the ones closest to me.”

It was a bluff, but they didn’t know that. He couldn’t risk killing one of them by mistake: Lord Sartak, Master of Darkness, had a very direct and brutal response to inefficiency from his subordinates. They died in a very public agony. It was said that he folded their brains inside their skulls. This trooper did not intend to find out if that were true.

There was a pause before Nat and Ylana rose together and moved through the crowd. Pulling back their hoods, the squad leader studied their faces carefully as they winced away from the light. They matched what he had been shown.

“Right. Through there.”

They were shoved through the hatch with brutal efficiency. Through a pitted porthole on the transport, Ylana and Nat could see that they were being carried to a large battle cruiser with the markings of the Household Guard of the Imperium. Sartak, himself. Nat was becoming very pale. Lady Ylana obsessively remembered her etiquette and reminded herself of all her important relatives at the Court. It didn’t help. Why had she agreed to this? She didn’t want to be a diplomat; she wanted to be home in her own bed and safe. Her pride kept her standing, but she couldn’t stop the tremors in her hands.

On the other side of a double airlock, there was another squad of Imperial troopers to escort them to the bridge. The long pilgrim robes were pulled off them and discarded. Oddly, Lady Ylana began to feel at home. Straightening, she took a deep breath and unconsciously smoothed her dress. The air was the lightly scented, mostly sterile atmosphere of a modern ship with soft lighting and pleasing colors. Its crew moved quietly and purposefully through the corridors and there was a steady, powerful throb from the power plant, the engine.

If they would simply let her walk, instead of this rapid race to the command deck (at least, that’s where she assumed they were going) she would have relaxed in her own milieu. At least, she would have if they’d been courteous enough to offer a bath and fresh clothing. Instead, she and Nat were rushed by these uniformed louts along the ship’s corridors and up lifts to the bridge where suddenly they faced Sartak, Master of Darkness, First Lord of the Imperial Chamber, and the Confederation’s most deadly enemy. He was as her friends had described him: very tall with hair like silver flames that played around his thin aristocratic face. And eyes which cut through to the soul. Ylana dropped into her deepest curtsey without further thought.

And rose in confusion as from their left came a voice she recognized.

“Well, Lord Sartak. Here they are as I promised. And the price that you promised?”

His tone was amazingly insolent, but she was too terrified to really listen. How could anyone speak like that to Lord Sartak? The smuggler, his face still largely masked by the beard, was standing between two troopers, but his pose still managed to suggest a swagger. His eyes were hooded, but there was a flash of intense emotion in them, which Ylana could not identify as he looked at the Master of Darkness.

He was irrelevant. Lord Sartak was turning toward them. Nat was still standing, but appeared to be barely breathing. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be almost catatonic in his fear. Ylana managed not to curtsey again only by locking her knees. She looked up toward the eyes, but flinched away as he looked at her.

“Lady Ylana, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

His bow was elegant, but his eyes had turned to the boy. Ordinarily, she would have been resentful, but not now.

“And who are you, lad? I have not seen you before, but there is something . . . ” He noticed the smuggler watching him closely. “Take this to an airlock and throw it out. Perhaps then we shall all be able to breathe.”

“Thank you, Lord Sartak. I will hope to do the same for you one day.”

Incredibly, the smuggler retained his insolence as he was dragged away by another squad of troopers. Sartak looked puzzled for a moment, but was caught again by the problem of Nat Bahadur. He moved closer to stare down into the boy’s face.

“You interest me very deeply, boy. Master Fior seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble with you.”

He stood over the boy, his eyes intent. There was now a tense air of expectancy on the bridge. Nat seemed oblivious. After several long minutes, Sartak shook his head slowly.

“I cannot break this level of conditioning without some effort. You will require more attention than I can give you now. Much more attention. You will undoubtedly be worth it.”

Lord Sartak paused to consider the two of them.

“Put them in a holding cell.”

This last to the squad leader whose men moved forward immediately to obey.

Marched down through the lifts and the long corridors again, they reached at last a room in which they were imprisoned. Nat moved like a sleepwalker and remained standing just inside the door where the troopers had pushed him. Ylana moved to explore. It really wasn’t very civilized to put the two of them together. She would have liked to clean herself a bit at the sink, but had to be content with washing her face and hands. At least, she could rinse out her mouth. There was no mirror, which was probably merciful. She tried to comb her hair with her fingers and managed with a great effort not to think of what might be in it.

Nat was still standing by the door, his face and eyes blank. He couldn’t be that scared. She wasn’t that scared. At least, not yet. Master Fior must have done something. Masters of Darkness could do things like that to you. It didn’t make much sense, but then Masters were always strange. Her own confessor, for example, was always making odd suggestions. Like this trip with Master Fior, which he said would help her have a career in diplomacy. All of the diplomats she knew went to parties and talked to other diplomats. This was much more exhausting than that and there weren’t any nice people to talk to. Lord Sartak at a party would still have been scary, but in a different way. She didn’t want to think about Lord Sartak. You would never meet a man like that smuggler at a party . . .

Food and a bath would have been pleasant, but sleep would do. Ylana settled on the bed, which was not comfortable, and began to doze. A moment later, or so it seemed to her, a shudder ran through the room, then another and another. The last was much stronger than the first two. Klaxon alarms were sounding outside and Ylana could hear men shouting although she could not hear what they said even with her ear pressed to the door.

Shrugging, she was about to lie down again, when the door opened and a man in a trooper’s uniform gestured for them to follow.

“Come on,” he said. “Hurry! Or do you want to wait for Lord Sartak?”

Confused, Ylana shoved Nat out the door and down the corridor after the trooper. He was moving rapidly away from them and she had to pull Nat almost to a run to overtake him. Catching up, they were pushed into a lift, which went down three levels.

Acrid smoke in the air made Ylana cough. Nat didn’t seem to notice as she pulled him along. Her eyes were streaming and her head was pounding again as she followed the man down a side corridor. He stopped at an airlock and opened it.

“In,” he said, then when they did not move he continued. “The choice is yours. Stay here and face Sartak if you wish. He isn’t going to be happy after this.”

Ylana pushed Nat through the hatch, which was immediately closed behind them. They were in a small ship; she could hear the bolts holding them to the cruiser disengaging behind her. Dragging Nat to one of the two seats in the pilot’s compartment, she got him strapped in and had begun on her own when the engine fired. Cushioned against the acceleration by the upholstered seat, she finished securing her straps.

Through the screen, she could see that they were flying back along the cruiser. There was a hole in the larger ship’s side through which men and debris were being sucked out into space. Men struggled as she watched then froze into grotesquely contorted shapes. Shuddering, Ylana looked away. Lord Sartak had had that done to that strange man with the beard. Then the engine fired again and they were in hyperspace.

For a while, Ylana just sat there. Everything had happened so quickly. First, they were on the pilgrim ship then they were Lord Sartak’s prisoners. Now she didn’t know what was happening. Nothing felt quite real. Slowly she began to realize that the ship they were on was really quite nice. Comfortable seats almost urged her to sleep. She ran her hands over the armrests, feeling the richness of the fabric.

Finally, hunger required exploration. She undid her straps and moved carefully to the back of the ship. Thankfully, there was a small galley. Opening some soup, she set it to heat and went back to check on Nat. He was still sitting where she had left him, eyes staring blankly.

“Nat!” she said sharply. “We escaped. We aren’t on Lord Sartak’s ship anymore. Wake up.” Annoyed, she wondered if she should slap him or something.

“I’m making some soup. Are you hungry?”

There did seem to be more expression in his eyes now.

“You don’t need to shout. I can hear you.” he said. A ringing in his ears and sharp pains behind his eyes made thought difficult. His tongue was swollen; his mouth was filled with cotton.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “You were so weird.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he said angrily. “I’m fine. You said you were making soup?”

As he spoke, the ship dropped into normal space, spun quickly and refired its engine. There was barely a tremor in the cabin. Ylana was appreciating the difference between this mode of transport and the pilgrim ship when Nat spoke again.

“Where are we going? Why did you program it to change course?”

“I didn’t. I don’t know where we’re going. I’m not a pilot.”

Ylana looked confused. Everything was still happening too quickly, she wanted to be at home.

“The soup should be hot.” She offered and went back to check.

When she returned, Nat was studying the controls with a worried frown. He accepted the food and ate absently.

“I wish they taught us more about these things,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be any way to change course. We could be heading straight for the Rajkar capital.”

He looked around the cabin and paled.

“Isn’t this Sartak’s seal?” he asked, pointing to the insignia on the cabin wall. “This must be his ship.”

Ylana was alarmed for a moment, then said practically, “Well, at least we’ll be more comfortable traveling this way. I’m going to wash and maybe find something a little cleaner to put on while I wash this,” indicating her dress. “Then I think we should rest. If you’re still hungry, there’s plenty of food.”

Nat was preoccupied with other problems.

“That smuggler was there, wasn’t he? How could he betray Master Fior?”

Ylana thought that the betrayal of them was more immediate, but she tried to be soothing.

“Well, he’s dead by now, I expect. Lord Sartak told them to throw him out into space.” A vision of those struggling men rose in her mind and she spoke quickly. “I’m going now.”

Nat spent the time looking for tools and trying to open the control panel to no avail in either case. The ship changed course twice more. Since it was obviously modern enough not to require the changes, it occurred to him finally that the course had been set to elude any possible pursuit. That only made him more confused. Over the last several months, he had begun to suspect that Master Fior didn’t tell him very much and he was beginning to resent it. After all, he had been trained at the school to help the Master.

Ylana had had time to wash herself and her dress and they had both slept for a time when the ship came out of hyperdrive directly above a planet. Neither of them recognized it, which was a relief. No artificial light broke the darkness of its night. The ship held its orbit for a short time, then entered the atmosphere. They landed in darkness and the engine died.

“Now what?” asked Ylana.

They had both looked out the airlock port and seen nothing. Nothing but what appeared in the dimness to be trees. Neither of them had the slightest idea how to make the ship take off again.

“Over there,” said Nat, pointing to the right. “There is a fire. You can see it flickering.”

He moved outside and turned to help her descend.

“Are you sure?” she said, stepping down.

Cool air outside smelled of evergreens. There were probably animals.

“Maybe we should wait until morning.”

Nat was already walking away. “We won’t be able to see the fire then,” he said reasonably.

She followed him, trying not trip in the dark.

CHAPTER THREE

They approached the clearing cautiously, these two who had fearlessly crossed the city of Darnath. There was a large fire burning and an old man seated near it; an old man wearing the gray robe of a Master of Darkness although the hood was pulled back. His hair was white, adding to the venerable air of wisdom and authority that he projected even while seated at a bonfire in the middle of a forest. Looking up at Nat’s joyous cry of recognition, Baltash Fior smiled broadly as they stepped into the clearing.

“Welcome, dear lady. Welcome, Nat. I am so glad that you have arrived safely.”

Ylana’s reply was cut short as a man with a large red beard came into the clearing from the other side. He was carrying a bundle of firewood.

“That’s the one! He sold us to Sartak. You traitorous . . . ”

Nat’s movement toward the red bearded smuggler was halted by the cold sneer of the man’s voice.

“Sold you? Of course, I sold you to him. You attract him like honeyed water attracts bugs. It was far easier to bring you through him than to evade him entirely. I was paid to bring you here. You are here. Or do you think that Lord Sartak’s personal ship programmed itself after the munitions lockers on his cruiser began, on their own of course, to explode?”

Above the beard, his cold, green eyes watched Nat’s reaction to the words: his growing rage, his frustration. Suddenly, Master Fior was between them.

“Quietly, Nat. Quietly, my boy.” Fior spoke soothingly as to a small child.

The smuggler watched Ylana’s face reflect both their puzzlement. The boy wasn’t that young. Why couldn’t he be angry? Masters of Darkness were not notably concerned for the feelings of their subordinates. Fior was continuing.

“I have brought you both here to meet someone important. Someone who can greatly help the Confederation, if he will. This,” his right hand came up to indicate Red Beard whose eyes became hooded as he listened to the Master’s revelation. “Is Tar Abzoladan, the Last of the Zorantian Brotherhood.”

There, Fior thought, I have told him that I know him. We can begin the negotiations. Their pride was always touchy. I shall have to be careful.

Master Fior failed to notice the stillness, which had settled over the man he had introduced. Red Beard would kill him, he was thinking, but I am Tar Abzoladan. It is over twenty years since this man and his Order tried to kill all of us. I was seven years old. I am not a child; I can control this. He could see his hands, phantom hands, going out and killing Fior, tearing him into bloody pieces. A shudder went through him as he stopped them and they went forward again and again he stopped them. Over and over, faster and faster, until he shouted within his head: I am Tar Abzoladan, the Last of the Brotherhood. I need to know why he is here and what he wants. I will not kill him. Now.

Drawing his next breath slowly and with care, Tar Abzoladan’s voice when he spoke was, almost, nonchalant.

“Or Deb, for short.” He inclined his head toward Fior. “My battle name.”

Another man would have heard the warning. Deep within him was a shadow Deb, who leaned exhausted against a soothingly cool stone wall in a dark and quiet place, panting hard at the effort that battle had cost. He panted and regretted that he had won.

Behind Fior, Nat laughed. “The last of the Zorantian Brotherhood? He must be the last. We were taught that they were all killed twenty years ago.”

Lady Ylana spoke in his ear, her voice crisp with dislike.

“It is his title, you idiot. That’s the leader of the Brotherhood.”

She took great pride in her knowledge of titles and rank. That one had always seemed exotic. Someone had told her that it was because the Brotherhood always evacuated their officers last, after their men. What savages, she remembered thinking at the time: forcing their betters to wait.

“You are right that they’re all supposed to be dead. Listen.”

She motioned Nat to silence as Fior spoke again.

“Deb, then.” Fior spoke carefully, choosing each word. “You are, of course, familiar with the current political situation.”

“Certainly,” said Deb politely. “I find it very profitable. War offers so many economic opportunities.”

Above the beard, two very intense green eyes watched Fior and looked through Fior. As he focused more intently on the problem presented to the Brotherhood, the image of the torn and broken body of Master of Darkness Baltash Fior was fading. What does he want? What can he want? Where is his fleet this time?

“Yes, of course.” The Master’s tone was now that of the practiced diplomat. He paused to gather his thoughts. “We, the Confederation, I mean.”

He smiled at Ylana, who smiled automatically in response. That was necessary. Even a remnant of the Brotherhood might balk at assisting a Master.

“We would like to enlist the services of the Brotherhood on our side.” That should salve his pride, he thought.

“You wish to contract for the Brotherhood’s services? The entire Brotherhood?”

Deb’s eyebrows registered surprise. The Brotherhood had never fought for the Masters. First, they destroy Zoran. Then, he wants us to fight for him. This was becoming an insane comedy. Deb did not feel any desire to laugh.

“I had no idea your Confederation was so wealthy.” And it would take more than the Imperium’s wealth to buy the Brotherhood.

Blast him to the nether hells, thought Fior. He sounds like he’s counted our Treasury personally.

“No, no,” he said. “I had in mind more of an alliance between us.”

Ylana was struggling. The Brotherhood of Zoran, Fior must mean a few survivors, she thought. Still, they were legendary fighters. And everyone knew they had been mercenaries. Maybe that was why they were all dead. She was trying to remember the story, but it had happened before she was born. Fior was right. Something had to be done or the Confederation was lost. The Rajkar emperors had always claimed all of the civilized worlds. Thus the Confederation was, by their definition, in rebellion against their lawful authority. She wasn’t stupid and she didn’t look forward to facing Imperial justice, even with relatives at Court. And now, after having attracted the attention of Lord Sartak . . .

There had been a thoughtful, surprised silence after Fior’s last suggestion.

Deb spoke at last, as though thinking aloud. “An alliance? We haven’t entered into an alliance in centuries. I will have to consider your proposal. I will have to consult the clan commanders.”

His eyes swept over the clearing, registering Nat sulking by the fire, Ylana obviously struggling in thought, and Fior waiting patiently as Masters of Darkness are taught to wait after they set a plan in motion. Tar Abzoladan reached a decision.

“I will consider it. But not here. Come.”

He turned abruptly away from the fire and strode off into the darkness.

Behind him, Fior, looking perplexed, and Nat and Ylana moved more hesitantly. There was, they found, a faint trail through the trees. Ylana looked back to see several indistinct figures dousing the fire. Then she bumped into Nat who had stopped beside Master Fior.

The Last of the Brotherhood stood facing a sheer wall of rock which rose to block out half the sky. His fingers touched several points; a large section moved aside. An older man had somehow joined them as they walked and was between them and Deb as the small group stepped into what appeared to be an airlock. The wall behind them closed; a second door opened.

Before them, there was a large, well-lit cavern filled with vehicles that looked to Ylana like some sort of war machines. She really wasn’t very familiar with that sort of thing. There were people everywhere and they didn’t look like smugglers. They were clean for one thing. And all dressed in black uniforms. No one had black uniforms. Except… No, she couldn’t remember. Soldiers of the Imperium wore blue and the Confederation forest green. The air still smelled as fresh as it had outside in the forest.

As they walked, she saw several men and even women look toward Deb, then turn back to their work as if he had answered their question solely by his presence. A more observant person would have noted that, while none of them looked at Fior, they all knew he was there. Deb led the small group across the area to a large ramp and started up. Two levels later, they were met by a rather short young woman, also in black, who stood stiffly silent until Deb stopped in front of her.

“I welcome you to this base, Last of the Brotherhood. Do you take command?”

Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were not. She was blazingly angry.

Beside Deb, Reth’s cocked eyebrow was the only outward sign of his annoyance.

“No, base commander. I leave command in your hands.” Deb gestured to the three with him. “These are my guests, Sarr’a. Find somewhere for them to wait until I have considered their proposal, please.”

There was a moment of frozen silence before she moved forward.

“Your guests will await your decision. This way.” The last was addressed in the direction of Ylana.

Traveling up another long ramp, they turned down a side corridor. Sarr’a opened a door and motioned for them to enter. It closed quickly behind them as though she would contain the contagion. Turning away, she signaled two guards to the door.

Deb continued up the ramps to reach his command center located at the top of the base, near that of the base commander, as was customary with the Brotherhood. Reth, who had joined him as they walked to the escarpment, followed. The older man’s eyes were thoughtful as he watched the Last of the Brotherhood activate the displays on his desk and then settle back in his chair.

“You look tired, Deb. I came too late to hear. What happened with Fior? Why bring them here?”

This was a moment neither man had anticipated: a Master of Darkness on a Brotherhood base.

“He announced who I was and asked for an alliance between the Confederation and the Brotherhood.” Deb closed his mind against the memory of that moment and reflexively scanned the displays.

“What happened? You look . . . haunted.” Reth’s eyes were searching. He put aside his own shock. An alliance?

“Are you having those dreams again?” His tone was sharp.

“Dreams? No, no dreams. Not for years now. But then, I haven’t slept since meeting with Fior. Ask me again tomorrow.” The Last of the Brotherhood smiled sardonically.

“I am asking now. What’s wrong?”

Reth had moved behind the desk and was looking down at the younger man.

Deb exploded, his eyes flashing in fury. “When there is something wrong I will tell you. Why are you pushing like this? What right . . . ?”

Leaning forward, his hands on the chair, his eyes now level with Deb’s, Reth replied in clipped tones.

“I have watched your back and been responsible for your safety since you were seven. I was given my orders by your father when he placed you in my arms on Zoran. Those orders have never been rescinded. When next I meet your father, we will discuss it. Until then, I will determine what questions need to be asked and I will have the answers I require.”

He stood up and watched as Deb closed his eyes. The shock had been bad. Reth waited.

“You’re right, old friend. I’m sorry.” Deb’s eyes opened, but did not focus. “When Fior announced that he knew me, it was suddenly as though I were two people. The Brotherhood was revealed to the Masters and I wanted to kill him more strongly than I have ever wanted anything. I watched my hands come up and tear him apart. As many times as I stopped them, they began again. It took almost all of my strength to stand there and not kill him.”

His eyes found Reth’s.

“He was there, above Zoran, that day. I know it. For the sake of the Brotherhood, I must let him live at least until I know his plans. And probably after.”

He continued so quietly that Reth almost didn’t hear him. “It was like the dreams. I was screaming inside my head. No one heard me.”

* * *

Inside the room where they were to wait, which was furnished in a practical, yet comfortable style, Ylana sat down gratefully and began to wonder about food. Maybe there was some point to this mission. But why was Master Fior looking like he’d swallowed a pickle? He usually had that all wise, all knowing look that Masters of Darkness at his level, which was very high, always projected. Walking through this base, he had seemed to shrink within himself. She would have thought that, since he wanted this Brotherhood as allies, he should have been glad to see them. Nat looked upset, too, but she was beginning to discount the boy entirely.

She saw the door open again and a man escorted inside. He surveyed the room and its occupants quickly as his guards left. It appeared much the same as the one where he had already spent half of a day.

“Cully Murthoc: Lady Ylana, Master Fior, Nat Bahadur.”

His bow was practiced, but not that of a courtier. He had established that he knew them, only Master Fior knew him. There was a pause, as the ritual “at your service” did not follow. His eyes moved rapidly around the room, still assessing its contents. Any conversation between these three would be of interest, but he was already suspecting that he had stumbled upon something far more important. Until now, his captors had been careful to keep him blindfolded and he had not been taken far from the ship which had conveyed him here. Now they had brought him to this room and he had been permitted to look around unhindered as he walked. Philosophically, he considered the probability that he wasn’t going to survive and, as usual, shrugged.

“Colonel Murthoc heads your Confederation’s intelligence service.” Sarr’a spoke from behind him. “He has been following you, so the Last of the Brotherhood decided to assist his efforts.”

Her dark eyes gleamed with malice. Deb wanted the pot stirred; she would stir it. The colonel had turned a startled expression toward her as she spoke Deb’s title. He was now staring at her.

“And you are?”

Fior’s tone was smoothly polite. He filed the information that the colonel had been following his agents for a later time. He knew the danger of trying to interrogate a man in the presence of any member of the Brotherhood.

She ignored him. With a glint in his eye, Colonel Murthoc repeated the question.

“You are?”

She had not appeared in his other prison.

“I am clan commander Sarnath Al Cador, Colonel. Of the Brotherhood of Zoran.” Her eyes firmly on his, her back just as firmly to Fior. “I am the commander of this base.”

“Are we your prisoners, clan commander?”

His tone was casual, but his eyes were assessing every detail of her clothing and carriage. Although not tall or imposing, she had a presence which filled the room. Her uniform was black, its insignia denoting clan and rank subtle but present. Her attention seemingly focused wholly on him; she stood at parade rest. He was not deceived, but he was close to being unnerved. The intensity of this one’s eyes transcended even the more extreme stories he knew of the Brotherhood. He felt himself being weighed, assessed, and, almost, dismissed. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“You are the guests of the Last of the Brotherhood while he considers your companions’ request for an alliance.”

She was watching for his reaction. Her own disdain was clear.

“An alliance with the Brotherhood? They are ambitious.”

He spoke his thoughts aloud and noted her narrowed eyes. As she moved to leave, he spoke again.

“And how many of the Brotherhood are there, clan commander?”

Professional curiosity was the least of his motives in this question. He needed to know the answer.

“Enough, Colonel.”

They couldn’t see her feral smile as the door closed.

The colonel began a slow circuit of the room, carefully inspecting its contents. Ignoring him, the others began to talk.

“I just don’t understand, Master Fior.” Nat said at last. “How can the Confederation have an alliance with the Zorantian Brotherhood? They were monsters who were destroyed over twenty standard years ago.”

* * *

From another perspective, the same question echoed in the Last of the Brotherhood’s command center. The clan commanders and Deb’s staff were met to discuss the question of alliance.

“You will ally the Brotherhood with them? With a motley group of planets calling themselves a Confederation that has degenerated to nothing more than one faction of the Masters fighting another?”

All of the anger and frustration Sarnath Al Cador had fought down for years exploded in her outrage. It was not necessary to pretend here or to hide her opinion.

“We have skulked as thieving, filthy smugglers for this: to help Baltash Fior, who was commanding the lead ship, to help him take over the Imperium?”

“We are at war, clan commander. War makes strange allies.”

Tar Abzoladan stood behind his desk. It was another round of a familiar argument. He had won it with himself; now he must convince others. She would be as always the hardest to convince.

“The Brotherhood faces the same choice we invariably face: we can deal with the universe as we find it and work to change what we can or we may withdraw somewhere and hope that our enemies do not find us.”

Her anger revealed the depth of her pain.

“I am neither stupid nor a coward, Deb. We have been at war for millennia. I had thought the Brotherhood stood against Fior and his kind. Now we are joining them?”

She glared across the desk at him, willing him to understand.

Deb spoke gently. “I know you are neither, Sarr’a. But sometimes your grief overcomes your logic.”

Sarr’a stood frozen, eyes closed as she gathered her thoughts to convince him. Behind her, the senior commanders of the Brotherhood continued to gather for this emergency council called when Fior had first asked to meet with Red Beard. They were an oddly assorted group whose kinship showed more through a general air of competent and intelligent professionalism than in any genetic trait.

Sarr’a tried again. “Your logic, Deb, led us to take over the smugglers twelve years ago and to hide among criminal scum. And now your logic will lead us into an alliance with one of the Brotherhood’s vilest enemies whose Order we have fought since its beginning and who is personally one of the major authors of my grief. Show me your logic that we should die for the glory of Master of Darkness Baltash Fior. Show me your logic.”

The anguish in her voice had brought the room to a silence which was broken suddenly by a woman standing near the door.

“Oh good. Deb’s going to explain how logic lets him be the pirate scourge of the starways again. I love that one.”

Sarr’a stiffened, then turned to look at Tor who had just entered the room. Her eyes met those of Deb’s sister, who was also her friend.

“You’re right.” She said at last, in resignation and with an understanding that she must at least listen. “It won’t be that one, but it will be a good story. Let’s hear it and be amused.”

She sat down and deliberately turned toward Deb as he began to speak.

“I shall not defend the decisions of the last two decades. The Brotherhood was severely injured by the Master’s attack on Zoran twenty years ago. When we took over the various smuggler organizations, it was to give us the ability to move freely in their galaxy. We have also raised the necessary funds to arm ourselves properly.”

The assembled men and women knew this; it had been debated and discussed many times.

“I do not propose an alliance with Baltash Fior. The Brotherhood has never fought with or for the Masters. We never will.”

His voice rang out decisively on the word never. The room was quiet now with all eyes turned to him.

“We will form an alliance with the Confederation. Fior is only one of their leaders although he imagines himself to be the puppet master. We will cut those strings. And once he is isolated and we have a full understanding of his schemes, we will repay his infinite kindnesses.”

He spoke with a total hatred in his voice which echoed that in Sarr’a’s eyes.

“Why an alliance, Deb?”

Tor’s question from the back of the room was quietly direct.

“Two reasons. First, the Confederation is poor. They can’t afford to hire us. And I won’t lower the rates.”

Deb glanced around the room of Brotherhood commanders. There were a few smiles at the jest. Although they were traditionally mercenaries, they had never fought for the money. Sarr’a was still staring at him, her eyes very dark.

“Second, we need to convince them to work with us very quickly.”

There was a derisive sound from the center of the room. Deb’s voice grew deadly serious.

“In seven standard days, the Confederation is planning an attack against Sartak’s base on Kuarmian.” He saw the puzzled questions on the faces in front of him. “Yes, I know there is no point to such an attack. The system is of no possible value to them. However, they will attack and they will, of course, be beaten decisively.”

Nods of agreement greeted this assessment.

“Their retreat will carry them back to the Kilbora system.”

He turned to the clan commander sitting nearest him in the front row, who now understood the placement.

“Can you dismantle your base on Tashforan, leaving not one trace of it, in seven days?”

The clan commander answered quietly. “You know that we cannot, Deb. Two weeks, perhaps.” He sounded apologetic. “The Imperials will find an operational Brotherhood base.”

Tor’s voice, still quietly direct, cut across the rising questions.

“Why so little warning, Deb? You usually know these moves months in advance,”

The tall blonde sat forward in her chair.

“As I said, there is no military logic to this move. There is no apparent advantage in choosing to attack Kuarmian over a dozen other targets and many disadvantages. I will admit that we were not looking for it. Also, it is always more difficult to know what the Masters will do. They keep their secrets even from their friends and each other.”

It was offered as assessment, not excuse.

“The war between Fior and Sartak is developing an entirely new dimension. Fior orchestrated this attack; he seems to think he has some new weapon against Sartak. We would not have known about it at all except that he needs the Confederation and they are not capable of organizing quickly, Fior’s people have done the staff work, but he still had to give them several days warning. Those two, Fior and Sartak, are moving toward annihilation warfare against each other.”

“Good.”

Sarr’a’s interjection was quietly enthusiastic.

“You are increasingly blinded by your hatred, Sarr’a. I am not interested in their turning this galaxy into a charnel house.”

She flushed at the severity of Deb’s rebuke. He was right: the Brotherhood stood against that, but in her more hate-filled moments she didn’t care. He was continuing.

“This weapon seems to involve the boy that Fior had me bring here. Until we know what they’re doing, anything the Masters do must be viewed with even more than our usual total suspicion. The boy is somehow key to Fior’s plans. We will watch him.”

“The boy, Nat, he’s a Master of the Power or something else?”

Sarr’a’s carefully neutral tone fooled no one. Even for a member of the Brotherhood, her loathing of the Power was notably strong. One Master’s presence on her base was bad enough.

“Not that anyone has observed,” said Deb quietly. “But he’s Fior’s special student which must have some meaning.”

And Sartak saw something, he thought.

“To return to the proposed alliance: we must defeat Sartak decisively. We must do it without revealing the Brotherhood’s continued existence. Therefore, we must defeat them as the Confederation.”

“Flawless logic as always, Deb.”

He ignored the tribute from Tor and looked around at the assembled leadership of the Brotherhood.

“A Master of Darkness has found us although he does not know what he has found. I believe it is time for us to move forward with our revenge. The question before you then is do you follow me into an alliance with the Confederation ostensibly as smugglers, continuing to keep the existence of the Brotherhood as secret as possible? Do we declare ourselves and face Sartak’s fleet alone thereby risking uniting the Masters and by extension most of the galaxy against us in a holy war? Last time, they managed to unite most of the so-called civilized worlds against us. Or do we leave and hope to find a more peaceful part of the universe?”

The last choice was an empty formality. There were no peaceful parts of the universe for the Brotherhood.

His eyes swept the room gathering the approval of each clan for the alliance. Each clan commander nodded decisively as his or her eyes met his. At the last, he looked to Sarnath Al Cador. Her expression was still very troubled.

“Your vote, clan commander?”

He was almost certain that she would vote with him, but with Sarr’a you couldn’t be sure. If she said no, her clan would not be in the alliance. Or they would choose a new commander. Choice was the most fundamental precept of the Brotherhood.

“Given the situation as you outline it, there can be only one choice. We follow the Last of the Brotherhood into this alliance and this battle.”

She had risen and spoke heavily, her eyes locked on his. With extreme deliberation, she gave him a formal salute: left hand reaching to her right shoulder and jerking suddenly downward. Behind her, Tor flinched. Her face impassive, clan commander Sarnath Al Cador left the command center.

Deb turned and gazed out across the great rift valley below the escarpment in which the base had been built. The sun was rising. Behind him, the senior commanders of the Brotherhood left the office in small groups, Reth walking with another, older man. The alliance had passed unanimously; they had work to do.

A part of Deb’s mind continued to relentlessly plan the coming campaign. Another focused on his sister, Tor, who was waiting until they were alone to speak. He did not consciously remember the history of that salute in the Brotherhood, but he knew it. It honored those who, in order to save the Brotherhood of centuries ago, had carried tactical nuclear weaponry on their backs into the headquarters of their enemies and pulled the detonators on their right shoulders. With that salute, Sarr’a had pledged a willingness to do the same. Or perhaps an expectation that she would have to given his leadership.

Deb’s eyes narrowed as he made the calculations of kill ratios.

“She’s excessively rigid, isn’t she?”

He made several mental notes about attack sequences for the second wave, then quickly and very thoroughly scanned the displays built into his command desk.

“Who’s that, Deb?”

“Excuse me?”

His train of thought broke totally. Tor could always do that. It was the tone, not the words that did it.

“Good.” Tor approved. “Now you can concentrate on the real question. Your ability at strategy and tactics is not in doubt. Sarr’a is not the only one who chafes at the course we have taken these past years.”

And you, she thought, are too good at burying your reactions to her. She went on.

“We lost our parents on Zoran and she lost hers. But, dear brother, she has had no one to support her as we have supported each other.”

“Really? Were we supporting each other just now?” He smiled at her to remove the sting, but his eyes were unfocused. “She has her clan and the Brotherhood.”

“Deb, I know none of this has been easy. You assumed command of the Brotherhood at too young an age. It has made you fey and we both know it.”

She decided to address the problem directly since he obviously wasn’t going to help and Sarr’a’s salute had obviously shaken him more than he was going to admit.

“Sarr’a gave you the salute of the dead because she’s trying to make you understand. Skulking in alleys, hiding in rags, creeping through darkened cities is not our way. You knew that when you led us to take over the smugglers, but you decided that we needed them as cover. The Brotherhood agreed. Being smugglers has changed us; it has changed you. Sarnath Al Cador is a clan commander. Even more, she is Brotherhood. She chose the Brotherhood with everything that means, as we all have. Every time she goes out as a smuggler, she has to in some way deny that. Sarr’a will lead her clan to death for all of them if you order it. But she won’t do it for Red Beard. This isn’t the Brotherhood as Sarr’a understands it. She is losing that, too. She feels doubly orphaned. She was trying to remind you of our traditions.”

Sarnath Al Cador is my friend, Tor thought sadly and you are my brother. I have never been able to translate between the two of you.

Deb suddenly slouched.

“The Masters of Darkness, Fior and Sartak, turned most of the galaxy against us twenty years ago. Our father miscalculated then. If we had not hidden when we were damaged, they would have hunted us and tried to slaughter every one of us as they did to the few of us they found offworld after they destroyed Zoran. You know what happened as well as I do. So does Sarr’a. She knows more grievously then most.” He continued bitterly. “Offworlders only look like us. They are cowards. They are liars. They are parasites.”

“Why then do we not slaughter them ourselves?” She asked, knowing the answer as any child of the Brotherhood did.

“First, because it would cost too many of those I am sworn to lead and protect. Second, because of a pledge made so very long ago that none but the Brotherhood remembers it. I cannot break faith with the dead. I will not.”

She moved toward him, his younger sister, cradled him in her arms and whispered. “Then keep faith with the living and remember, my brother, that you are among the living too.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Are all your novices so badly educated, Fior?” The colonel’s sardonic voice cut across the Master’s reply to Nat’s question. “I had thought that the Masters at least taught themselves the truth.”

“Nat is not a novice, Colonel. He is my private student. His education is none of your concern.”

Never patient with those who challenged him, Master Fior’s tone showed his contempt.

“Neither is his death, although it is undoubtedly very near. My own, however, does concern me.” Expecting to die was one thing; rushing toward it with his questions unanswered was another.

“Death?”

Ylana’s tone was sharp. She was here as the official representative of the Confederation and she was a diplomat, not a soldier. Actually, she was neither and she was getting more and more confused and upset. So far, Fior had not told her very much of his plans which was normal for the Masters. He had spoken of discomfort and fatigue, which had certainly been true, while promising possible new help for the Confederation. No one had mentioned death.

“This Brotherhood surely does not kill its guests. That would be barbaric.”

The colonel looked at her and at the boy who seemed as bewildered and spoke gently as though to the very young.

“Great Lady, you travel in the company of a Master of Darkness. You must have studied history.”

The Brotherhood and the Masters are all of history between them, he thought, except for the purely local. At least, since the Darkness.

“The Brotherhood of Zoran has never loved the Masters. And the Masters have always hated the Brotherhood. They have fought for centuries, millennia. And this particular Master,” he nodded in Fior’s direction. “Was with the fleet that destroyed the planet Zoran and, they thought, the Brotherhood.”

And the Brotherhood always follows its own rules, barbaric as they sometimes seem to us, the so-called civilized worlds. If this is the Brotherhood of Zoran, they will kill us if they deem it necessary. He did not say this aloud; the children were already uneasy.

“Were you simply there, Fior, or were you in command?” Colonel Murthoc’s voice went cold.

Master Fior drew himself up to his full height, then seemed to pause before relaxing slightly. The colonel smiled quietly to himself. It was true, or at least Fior thought it was: the Master dared not use the Power here. Therefore, Fior believed that there were members of the Brotherhood present. The Brotherhood had been rumored to follow the Way, a religion that was directly antithetical to everything the Masters stood for and which seemed, somehow, to be able to protect them from the Power. Individual members of the Brotherhood had also been reported to have a quick, violent response to the use of the Power near them.

Fior spoke with a flat, invincible authority.

“I was on the command ship. They were destroyed.”

“Obviously not,” the colonel said.

Chances to question a Master of Darkness being rare, he was being deliberately provocative. He had himself ignored the evidence of the black uniforms and obviously military equipment when he had been brought to this room. He had no respect for smugglers and there was no question that it was a smuggler who had captured him. The clan commander had profoundly shaken him.

“This is one base, a smuggler’s base,” said Fior still certain. “We came out of hyperspace directly above the planet. They had at most a few moments warning before the fleet began the bombardment. We felt them die. Millions of them.”

He spoke with the detachment of a man discussing the ancient and no longer very important.

“It is his pride. These smugglers have to be the Brotherhood for him. His father was the same.”

Nat and Ylana were staring at him. Ylana began to shiver.

“This is one very large base,” said the colonel, who in spite of his knowledge of the Masters’ arrogance was rather stunned by this display. A man who would confess offhandedly to killing millions expected the survivors to aid his plans. It did not seem to occur to him that they could kill him. “It is full of people who look like members of the Brotherhood and of equipment that appears to be rather more sophisticated than anything I’ve ever had reported as belonging to smugglers.”

It is a puzzle that needs solving, he thought. He spoke again to Fior.

“How did you find the Last of the Brotherhood?”

And how, even given your overweening arrogance, can you expect the son to ally with his father’s murderer? The second question remained unasked because even Colonel Murthoc was afraid to push Fior too far.

“I recognized a smuggler, Reth is his name I believe, who was an aide to Tar Abzoladan’s father. It made sense: a remnant of the Brotherhood working with smugglers. They were always outlaws.”

“They always fought for freedom.” The colonel’s interjection was quietly emphatic.

“Against order.”

Fior was sounding tired as he made what was, for a Master, the ultimate accusation. He sat down in a chair.

“When I met Deb, of course, I knew him immediately. But the Brotherhood or a large piece of it surviving that attack? No. It is not possible, I tell you. He and a few other children must have been off planet. We never expected to kill absolutely all of them. We always thought to use the survivors if we needed them. As I do now.”

Then you never understood them, thought the colonel as he turned to Ylana who was still staring at Fior.

“You are, I expect, a sociohistorian by training?” It was considered a genteel study for a girl. She nodded. “Look around. Does this culture show the signs of chaotic disruption?”

“No,” Ylana was hesitant. “But I’m not an expert on Zorantians.”

“To the extent that an outsider, an offworlder to them, can be, I am.” said the colonel. “The furnishings in this room are a natural evolution from those described to me by my father. He worked frequently as liaison with the Brotherhood on behalf of my home world. There are no major changes and yet no stasis. This base is certainly not the work of a few children trying to hang on to their culture even with a few adults helping them.”

He continued, working it through out loud.

“Did you notice the clan commander? Her uniform is the same; so is the insignia. I don’t think your Tar Abzoladan’s pride would allow that on an offworlder smuggler. She is young, I grant you, but that was not unusual. And a clan commander leads thousands of Brotherhood soldiers.”

To his knowledge, no one had ever gotten an accurate count of a clan’s forces, but they were known to have been large and included ground units as well as fleet vessels. Each clan had been self-sufficient. Nor had there been any certainty about the number of clans. His father had thought at least a dozen.

“But she’s a woman. Women don’t command combat soldiers. Doesn’t that prove they’re short of men?”

Nat’s voice trailed off in the face of the colonel’s astonishment.

“We call them the Brotherhood because we don’t have a word that says it properly and they really don’t care what we call them.” Exasperated, the colonel shook his head. “Have you had no education, boy? Zorantian men and women have always fought together. The Brotherhood is an organization of equals, of individuals freely associated.”

Ylana had been thinking as they talked.

“Do you think that they know about Fior? That he was there?”

Colonel Murthoc laughed without humor.

“They know, great Lady. The clan commander did not so much as acknowledge his existence. When she does, he at least is dead.”

That was in her eyes, he realized. And that, more than anything else, testifies to their being the Brotherhood.

“The rest of us, who knows? We are the guests of the Last of the Brotherhood. I look forward to meeting him.”

“A nice analysis, Colonel.”

A quiet, feminine voice approved from behind him. The door had opened and he hadn’t heard her enter which was difficult. When had she entered? He would have to stop standing with his back to the door.

“The Last of the Brotherhood may be said to be looking forward to meeting you. Come. It is time.”

He turned and froze in shock. Before him stood a vision of physical perfection, a woman of the Brotherhood such as the legends described. She was tall, blonde, muscular, and the stark black of the Brotherhood’s uniform did little to disguise her figure. Her eyes laughed at him, but in their sapphire depths was a cold level of assessment that he would soon come to expect from every member of the Brotherhood.

“I am clan commander Kalibarrna. The Last of the Brotherhood is prepared to answer your request for an alliance. Come with me. Please.”

They followed her down the corridor. As he watched her move in front of them, the colonel wondered, for the boy’s sake, if Fior would think to warn his student about the Brotherhood’s women. The stories about the consequences of offending them were not nice. That was assuming, of course, that any of them survived the next hour. The effrontery of a Master of Darkness trying to use the Brotherhood in one of his schemes still stunned him. It struck him that he had come to accept that they were the Brotherhood. Perhaps it was because they weren’t arguing.

They went through a large room filled with men and women speaking quietly in small groups. Then, she led them through a door into an office.

The outer wall was transparent, whether of glass or something else, the colonel could not tell. Glass seemed unlikely, but so was the extraordinary view of a great rift valley lying far below them. The colonel had been brought directly to the hangers of the base; he had seen nothing of the planet’s surface. If this was in truth a window, the place was spectacular.

Between them and this window, there was a large desk covered with flashing displays. Behind the desk, stood a young man. He was not tall, nor was he obviously impressive. Certainly he did not look like the leader of the greatest military organization in the galaxy. Except for his eyes, he had no particular distinguishing characteristics. His emerald green eyes were old and extremely intense. And the attention of everyone in the room went naturally and immediately to him.

“Master Fior, Lady Ylana, Nat Bahadur, we meet once more. Colonel Murthoc, I am Tar Abzoladan, the Last of the Brotherhood. Deb for short. This is Reth.”

He indicated the man who had brought the colonel to the base.

“You have, I believe, already met my sister, Tor.” He smiled at the blonde woman. “You may all sit down.”

“Your sister?”

The colonel was glad that it was Nat and not he who had squeaked that surprised question. The physical disparity between the two merited some reaction.

Deb chose to look amused.

“Even in the Brotherhood, two people may share the same parents. This is my little sister.”

Of course she is younger, thought the colonel, or she would be the Last of the Brotherhood. Little was another matter; she towered above her brother.

“Why do you all have two, very different names?”

Ylana was being disingenuously friendly. He looked much more impressive in the black uniform, although his didn’t seem to have any insignia. And without the beard he appeared less ferocious, although perhaps more dangerous in her opinion. Definitely younger.

“Each member of the Brotherhood has three names, all related in our language but not in yours: a formal name given at birth, a battle name given after the choice is made, and the one by which God will call him at the end of time.”

Through narrowed eyes, Deb watched their reactions to what was to them an obscene and blasphemous statement. The boy’s was the most open.

“But why would God call you?”

He was cut off by Fior’s hand on his shoulder and subsided with an inaudible mutter back into his chair.

A good question thought the colonel who had been raised to view God traditionally as the greatest obscenity that ever existed. Followed closely, of course, by His demon Chosen. And why was the boy the one who posed it? He still hadn’t discovered who this boy was and why Fior was teaching him. It was an extremely unusual situation for a Master; it was as surprising, that the colonel’s operatives could find no trace of the boy beyond the last standard year. He returned his attention to the Last of the Brotherhood who was dismissing Ylana’s next question concerning the language of the Brotherhood.

“You will never hear our language, Lady Ylana. We do not use it in front of offworlders.”

Dumb questions do get interesting responses, thought the colonel as Deb continued.

“I have consulted with the clan commanders. They have voted. The Brotherhood will enter into an alliance with your Confederation as you request.”

And that was wrong. The colonel froze in stunned shock. Of all the possible responses to the impertinence of seeking an alliance with the Brotherhood of Zoran, he had never considered this one. Who were these people? Members of the Brotherhood fought as mercenaries for causes they supported. The Brotherhood didn’t enter into alliances, thought the colonel. An alliance with us? Why? We are only surviving because one faction of the Masters supports us and the Imperium is not pushing very hard. The Brotherhood disappears for twenty years and now the Last of the Brotherhood is entering into an alliance with Baltash Fior, the Master who led the attack on Zoran? He realized that his face was betraying his stunned disbelief as he saw Tor watching him. Carefully, he schooled his features. His mind continued to race. Cursing himself for believing too quickly, he thought back over recent events and was not sure.

If they weren’t Brotherhood, who were they? Smugglers pretending in order to gain some sort of status? Fior was positive that this man in front of him was the son of the previous Last of the Brotherhood. And how credulous was he being to accept the testimony of a Master? Were the Masters and the smugglers running some sort of game with him as the target? That was not too egotistical. If he, Colonel Murthoc, accepted them as the Brotherhood, the Confederation would be likely to accept them. The Masters always played games inside games, but consorting openly with criminals? He would need time to consider this.

Master Fior had expressed the gratitude of the Confederation. The interview was over. They would go to their quarters and eat and sleep. And he would think of a solution.

Behind them, after they had left to be shown to their assigned quarters, Tor spoke to Deb.

“Colonel Murthoc was quite shocked by this alliance.”

“As well he should be,” said Deb. “I am not overly pleased with it myself, but it is the best of several bad alternatives. We should be able to discover Fior’s plans, push the Confederation into doing what we want, and destroy Sartak’s fleet. All by the end of next week. Who knows what we’ll be able to do the week after that?”

His satirical tone brought a smile to Tor’s face, if not her eyes.

“Later, after he has rested, we will show the colonel some of our strength,” he continued. “Perhaps that will make him feel better.”

CHAPTER FIVE

As Master Fior completed his meditation, the room was very quiet. He could not do his exercises in the Power, of course. While he did not believe this nonsense that the Brotherhood had somehow survived, he did know that there were at least two members of the Brotherhood at this location (the term “base” seemed to dignify a smuggler’s operation.) Irritating Deb . . . he turned the name over in his mind slowly to acquire it and use it against its owner . . . would not be politic at this time and Master Baltash Fior was always politic. At least, until his plans came to fruition. There would be time enough then to test the Power against these survivors. He was confident of the outcome.

He contemplated his plans with satisfaction. They were moving forward and promised rich rewards. First, the elimination of Master Sartak. That would at once repay years of subtle insult and elevate his own status with the High Council. And his tool, his carefully handpicked and trained tool, was sleeping in the bed across the room. The boy, Nat didn’t know his own importance, of course. It was never a good idea to let tools know their own value. Nat would do what he had been trained to do since early childhood and there would be a link. Master Sartak’s Power would be useless and he would die. The boy might die as well, which was regrettable. But there were others. When he, Baltash Fior, attained the heights that this plan made inevitable, they would be available. He would not think of that now. It was too important.

In the meantime, until the battle, he would keep the boy apart. Lady Ylana was a potential distraction; he had included her only to increase a smuggler’s interest. Fortunately, Nat seemed indifferent. Colonel Murthoc was a known non-believer and had in the past interfered in various Masters’ plans. He was an irritant. One could only hope that these smugglers would take the opportunity to remove a Confederation official who was so relentlessly opposed to their activities.

And it would not do for the Zorantians among them to spend much time with the boy. Nat was not discreet; he had shown that in his outbursts. They would spend their time in meditation. It was only a few days until the battle.

* * *

Lady Ylana ate her meal very fastidiously with all of a great lady’s condescension. This, unfortunately for the colonel, included conversation with her social inferior: him. Colonel Murthoc was an old campaigner. He believed in eating when food was available and he was not particularly concerned with table manners. Ylana’s disdain was growing and her conversation with him showed it. He was regretting Nat and Fior’s absence when Sarr’a entered the room. Her eyes dismissed Ylana and settled on him.

“I have some time free, Colonel. Would you like a tour of the base?” The clan commander spoke casually as though Deb had not just given her orders that the colonel see enough of the base and its equipment to convince him of the Brotherhood’s strength. Colonel Murthoc was moderately pleased. He would have the opportunity to try his plan. The knife, which Reth had not bothered to search him for, was securely placed. He hoped he would survive to his next meal.

“We would love to see the base, clan commander.” This was Ylana at her most gracious. Switching on a smile that would have stunned a Grand Duchess at fifty yards and which had absolutely no effect on Sarnath Al Cador, Ylana rose to her feet and paused; the colonel somewhat belatedly joining her. “As official representative of the Confederation, I will need data for my report.”

Sarr’a considered the alteration for a fraction of a moment, then shrugged mentally. Deb could deal with Ylana’s reports. And she would deal with Ylana’s physical presence. It was a very vertical base.

“And you, Colonel?”

“I will be pleased to see whatever you and the Last of the Brotherhood wish to show me, clan commander.”

She saw the calculation in his eyes; offworlders were so easy to read. This one was more competent than most and therefore more dangerous. At least his preoccupation seemed to be military.

“My battle name is Sarr’a, Colonel. As we are allies,” she sounded pained. “It is appropriate that you use it. I will take you on an inspection tour of the entire base. From the bottom to the top. I have been away and we are on battle alert. A full inspection is warranted.” That fact made this nuisance barely tolerable. She had not been pleased when Deb had specifically assigned this task to her as base commander.

“You are very kind to take us along,” said Ylana, determined not to be ignored. They were walking down the ramps connecting the various levels of the base; she wished they didn’t have to move quite so quickly. Behind her, the colonel grinned to himself. Somehow, whoever she was in truth, he doubted that any offworlder had ever called Sarr’a “kind” before.

Reaching the ground floor, they were in a large motor pool filled with ground assault vehicles of a type he’d never seen. Although each appeared to carry standard cannon armament, he was puzzled by their armor which didn’t look heavy enough. Sarr’a was talking to the apparent supervisor of the area. Ylana was trying not to look bored. Murthoc moved casually over to the nearest vehicle and placed his hand against it. He felt an odd vibration and tried not to jump when Sarr’a spoke from behind him.

“If you have seen enough here, Colonel?” It was a question that answered itself, but he ignored her tone.

“Is this a new armor, clan commander?” He addressed her by her rank because that appeared to irritate her.

“Yes.” She was walking toward the ramp.

“Perhaps you are unaware, great Lady, that the metallurgists of the Brotherhood were the best in the galaxy.” He saw Sarr’a stiffen slightly at his choice of the past tense as he began his test. These were either new or badly done props in their charade. He couldn’t tell without closer inspection. He also couldn’t tell if her reluctance to discuss them was normal Brotherhood reticence or ignorance. Ylana was simply grateful that his decision to talk to her was causing him to walk more slowly. They were now going up the ramp they had just come down. “But then, the Brotherhood used to be the best at a lot of things. I suppose it is difficult to maintain those standards when you become a criminal organization.”

It was not a question, but his rising inflection made it almost an accusation.

Sarr’a bit back her first reaction. She did after all agree that the smugglers were criminal scum. Her base however did not suffer from any lowering of standards. This was progressing from nuisance to annoyance.

“This level is primarily workshops, Colonel.”

She led them through long corridors and into work areas filled with busy people, both men and women of assorted ages. They all wore the black of the Brotherhood and they all shared that look of intelligence and competence that he was coming to expect. It seemed less and less likely that this was not the Brotherhood. Who could sustain a deception at this level? But he had to be sure. He would not gamble his people’s future on anything less than certainty. And, after a long period of thought when he was supposed to be sleeping, he could see only one, very dangerous road to that certainty. His father had always extolled the discipline of the Brotherhood. Under orders, they would die before they would break it.

He would stake his life on that discipline. And if this was not the Brotherhood, he would most probably not be available to aid their plans.

Ylana was getting very tired. Her feet ached. They had climbed another ramp; this level had living quarters for base personnel. If they were all occupied, it was a very large base. She didn’t care anymore, but her pride did keep her walking. Her shoes had seemed so sensible when she’d left on Fior’s expedition. She was very certain that that clan commander was laughing at her. Then she had a thought.

“If your men and women are all soldiers, clan commander, where are your children?”

A good question thought the colonel somewhat surprised. For an idiot, this woman did ask excellent questions. Sarr’a’s icy reply cut across his rising curiosity about the discrepancy.

“Our children are no offworlder’s concern.” There was a stirring of the black rage within her that they would dare ask about children.

Although, thought the colonel, given the attack on Zoran, it’s not a surprising response. How many children died here? Ylana chose to politely pretend that she had not heard her.

Sarr’a moved toward another ramp, one which would bring them sideways to the hanger and flight deck. Deb had specifically included this area of the base in his order. The colonel was impressed by the neat rows of almost glowing fighters. Again, there were changes from the ships he had seen with his father, but there were also similarities. They did not look at all like smugglers’ ships.

In fact, they were each stunningly beautiful in a way that caught the breath in his throat. It was difficult to force the next observation out, but he managed to maintain his usual tone.

“Not quite your ordinary smuggler’s junk are they?” He spoke to Ylana, ostensibly ignoring Sarr’a. “Probably useful for running contraband past the authorities though. How are they in a fight, clan commander?”

“We win, Colonel.” The gleam in her eye reminded him that that was the wrong note to play. He pushed harder.

“But customs inspectors don’t have the latest equipment, do they, great Lady? Especially in time of war.”

The clan commander was simmering. It occurred to him that her reaction was further proof. It was not enough. In the back of his mind was still the outrage that the Brotherhood would ally itself with a Master of Darkness. Or that they would think that he would believe it. He had to get rid of Ylana and face Sarr’a alone. Of all the alleged Zorantians he had seen so far, she seemed to have the shortest fuse. Which was perfect for his test, if not his chances for survival. The hatred that sometimes flashed in her eyes was daunting.

They climbed again, more slowly than before because Ylana simply could not move faster and she would not be left behind. Turning at the top away from the Last of the Brotherhood’s command center, they reached Sarr’a’s.

It was a large, quiet room. Discreet lighting illuminated workstations as needed. Brown was the basic color except the carpet which was a rich swirl of blue and green. The approximately twenty people present seemed to be intensively busy. At the far end of the room, a man looked up as they entered and immediately rose to join them.

“Today’s reports are ready, clan commander.” His eyes swept over the two with her, lingering thoughtfully on the colonel before turning his attention fully to Sarr’a.

Ylana moved away from the group toward a chair near the wall. She had to sit down. Her legs hurt and her feet burned. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Colonel Murthoc was frankly staring at everything with a rather hungry look on his face. That so-called woman was at a desk discussing the displays with a man Ylana didn’t know. She sat down.

The colonel was also observing the two at the desk. Sarr’a favored holographic displays in contrast to Deb’s two dimensions. The man beside her was about a decade older, about Murthoc’s own age in fact. He accorded Sarr’a’s summary of her inspection a respectful attention. Her observations ranged from mundane matters of housekeeping to the apparently inordinate amount of time it took to repair a certain fighter: decidedly not a report put together to impress him unless they were extremely subtle. She finished, then turned to include the colonel in the group.

“This is Colonel Murthoc, Amik. Clan second Merik Nataen, Colonel.” He was reasonably certain that the insignia on the man’s uniform supported that claim. “As I said earlier, I have been away. We are on battle alert. You will forgive me if I do not accompany you to your quarters.” Her dismissal was flat, but he could not accept it. Time was short and he had to know for certain.

“That is indeed regrettable,” he said quietly. “I had hoped for a continuation of our discussions. In private.”

“Our discussions, Colonel?” He was losing her attention. He had to risk pushing in front of her second in command.

“Concerning the evolution of the Brotherhood of Zoran into the largest organization of drug dealers and slavers in the galaxy. We skipped the slave pens on the tour just now.” He spoke deliberately, making the most outrageous accusation that he could think of, and pitched his voice to be heard throughout the room. He was rewarded by a startled silence. Sarr’a stood frozen, her dark eyes focused on his face.

Sincerely hoping that his father’s accounts had been accurate, the colonel continued. “I had expected that you would give me the opportunity to see a Zorantian sword. As an historical artifact, I mean. They were supposed to be the finest made.” Again, he stressed the past tense, enlarging on his theme of a degenerate Brotherhood. Zorantians without swords were not Zorantians. He was rewarded at last by Sarr’a’s reply.

“I will give you the opportunity to become closely acquainted with Zorantian steel, Colonel. There is a practice room through that door, if you wish. My sword is there.” Her voice was cold death and he heard it.

Her second heard it also and looked narrowly at the colonel. He was perplexed because this offworlder did not have the reputation of being stupid. On the contrary, Colonel Murthoc was an intelligent and dangerous opponent. Amik could not quite see the point, from the colonel’s perspective, of pushing Sarr’a this hard. It seemed unlikely that he was suddenly suicidal. Deb’s orders had not included the colonel’s death.

“Sarr’a,” he began and was cut off by a direct and peremptory hand signal from his clan commander. His own signal sent everyone else in the room back to work. Ylana was still sitting near the wall and now looked confused. He would have to arrange an escort for her back to her quarters. Colonel Murthoc was now Sarr’a’s problem. Amik could only hope that she wasn’t too angry.

The colonel spoke again as he moved. “A practice room through here? And you do still have your swords?” He managed to inject a sneering doubt.

“Yes, Colonel.” She was speaking through clenched teeth now. “I have my sword.” Almost angry enough, he thought. She is either a Zorantian or a very great actress.

Sarnath Al Cador drew her sword from its sheath and held it between them. “You may use that one over there. It is for practice, but it will suffice. I will not kill you unarmed.” That much will I honor this alliance, she thought coldly.

He picked up the sheathed sword and drew it. It sang softly as it moved through the air. Oddly, he was not afraid now. If these were not Zorantian swords, they were certainly the most beautiful and the most deadly he had ever seen. Members of the Brotherhood had always carried swords, even in this age of energy weapons. He was not sure why although his own skill with the weapon was based on that fact.

No one had followed them in which spoke to their confidence in her ability. He turned to face her, bringing the sword up to challenge hers.

“Will you not, smuggler?” he said. “And why not?”

Her answer was a whirl of steel which he managed to parry and survive. They fought; Sarr’a’s rage burning almost visibly white hot. Her anger did not appear to affect her skill which was considerably beyond his. Their swords wove a pattern of death that was abruptly broken when the colonel’s was knocked from his hand. He pulled his concealed knife and, evading her thrust with an unexpected twist, went in straight for a point directly below her diaphragm. Dropping her sword, Sarr’a whirled, catching the knife from his hand as he went by and knocking him to the floor. She was on top of him and the knife tip was an inch above his left eye when she paused.

“You sought this deliberately. Why?”

He fought for breath, a task not eased by her weight on his chest. “I had to know for certain. A smuggler bitch or a flunky for the Masters would have killed me or not given a damn. Or I would have been skilled enough to kill her. You are a Zorantian clan commander under orders to keep me alive. Brotherhood discipline holds. Therefore, the Brotherhood survives.”

“You thought this was a deception?” Her voice was skeptical, her gaze darkly hostile. Being reminded by this offworlder that Deb would not be pleased if she killed him did not make her happy.

“It was unlikely, but possible. I had to be certain.” There was now a direct sincerity in his voice that made her extremely wary.

“Why?”

The knife still hung over his face. He had difficulty looking past the tip to her eyes.

“Because, clan commander, I will not endanger the future of my people. We have been fighting for our freedom for a long time. And a Brotherhood that allies itself with Master Fior may not be the Brotherhood of Zoran.” He saw that strike home and was at last convinced. That left the question of why they were doing it; he didn’t think it was really safe to ask it now.

Sarr’a stared at him in mingled hatred and perplexity for several moments then threw the knife across the room. Rising from his chest, she offered her hand to help him up. As he stood, she kneed him directly and coldly in the groin. The teeth crunching force sent him reeling backward; the waves of agony forced him to his knees.

Through the nausea and pain, he could see her face close above his. Her voice was icy when she spoke.

“If you ever impugn my honor, the honor of my clan, or the Brotherhood again, Colonel, I will have the permission of the Last of the Brotherhood to kill you. And I shall not do it quickly.” She was gone.

He managed after a time to get to his feet and stood leaning heavily against the wall. Vomit filled his mouth. He spat. After a while, he realized that there was someone else present.

“No puncture wounds, no slashes, no blood at all.” The Zorantian sounded almost disappointed. “I was sent to escort you to your quarters, Colonel. Actually, Amik sent me to deal with whatever was left of you. You seem to have survived the encounter which is more than any other offworlder can say about Sarr’a. Our clan commander does have a nasty sense of humor though, doesn’t she? Can you walk?”

“Slowly, I think.” The colonel was beginning to focus more clearly. She certainly had the skill necessary to kill him. And she had stopped. This was the Brotherhood of Zoran miraculously surviving annihilation. It was enough to get him back to his quarters for rest and further thought. He had many things to consider including the extent of the relationship between the Brotherhood and the smugglers. She hadn’t exploded until he had accused the Brotherhood of being the smugglers. The question was why?

CHAPTER SIX

In the office of the Last of the Brotherhood, clan commander Sarnath Al Cador completed her report and left. Deb sat thoughtfully for a few moments before turning to Reth.

“I believe we owe the clan commander an apology, Reth. She has considerably more discipline than I thought.”

“Considerably,” agreed his principal advisor. “Especially as Colonel Murthoc seems to have known exactly where to attack her. Of course, she did come very close to killing him.”

“He is a very dangerous and a very devious man. I had not expected him to require that level of proof.” Deb grimaced. “He has a touching faith in us for a man in his profession. And to choose Sarr’a for his test subject . . . ”

“His father was liaison when we fought for Elthar, his home world, in the Third Confederation War. Colonel Murthoc would have been in his mid-teens when the Masters attacked Zoran. It’s a bad time to lose your heroes.” Reth spoke somewhat dryly. “The knee to the groin bothers me though: he didn’t say anything that she hasn’t already said to you.”

Behind him, Tor stirred, then settled back into her chair to consider the problem.

Deb shrugged and moved on. “We need to send one of them back to tell the Confederation about their new allies. I can’t risk Fior or the boy and the Lady Ylana is apparently a witless moron. That leaves Colonel Murthoc, who is not a moron and is therefore even more dangerous.”

Reth looked grave. “Not to mention the interest that the Masters of Darkness will have in him when they realize Fior has not returned. When they interrogate him, they will discover his knowledge of us. He has no protection against that sort of assault.”

Deb sat thinking and Reth remained quiet. Then the Last of the Brotherhood began to laugh. “We will have to give him a bodyguard. I will send Sarr’a.”

Reth looked seriously shocked. “Openly?” Deb nodded. “You expect Sarr’a to protect him? What does she travel as: his smuggler mistress? You will lose the entire Confederation government with one sneering comment.”

“She goes as the ‘pirate scourge of the starways’ official representative to their new allies.” Deb grinned in his sister’s direction. “Her orders will be extremely explicit. She won’t like it, but the colonel will be doing the talking. She can watch his back and his mind. The Masters won’t know why they can’t interrogate him if she’s careful. If they become insistent, she will have to kill them.”

“And if she fails?”

“Sarr’a fail to kill Masters of Darkness? When I have given permission, if not actually ordered her to kill them?” Deb’s smile was grim. “She will not fail. Let the colonel recover from his injuries for a few hours. But you had better get the clan commander back here now. She’ll need time to instruct her second.”

Tor spoke as Reth left to get Sarr’a. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea either, Deb.” Her brother raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “As Reth said, the knee to the groin is disturbing. She feels that he insulted her when actually the colonel treats her like a Brotherhood clan commander. Even when he’s trying to provoke her. He could have chosen a much more insulting and direct way to get her to fight him. He didn’t.” Fortunately, she thought. He would have been in several pieces in that practice room, orders or not.

“She feels insulted because he treats her with a high degree of respect? That is what you’re saying?” There was amusement in Deb’s eyes.

“Yes, that is precisely what I’m saying. Being seen as a Brotherhood clan commander by an offworlder who understands what that means is a new experience for her. The fact that he seems to share her views on the Brotherhood and smugglers confuses her. To some extent, she was defending you.”

“You’re right, little sister. She must be confused. However, she’s also very good at this type of operation, which is why she spends more time as a smuggler than she likes. And,” Deb continued. “I think a little confusion might be good for the clan commander.” I have to face my demons, he thought. We’ll let her face hers.

He looked very seriously at his sister. “She has chosen to accept the position of clan commander, Tor. If she can’t fulfill the responsibilities, we had best know it.” Deb continued, now cheerfully reasonable. “And if she destroys the Confederation’s capital, we won’t have to worry about them attacking Kuarmian, will we? We will be able to move against Sartak in our own time. I will still hold Fior.”

And she will be dead and I will grieve, thought Tor, but you and Sarr’a may not find that so upsetting. She knew that she was doing her brother an injustice; she had seen the anguish that each death cost him.

* * *

By the time Colonel Murthoc was called to the Last of the Brotherhood’s command center, the pain had withdrawn to a dull ache. Pride kept him from moving too stiffly. None of the

Zorantians walking purposefully around him seemed to notice him anyway. Not likely, he thought as he entered the large room and received proof. There was instant silence, then the resumption of discussions at various work areas around the room. As Deb had said, they would not use their own language in front of him. That was a puzzle to be considered at a quieter time. What could he possibly learn from a language he couldn’t understand? Vaguely, he recalled references to a formal language and one used in battle, which had been occasionally overheard by offworlders. It was supposed to be very efficient, a few words apparently conveying extremely precise and accurate military information. They used some form of hand signals, too.

Zorantians were poring over maps and star charts with obvious intensity. Across the room, he saw Reth walking toward him. In this light, he looked to be about sixty in standard years; assuming Zorantians aged in standard years. Reth certainly hadn’t seemed that old when he convinced the colonel to accompany him to the base. According to Master Fior, this man had been an aide to the previous Last of the Brotherhood. And, to the colonel’s certain knowledge, he was very frequently with Red Beard the smuggler. Perhaps he was their liaison, although he didn’t look like the sort who would enjoy consorting with criminals.

“Deb will be able to see you in a few minutes, Colonel. Why don’t you look around until he’s ready?”

So now I am to be permitted to check out his staff planning, thought the colonel. First the base, now this. Colonel Murthoc considered the implications for intelligence work if everyone was this accommodating. To what purpose, he wondered and answered himself. Deb wanted him aware of Brotherhood capabilities. At least, some of them.

To his right, a Zorantian was working to calculate resupply rates to forward positions for repair parts and fuel. Their tables looked fairly standard, if rather quick, to the colonel’s relatively untutored eye. He had received command level training, of course, but his vocation was strictly intelligence, not combat support. He had studied it so that he could report on the enemy’s capabilities. Or an ally’s, he thought somewhat sanguinely.

“Colonel Murthoc, perhaps you can help us?” He turned to meet the very direct gaze of a Zorantian. There were two of them; both wearing the insignia that he was certain meant that they were clan commanders. He could not read the insignia designating their clans.

“Certainly, if I can,” he replied.

“This alliance has come upon us rather suddenly.” The Zorantian looked a bit apologetic for needing his aid. “We aren’t completely familiar with Confederation capabilities in some areas. For instance, mortuary brigades. Will your people be able to handle the thousands of Imperial casualties on the ground? There is an indigenous population on Kuarmian; we would rather not start any plagues.” They waited in respectful attention for his response.

Colonel Murthoc’s mind froze for just a moment then he spoke. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe we have any capacity to handle casualties other than our own.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” As they walked back to their station, he heard one say quietly to the other: “As I told you, they don’t expect to win. Therefore, they have no plans to deal with victory and its consequences. We will have to plan for their wounded as well.”

Somewhat shaken, the colonel turned to find Reth waiting in the door to Deb’s office. They were right. No one in the Confederation ever planned for a real victory, only successful holding actions.

He entered the office of the Last of the Brotherhood and was again caught by the spectacular beauty of the valley.

Behind him, Deb spoke. “We are on battle alert so the blast doors really should be closed. But I like to look at it when I plan a campaign. It reminds me of other places.” He looked over at the colonel who had flashed on the effects of an energy weapon on the profusion of life below. “Sarr’a doesn’t approve, but she can’t overrule me as base commander until there’s an attack.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

The Last of the Brotherhood studied the Confederation colonel thoughtfully for several long moments. Colonel Murthoc waited patiently for him to begin.

“Sit down, Colonel.” Deb moved behind his desk and sat back in his chair. “I have been reviewing the information we have on you. You are a patriot. Intelligent. Capable. Not at all fond of the Masters of Darkness. And a student of the Brotherhood. It is perhaps a fortunate coincidence that you are here.” His tone expressed distaste for coincidence.

“Someone with my interests was certain to be investigating Fior’s activities, sir. At his level of ability, I could hardly leave it to a subordinate. I am here because you very efficiently packaged us all up and brought us here.”

Deb allowed a gleam of appreciation to show. “And now that you are here and have I believe satisfied yourself that we are indeed the Brotherhood, we can both benefit.”

Outside, a cloud passed over the sun for a moment. Inside the room somewhere there was an insistent scraping sound which he could not consciously identify. This was a moment he had often dreamed of when younger: the Brotherhood miraculously here and needing his help. He was talking to their leader. It had seemed so much more heroic then.

“And what do you want me to do, sir?” The Brotherhood of Zoran, which to the civilized worlds of the galaxy no longer existed, had allied itself with the Confederation in the persons of Master Fior and Lady Ylana. Where the head of Confederation intelligence fit into this was not clear at all. At least not in terms of helping the Last of the Brotherhood. Or, for that matter, Fior and Ylana.

“I need you as liaison between the smugglers and the Confederation.” Deb saw the question on the colonel’s face. “We will be fighting this battle ostensibly as smugglers, Colonel. We do not choose to reveal the survival of the Brotherhood at this time. I need you to inform our new allies that we will be assisting them in their battle with Sartak. In fact, I need you to tell them to stay out of our way. Without telling them who we really are, of course.”

“And of course they will immediately agree to everything I say,” the colonel observed dryly. His amusement at the fantasy evaporated as the Last of the Brotherhood continued.

“If your ships get in our way, we will fire on them.” Deb’s eyes were cold with the same death that had been in Sarr’a’s when she fought. “We have joined this alliance for our own reasons, Colonel Murthoc. They are not your concern.” Are they not? thought the intelligence service head. “Do not, however, misunderstand this alliance as some crusade against the Imperium or even against the Masters. This continues to be a battle for the survival of the Brotherhood. Don’t forget that, Colonel. I never do. If I have to destroy both fleets, I will.”

And more, thought the colonel. And, no doubt, much more. He began to consider how he was going to convince the military command structure of the Confederation to yield control of a battle to a fleet of smugglers. There were also the Masters to consider. This was Fior’s battle; they would want to know why the plans were changing and, having as little respect for him as he had for them, it was unlikely that they would accept his word. It was an intriguing question or perhaps an insoluble problem. Colonel Murthoc reviewed what he knew of the personalities involved. There had to be an answer to the problem; beyond the question of his duty, he had friends on some of those ships. It somehow did not occur to him to question Deb’s ability to destroy both fleets: the Last of the Brotherhood’s voice held the ring of truth.

“It’s possible,” he said, hoping Deb wouldn’t inquire how. The Last of the Brotherhood wasn’t going to like the answer. Vice Chancellor Ant’n had the power within the Confederation hierarchy, but he wouldn’t listen to idiocies about smugglers. The colonel would do what he could to keep knowledge of the Brotherhood to a small group. And he would try to figure out a way around the Masters and their allies.

“I trust so,” said Deb. “I am sending someone with you as my representative and, if you will, as a bodyguard.” Behind the colonel, the rhythmic sound had stopped. He turned. In one of the dimmer corners of the room, there was . . . a smuggler. A rather slovenly boy, no, he corrected himself quickly. A very slovenly Sarr’a. Who obviously wasn’t the only Zorantian with a nasty sense of humor. She wasn’t laughing though.

“I am being protected from whom?” His question went to Deb.

“Fior will not be returning until . . . after the battle, Colonel. There will be those of his friends who will want to know if you know why. And his enemies.”

With an image of the very precise clan commander in his mind, Colonel Murthoc turned to face the smuggler. Standing before him was a street urchin with her eyes and the look in those eyes did not bode well for the week ahead. Something in her stance was familiar. With a start, he realized that this was the shadow he had sensed following Nat and Ylana across Darnath. Which meant that she was a very able and vicious killer. She saluted him with a knife he recognized as his own.

“It won’t hold a proper edge.”

He recalled his comments about Brotherhood metallurgists. Sarr’a tossed it in his direction. Catching it deftly, he noticed that the blade looked rather thin before he sheathed it.

“In six standard days, at the stated coordinates near Kuarmian. We will be there.” She told Deb and turned to leave.

Murthoc however hadn’t quite finished. He was not prepared to be treated like a package to be delivered and they should know it.

“So the clan commander is to protect me from the Masters of Darkness. I don’t suppose I am to know how she proposes to do that?” He looked at Deb. The colonel was aware of no protection against a Master’s Power other than this religion they were supposed to follow. He had no faith in religion. “No? I didn’t think so. What are her orders?”

Deb’s eyebrows went up, but he chose to answer. “They are extremely precise, Colonel. If any of the Masters of Darkness learn of the Brotherhood, she is to kill as many people as necessary to destroy that knowledge.” Colonel Murthoc had a vision of the Confederation’s capital city drowning in a sea of blood. Deb continued quietly, seeing the stark understanding in the other man’s face. “Fior made the choices; as usual your people have to live with the consequences of a Master’s choice.”

“And yours,” said the colonel quietly and ambiguously. He turned to follow Sarr’a, who would undoubtedly deign to brief him on the Brotherhood’s plans when she deemed it an appropriate time. His father had been right about their discipline. He had greatly understated their arrogance.

He followed her down the usual ramps and into the hanger. This time, they passed quickly through the ranks of gleaming fighters and approached a battered and dingy ship which looked unlikely to make orbit. Before they reached it, Colonel Murthoc made a decision. He was not one to ignore his duty and they were going to be together for almost a week.

“Sarr’a.”

He put his hand lightly on her shoulder. As she spun around to face him, he stepped back quickly and carefully with his hands clearly empty and spoke very formally.

“Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador, I will not apologize for my need to be certain that the Brotherhood survived. My duty to my own people required certainty. I could see no other way. I do most sincerely apologize for any insult or injury to you personally.” He looked down into her very grave eyes, which were watching him intently; her body still poised for defensive action. The injury had been his; he was still limping. Any insult, well he was still considering that. “I cannot apologize for my opinion of smugglers. I have been fighting the effects of their activities for too long. I am having trouble integrating my knowledge of them with my knowledge of the Brotherhood of Zoran. How, for instance, do you work with Red Beard?”

He didn’t really expect a response, certainly not the one she gave.

For a fraction of a second, she was off balance. He wondered why. Then she laughed. “You have something against Deb?” she asked maliciously and turned to enter the ship.

Deb was Red Beard? He reviewed every nasty report he had ever received about the smuggler chieftain and was appalled. Red Beard’s reputation for sadistic butchery did not mesh with the cold intelligence he had sensed in the Last of the Brotherhood. Somewhat dazed, he followed her aboard.

“When you have finished that integration, offworlder, I will be interested to hear your conclusions.” Her tone was bitter as she moved to the controls. Bearing no kinship to the exterior, the interior of the ship had the gleam of well-maintained systems.

“I do not like dirt, Colonel. Especially not in my machinery.” She had noted his automatic assessment as he stepped inside. “This security system is keyed to me. For anyone else, it is lethal.” Not strictly true, but certainly for any offworlder. “I see no reason to disguise the interior.”

Sarr’a was seated at the pilot console running a pre-flight check as she spoke. The precision of her movements and her speech contrasted sharply with her clothing, which was ill matched and not very clean. She saw him looking at her as a smuggler and fought down an almost overwhelming flash of hatred. How dare he pass judgment on her or the Brotherhood? Forcing herself to follow the automatic movements of her fingers across the controls helped. It was somehow immeasurably worse that this offworlder had known her as a Brotherhood clan commander.

Abruptly, she realized that it wasn’t simply hatred making her feel ill: it was also fear. She had always dealt with the offworlders as a smuggler. Now she was revealed as clan commander Sarnath Al Cador. She had very vivid and extremely painful memories of the possible consequences of that. After her years of condemning Deb’s hiding the Brotherhood among the smugglers, it was blackly humorous that she was afraid to stand before the offworlders as Brotherhood. No doubt Deb would laugh himself sick.

Fear she could deal with. And hatred. Years of discipline held; the ship was ready for takeoff. Clearances came. Without even a glance to be sure that the colonel was strapped in, she lifted.

Fortunately, preoccupied as he was, strapping himself in was automatic. He barely felt the effects of the acceleration as his mind raced through the implications of the Last of the Brotherhood as Red Beard the smuggler. Appearing suddenly as the head of one of the major organizations something over ten years ago, he could not have been older than fifteen. His assimilation of every other smuggling group had been bloody and vicious. That meant there were no “smugglers” anymore. Certainly not above a very basic level. He couldn’t process all the implications of that yet, but he could begin to see the tensions that would have developed on both sides as the Brotherhood carried on the normal business of the various smuggling organizations. Sarr’a for example. People who dealt regularly with smugglers would not expect a Zorantian clan commander, particularly not a female clan commander. Nor could they be shown one. Their expectations for women would not be high. She appeared to have a very highly developed sense of honor and duty. Zorantian women had never suffered insult lightly. What kind of schizophrenic life did she lead? That was why she’d been relatively easy to push over the edge. This was going to be a very dangerous week. He didn’t want to think about how dangerous his test had been.

“Clan commander,” he began.

She finished setting her course; they entered hyperspace and she sat back. Her voice was cold.

“Colonel Murthoc, you are not a member of my clan. You are not the Last of the Brotherhood. Therefore, ally or not, you do not call me clan commander. If you must use a title, commander will do. And when I am dressed like this, you will call me Sarr’a. It is close enough to an offworlder name. Smugglers do not have commanders.”

She continued in the same carefully even tone. “There is food and water, any facilities you may find necessary. I am sure that you are familiar with ships of this sort. I am going to sleep. I do not expect I will have much opportunity to do so over the next several days.”

She was amazingly quickly asleep. And very obviously, she did not want to talk to him. She undoubtedly did not want to be with him. This was going to be a very dangerous week for himself and for the Confederation. He sat back to consider why the Brotherhood would have chosen to take over the smugglers.

* * *

“One of her more flamboyant takeoffs,” observed Reth dryly as he turned from the window in Deb’s office.

“The clan commander is an excellent pilot.” Clan second Merik Nataen spoke evenly, then continued his report. “You have the base evacuation plan, Deb. We will be down to a minimal force by the time they reach the Confederation’s capital. We have transferred the clan command to the fleet in preparation for the battle. Clan strength committed to this battle stands at seventy-three percent.” Amik’s eyes shifted from Deb to Reth and back. “You will understand that this tally does not reflect a lack of confidence in the clan commander. There are many ongoing . . . ”

Deb’s hand stopped him. “I am well aware that you would all follow your clan commander into whatever hell she chose to lead you, Amik. You need not explain. This battle has come upon us suddenly; it cannot be permitted to overset everything else we are doing. Your strength is more than adequate.”

“Will you be remaining here?”

“Yes, he will.” Tor spoke from the door. “He wants to keep an eye on Fior’s new toy. So I will be leaving. I have work to do anyway. I would appreciate it, however, my very dear brother, if you would provide the Brotherhood with another prospective Last of the Brotherhood. My role as your heir apparent is both wearing and boring. You have all the fun. I get to remain safe.” She grinned at him as they both recalled some of her “safe” exploits. “Especially since it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

That was an old argument; one which she always lost. Very few people won arguments with Deb.

“I’ll think about it after the battle, little sister.”

She hugged him briefly. “You don’t think about it, Deb; you do it. It’s not an intellectual process.” She continued more soberly. “I have reviewed your battle plans. I do object to my clan being the reserve. And you at the forefront. The Last of the Brotherhood is . . . ”

“Humor me, sister,” he interrupted. “I have good reasons for both.” He turned to Reth. “Of all the clans, which is the most flexible and best honed to respond if something unexpectedly goes wrong during this battle?”

Reth thought for a moment then nodded slowly. “You’ve done it to yourself,” he said to Tor. “You’ve trained them too well.”

“And the reason you must lead in contravention of all custom?”

“We are facing Master of Darkness Sartak, Tor. I have my reasons.”

“And I’m sure they’re very logical, too.” She turned to Reth. “Why do you permit him to do this?”

Reth smiled. “The student surpasses the teacher. He’s better at it than I am.”

Tor looked resigned. She had never won an argument with Reth either. Clasping her brother’s arm, she said quietly, “I will see you after the battle.” He nodded and she was gone.

Deb turned back to his desk.

“Amik, you are certain that none of our guests is aware of the evacuation?”

“They aren’t leaving their quarters, Deb. Master Fior and the boy are spending hours together. There has been no trace of the Power.” Deb knew that as well as he did, of course. “But his presence does create an unease.” It was just as well Sarr’a has left, he thought. He had witnessed her reaction to the use of the Power once when she was sixteen; it had almost cost them their lives. Since then, she had become better disciplined. This would still have been an extremely severe trial.

“And Lady Ylana?”

“She is being gracious to all and she wants to talk to you. Something about reports concerning the alliance. We told her that you were busy, but that you would see her soon. She seems very restless.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He awoke to the clamor of proximity alarms and a peremptory challenge from the Confederation destroyer on picket duty. Sarr’a’s hands were moving with a cool competence over the controls. She spoke without looking around.

“I can still bring us in by the back door, Colonel, if you wish. But I thought you might prefer to arrive openly. You’ll need to give them your clearances.” She thumbed a switch and turned to watch him with absolutely no trace of laughter in her eyes.

“This is Colonel Murthoc of the intelligence service, priority code five, seven, four, three, nine. Repeat. This is Colonel Murthoc of intelligence. Priority code five, seven, four, three, nine.”

“Checking your codes, Colonel. One moment.”

Sarr’a sat with her hands in her lap apparently content to wait. There was a stillness about her which he had not noticed at the base. His thoughts were interrupted by a new voice.

“Colonel Murthoc. Welcome home, sir. We are instructed to ask if you require any assistance.” He smiled to himself. This was admittedly one of the more dubious looking ships he’d come home in.

“Only a message conveyed, please. Could you tell my aide, Major Tren, that I will be arriving with a very important guest who will require full diplomatic clearances.” Sarr’a looked faintly amused. He repeated it with emphasis. “Full diplomatic clearances. Have him meet us at landing.”

“Certainly, sir. You have clearance to land.”

Sarr’a thumbed the switch closed and turned her attention to the controls. With a flip that jarred his teeth and told him that she could have easily evaded the destroyer, they moved toward the central world of the Confederation, a sporadically shrinking group of nearly five hundred worlds united in a loose democratic alliance against the Imperium, several thousands of worlds united in loyalty to the Imperial House of Rajkar. More accurately, the Imperium was united by the plans of the Masters of Darkness to bring order and control to the civilized worlds, to bring them finally out of the Chaos created by the disappearance of the Algolana. Some worlds, like the colonel’s, preferred to make their own way, remembering only too well the plans that the Algolana, the demon Chosen of God, had had for them. Thus, the Confederation and thus, the war.

Sarr’a landed, as directed, at a field right next to the capital city. Rising from the pilot’s seat, she indicated that he should precede her. Watching the Confederation officer duck through the hatch ahead of her, Sarr’a hesitated for an almost imperceptible moment before following. She was not accustomed to arriving officially and she had no faith in diplomatic clearances. What an offworlder government gave, it could take away without warning. Her life from the age of five had thus far consisted of learning the skills necessary to survive in their world and honing them into one very deadly whole. So far, it had been enough.

Outside, the ship sealed, they breathed the planet’s air. At this latitude it was cool, if somewhat polluted by the city nearby. There was a small ground car crossing the field toward them. It stopped and a uniformed man, a little younger than the colonel, got out and hurried over.

“I have the papers, sir. They require your signature here,” He handed the colonel a pen. “And here.” He closed the folder. “Anything else, sir?”

“This is Major Tren, Sarr’a. My aide. Sarr’a is here as liaison between the Confederation and some new allies arranged for us by Master Baltash Fior, Tren. You will see that she is accorded every courtesy.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Tren covered his astonishment with officiousness. His colonel was never noted for being ordinary, but this promised to be spectacular. New allies, courtesy of Master Fior and escorted by his superior, a man well known to detest the Masters. She didn’t look like much though; even her face was dirty. Every courtesy, the colonel had said.

“If you will both come with me, I will find some suitable quarters for the Lady Sarr’a.” He hoped he’d pronounced that correctly. It had an odd twist.

“Just Sarr’a, Major.” Tren looked startled by her tone, which had been sharp. “I do not require quarters as I will not be leaving the colonel’s side. I have my orders, Colonel.” This last to Colonel Murthoc.

Major Tren looked seriously dismayed. “And how long are you staying, La . . . Sarr’a?”

“Sarr’a will be with us for the next three or four days, Tren. And we will both do what is necessary. This alliance is of the utmost importance and must not be jeopardized by our actions. Do you understand?”

The colonel had moved so that Major Tren faced him with his back to Sarr’a. The intelligence, which the major usually kept well covered, appeared in his eyes, but not his voice.

“Yes, sir. I will follow your orders, sir.”

Behind Tren, Sarr’a was looking around. It was apparent that a message was being conveyed. She had expected no less from the colonel and she had her own concerns.

“Then let us get to the office so I can begin putting this alliance together.”

They walked toward the ground car. As they passed a group of mechanics, Sarr’a’s right hand moved twice.

As the ground car moved away, one of the mechanics approached the crew supervisor.

“I need a wrench. It’ll just take me a minute to get it.”

“You’ve got wrenches. We need to get this finished by lunch.”

“I left that size back in the shop. I’ll be right back.” He left at a rapid pace.

* * *

They arrived at Colonel Murthoc’s office about an hour later. It was not possible to drive directly from the field: the architects of the capital had favored wide avenues that didn’t really lead anywhere, but which cut the older city into isolated pieces. Travel, even to government buildings was difficult.

Confederation Intelligence was housed with the military in an imposing and ancient building. Colonel Murthoc, as head of the Intelligence department, nominally reported to the Chief of Staff, but the situation was actually more fluid. As in most governments, power was a matter of influence and influence was either a matter of money or information. The colonel, although not formally a part of any particular faction, was seen as an important source of information by the powerful. Having his own ideas about the direction of the Confederation, he played this game.

His office was in a suite on the top floor, which also included his quarters. Sarr’a was a difficulty at the checkpoint in the lobby until the guard had carefully reviewed the paperwork.

Issued a diplomatic badge to wear at all times in the building, she seemed to find the security process funny and answered his look of inquiry as they were walking away.

“There are at least four ways into this building without this annoyance, Colonel. I have personally used three of them. Shall I show you?”

So she had been here before. And did not care that he knew it.

“I probably know them, Sarr’a. At the moment, I need to be here officially. Who were you visiting?’ He didn’t expect that to work and wasn’t surprised when she ignored him.

Finally, they were in Colonel Murthoc’s quarters.

“As I am not here very much, I find this more convenient than an apartment in town.” With some amusement he watched Tren watching Sarr’a’s inspection of the suite: the exits, the windows. His aide was obviously finding her difficult to categorize. Satisfied, she settled into the chair in his office with the best view of the doors. He continued. “I am going to change, Major. I would like the latest reports in half an hour and some food for us both.”

Major Tren withdrew to his own office.

Colonel Murthoc had just reemerged wearing the crisp forest green of the Confederation when Major Tren entered somewhat abruptly, apologizing as he came.

“I’m sorry, sir. The reports are on your desk, but there is a new one.” He paused, his eyes indicating Sarr’a who was still stretched out in her chair, apparently oblivious to his entrance.

“Yes, Tren. Tell me.” The order was brisk.

“In the last hour, approximately, sir, there have been forty-three deaths of note in the city. All thirty-two known Imperial agents, five or six suspected, and six others . . . ” He stopped as the anger blazed up in his superior’s eyes. This was becoming more and more intriguing.

“Thank you, Major. I will call you when I need you.” He turned to Sarr’a, still in her chair, as the major left. “How many of you are there?”

“Of me, Colonel? One. And I have been with you since before we landed.” Her tone was mildly sarcastic.

He moved toward her and then thought better of it as she rose in one fluid movement, her eyes darkly watchful.

“This is my home territory, not your base. And certainly not . . . ” He stopped and she finished.

“Not his. You are correct, Colonel. I relayed his order.” Her eyes met his in direct challenge. His did not waiver.

With his anger now more carefully controlled, Colonel Murthoc spoke again, enunciating each word with precision. “You will not take over the Confederation as you did the smugglers. I will not permit it.”

Sarr’a seemed to be weighing him, searching for something. Then she laughed. Her laughter had a bitter edge he did not understand.

“To my knowledge, Colonel, he has no such intention. Of course, with him you never know. His sister calls him the pirate scourge of the starways.” She continued in a considering tone. “I don’t think he wants to head the Confederation or guide it from behind the scenes. No, that’s a Master’s trick.” She actually did seem to be considering these possibilities which made his blood run cold.

“It is unlikely, Colonel,” Sarr’a continued soberly. “You will recall that we are not in the business of building empires.”

“You were never smugglers before either, Commander,” said the colonel evenly and watched the anger flare in her eyes.

She walked deliberately toward him and stopped about a foot away and he could clearly see the Zorantian clan commander again. For an instant, he could also see the knife blade an inch above his left eye.

“We were never almost hunted to the last child before either, Colonel. That was your people’s choice. I follow his orders. I chose that on the same day that he became . . . what he is. I was . . . ” She stopped, closed her eyes for a moment and seemed almost to shudder before beginning again. “If he orders this planet, this system, or most of this galaxy destroyed, I will do it.” It did not sound grandiose as she spoke, just disturbingly certain. “But he will not.”

Her eyes held the colonel’s for what seemed a very long time, then she went back to her chair. Stretching out her legs and leaning back, she said, “I have the force and the equipment necessary to carry out this mission, Colonel. You look at me and you see a young woman in her early twenties. I am not. I made my formal choice of the Brotherhood when I was thirteen, the same year that he began his career as a smuggler. I have followed his orders through the worst parts of this galaxy among its most degraded inhabitants. I have personally killed a large number of them and ordered the deaths of many more. I do not always kill cleanly and nicely by your rules and I don’t care very much in general what happens to offworlders. Any possibility that I might have, died when I was five.” She looked up at him with a black well of pain and hostility in her eyes. “You have no reference for what I am. If you are not careful, that may get a lot of your people killed. You may believe me or not, Colonel Murthoc, but my preference would be to get through this week with the city intact. You people are, after all, supposed to be my allies.”

Allies, she thought with derision. Now I am a teacher of children and she watched as he considered what she had said. He seemed reasonably intelligent for an offworlder; maybe he could negotiate this maze. If not, they would die. Mentally, she shrugged and settled back to watch him.

The colonel sat down again behind his desk. She was right. He had to rethink everything now that the Brotherhood was part of the equation. It was not surprising that the Last of the Brotherhood had ordered the deaths of Imperial agents: it would at a minimum disrupt their information about the Confederation for what could be a very crucial few days. The arrogance of it annoyed him. And the very obvious pain that she felt concerned him.

“Perhaps, commander, you will recall in the future that we are allies and give me some warning of your plans?” In diplomatic terms, it was called filing a formal protest and from her expression would probably do as much good as protests to the Imperium usually did.

Dismissing the matter as already in the past, Colonel Murthoc considered his best options for discussing the alliance with Vice Chancellor Ant’n. He had a professional relationship with the man which was based on mutual respect and frequently shared aims. Ant’n would need to be prepared for Sarr’a. He wasn’t going to accept a story about smugglers. It would be a calculated risk to leave her behind; his duty was, however, to report to his own government. It was unlikely, in his opinion, even given her hatred of offworlders, that she would destroy the city simply because he was gone for an hour.

Colonel Murthoc began planning the series of events that would result in his visiting the Vice Chancellor at home this evening. It would take a very professional distraction to lose Sarr’a, especially as she was certainly expecting it. The colonel began sending encrypted messages on what he hoped were secure lines.

In her chair, far more calmly and objectively than he could have suspected, Sarr’a watched him with some appreciation. Reth was right. This offworlder was different. He reacted very quickly and with intelligence. She wondered what his next move would be. It would be soon. Colonel Murthoc was not one to put off his duty and he was entirely too relaxed. Sitting in his office as he worked at his desk wasn’t nearly as tedious as she would have expected. Trying to deduce how he would make his next move was intriguing. And it gave her mind something to do besides remember.

The Masters wouldn’t try to reach him here, but it was certain that they knew of his return. With her or more accurately an unknown companion. Did they know that he had been following Fior? To some extent, the future hinged on Fior’s secretiveness and vanity, which was almost a safe bet with a Master at his level. He might have mentioned smugglers; he almost certainly had not told anyone about his discovery of Deb.

Sarr’a considered the preparations being made for the battle. By now most of the base personnel and equipment would have been transferred to the fleet. She should be there. Sarr’a pushed that thought firmly down. Her plans were made. Amik would execute them. Deb was right; duty required that she be here.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sarr’a stood still in the swirling crowd of Confederation bureaucrats, secretaries, and soldiers. It had happened suddenly, without warning, and was admittedly not something she had expected. Colonel Murthoc had chosen the time that everyone in all these offices went home to make his escape. In her work as a smuggler, she was much more familiar with darkness and empty streets than with this chaotic mass of humanity. It was difficult to breathe with this many people around her. Left with Major Tren, she held his right arm in a grip which promised to break it if he moved. Not surprisingly, he was standing docilely by her side.

Cursing herself bitterly because he had managed to evade her, Sarr’a recognized that anger with herself would not help. Colonel Murthoc was, of course, unaware of the extent of her forces and had fortunately underestimated their ability to keep up with him. As the crowd thinned, the clan commander saw one of hers, in a green uniform, signaling from across the street. She turned to the major. While they waited for a full report, she was simultaneously going to impress upon Colonel Murthoc the seriousness of his action and gauge the intelligence of his aide. It is possible to learn a lot about a man by studying the people who work for him.

“We need to talk. Alone. Right now.” She released his arm. He nodded and proceeded to lead her away from the brightly lit and still busy boulevard, down an alley and across two streets. They entered a public park and penetrated to an inner square lined with benches and statues. It was, even at this early hour, deserted and rather dark. He stopped and waited until she spoke again.

Sarr’a studied the colonel’s aide. He was a braver man than she had suspected and was undoubtedly more intelligent than he appeared. She needed to convince him of the danger of his superior’s actions.

“Do you have any family or friends in this city, Major?” She spoke crisply, without emotional inflection.

His eyes narrowed as he considered her question. She did not wait for his reply.

“I ask because the blast radius of the engines on my ship will include most of the city. Five minutes after that, there will be a ship in geosynchronous orbit which will open fire on anything that remains standing and any ship which attempts to leave. It will continue to fire until its commander is satisfied that no one remains alive or it is shot down. If it is shot down, it will be replaced. I estimate that I have at most thirty minutes to locate Colonel Murthoc before the risk that a message will be sent out of the city becomes unacceptable. My orders are very clear. Do you understand?”

To his credit, the shock did not last long.

“Who are you? You’ll be killed, too.” What message? asked the part of his brain that was still working. Something the colonel knows, he answered himself.

Sarr’a’s voice grew tight with exasperation. Offworlders could never focus.

“My death is not relevant, Major. The deaths of people for whom I am responsible are regrettable but acceptable. Your death and the deaths of everyone in this city are rapidly becoming inevitable. Where is he?”

“Most probably with Vice Chancellor Ant’n. That’s the best I can do. He didn’t tell me.” He met her eyes squarely, trying not to flinch as she considered him. People she was responsible for? A common smuggler?

“Sit down over there, Major.” She was not surprised that he followed the order precisely, making no attempt to run. Major Tren was not a stupid man. Stepping closer to the trees, she spoke in quick battle language to a shadowed figure.

“Is he going to Ant’n’s?”

“It appears so, clan commander. We have three with him. Kyrl is outside the Vice Chancellor’s home.”

“Remind Kyrl that if he sees her, he will remember her.” Replacing a section commander would be more than a nuisance.

Returning to Major Tren, she settled next to him on the bench.

“Why is this place so quiet?” she asked, aware of the answer.

“People are afraid of parks at night, La . . . Sarr’a. They expect criminals to attack them.” The major offered this information as blandly as possible.

“That was very thoughtful, Major. I won’t have to worry about moving the body.” She looked at him sideways; her body still relaxed on the bench.

Tren flinched, then registered the flash of her teeth as she grinned. He smiled back gingerly and together they awaited a report.

* * *

“Good evening, sergeant.” The colonel came through the private entrance to Vice Chancellor Ant’n’s official residence looking as though he were making an ordinary social call. The imperturbable guardian of the Vice Chancellor’s privacy had held that position for as long as the colonel could remember. As head of intelligence, Colonel Murthoc visited the Vice Chancellor at odd hours and without warning.

“I believe he’s been halfway expecting you, sir. I’ll just see if he can receive you now.”

A few moments later, Colonel Murthoc was ushered into the private study of the man who actually ran the Confederation. He had been there before; the colonel and the Vice Chancellor shared many of the same beliefs and frequently worked together, even when they disagreed, on a pragmatic basis.

Comfortably furnished and conducive to late night strategy discussions, the room was the Vice Chancellor’s base of operations. Ant’n did not have a desk here; he favored open conversation over the appearance of power. Anyone invited to this room knew his position; no reminders were required.

“Ah, Murthoc.” The Vice Chancellor rose to greet his guest as he entered. “And how have your travels gone, my friend?” He moved to pour the colonel a drink. “Tenaran whiskey, as I recall?”

“Thank you, sir. That would be pleasant.” Colonel Murthoc moved to the indicated chair, took a sip of the whiskey and began. The Vice Chancellor did not favor polite chatter although he was very good at it. “It’s about my travels that I’m here, sir. As you are aware, I left to follow some leads concerning a new project of Fior’s.” Neither had much respect for Masters of Darkness; the title was superfluous.

“This one that he has half the Senate hypnotized by; the one that’s going to cost us this battle and God only knows how many of our worlds this time?” The colonel was startled. The profanity indicated the depth of the man’s anger. Since Fior’s faction had joined the Confederation, Ant’n had lost several rounds with the saintly Master.

“Yes, sir. This is complex, sir, so bear with me to the end. I don’t know how much time I have. And first, I must be certain that this room is secure. If this leaks out, we are all dead.”

It was the Vice Chancellor’s turn to look surprised, but he made no comment. Assessing such risks was the colonel’s job; Ant’n respected him as a professional. Turning to a console at his right, he pressed three buttons.

“The room is secure, Colonel. God himself couldn’t penetrate this field.” He smiled thinly. Outside, the man who had supervised its installation smiled as well. He had already reported the colonel’s presence to the commander, who would require a full account of their conversation.

“Fior has arranged for some new allies for the Confederation, sir. I brought one of them back with me.”

“That scruffy boy who has all the gossips questioning your taste, Colonel?”

“That scruffy boy, who is actually a young woman, works for Red Beard, sir.”

“Red Beard? The Vice Chancellor’s voice was outraged. He leaned forward in his chair. “Now I question your taste. And your sanity. That filthy . . . ”

“Excuse me, sir, but I must continue.” The colonel interrupted him. “Red Beard has another name, sir. It’s Tar Abzoladan. Deb for short, he says.”

Ant’n froze and stared at the colonel. He took a solid swallow of his drink. “That’s a Zorantian name,” he said when he could speak.

“He’s the Last of the Brotherhood, sir. They’ve been hiding as smugglers.”

“How many?”

“The Brotherhood is intact, sir. I have satisfied my doubts. Sarnath Al Cador, who was sent here with me, is a clan commander. I saw at least six more.”

Ant’n was a power broker, trained to accept and use whatever was dealt him, but this was too much. “And Fior is giving them to us as allies? Why?” His voice held a lifetime of distrust of Masters of Darkness.

“He doesn’t know, sir. He recognized the Last of the Brotherhood and one or two others among the smugglers. You know the arrogance of the Masters, especially Fior. He thinks he can use them for his plan somehow. Fior is so certain that his attack on Zoran succeeded that he has decided that a few children and their teachers survived because they were off the planet.”

“And you are certain that he is wrong?”

“As I said, I have no doubts. I have seen the Brotherhood. My professional opinion is that they were not on Zoran during the attack. At least, not most of them. There is one major problem, however.”

“Yes, Colonel?” Only one, thought the Vice Chancellor. What an uncommonly direct mind you have, Colonel. But then, you were not old enough to be in government service twenty years ago.

“No one is supposed to know that they still exist. The Last of the Brotherhood is understandably concerned about their continued survival. I was sent to tell the Confederation that our new allies, Red Beard’s smugglers, will be present at the battle of Kuarmian. Knowing your opinions as I do, sir, I didn’t think you would even consider following Red Beard’s orders. However, if knowledge of the continued existence of the Brotherhood leaks out, especially to the Masters, I have been told that they will do whatever is necessary for the safety of the Brotherhood. That would include the destruction of this city, sir.”

“You believe this clan commander is capable of that?”

“Yes, sir, I believe she will follow her orders. Sarr’a can be a very frightening person, especially when she is speaking quite matter of factly about killing people. She states that she has sufficient forces present to carry out her mission. Within two hours of our having landed, over forty Imperial agents died. She never left my side.” Deb’s high-handedness still annoyed him. Forty-three dead and the bodies left where they fell. The probable reprisals for that were going to echo for years. Civilian news reports were referring to a massacre; fortunately, they didn’t know the connection between the victims.

“I have no idea how many Zorantians are here. I would suspect you if you hadn’t been in government service for years before they disappeared.” The colonel’s demeanor indicated that he was not joking.

Ant’n turned away at that. It is not often, he thought, that a politician has the opportunity to correct his errors. I agreed to the attack on Zoran in a shortsighted attempt to buy the Confederation some more time. Who had expected it to succeed as well as it apparently had? Since then, we have lost almost half our worlds to the Imperium. An irony indeed that the Brotherhood is our only hope. And a miracle that they would offer.

“What does the Last of the Brotherhood want us to do?” he asked at last. “Did he say why they have decided to help us?”

“So far, he has only said that we are to stay out of his way. I don’t think he’ll leave it at that. They are planning for victory, sir.” The colonel’s voice reflected the wonder he still felt at the prospect. The Confederation had had no real victories during his adult years.

“Victory,” repeated Ant’n. “It has been a long time.” They sat in stillness for a few moments.

“I have to get back, sir. I don’t know what Sarr’a will do.” And I hope she isn’t already doing it, he thought. I had to take the risk.

“Bring the clan commander to see me tomorrow, Colonel. Here. I will be in all morning. We will see what can be done.” He switched off the field. “Good night, Colonel. Take care going home.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

The sergeant looked up as he left, than rose and walked down the hallway to a small room in the back of the house. He spoke into a small communicator in the battle language of Zoran. “Your colonel has just left, commander. He told the Vice Chancellor everything as Deb expected. You are to meet Ant’n tomorrow morning. There is one of yours with him now with others joining shortly.” Concealing the device carefully, he returned to his post.

Colonel Murthoc walked carefully in the shadows. It was late; there were few people in the streets.

* * *

“Sarr’a.” The sharp summons came from the shadows. She was up and moving before Tren fully registered that she had been called. They had been told when the colonel arrived at and when he left the Vice Chancellor’s and had been waiting for him to return to this part of the city.

“A Master has him. Kyrl follows.”

Her face, already serious, went rigid.

“There were five others, clan commander.” It was offered as explanation, not excuse. “Kyrl is alone. She chose to report.”

“Which Master?” Her voice cut like a knife. She would deal with why Kyrl had been alone later.

“Kyrl says Tarrask. He has a house on the central square. They appear to be taking him there.”

Sarr’a looked toward Tren.

“We will find it. Assemble a team of five, Dal, and meet me there. Tell Kyrl she is relieved when I arrive. I do not want this one seeing her either.” She turned away without waiting for acknowledgment.

“Major!” Tren jumped to his feet. “Master Tarrask has taken Colonel Murthoc. You will accompany me to his residence on the central square. I remind you that you cannot run fast enough to avoid your death if I do not recover the colonel soon.”

“This is my job too, Sarr’a.” His voice was quietly firm, all trace of his habitual prissiness gone. She studied him with narrowed eyes for a brief moment then turned abruptly away. There was no time for mental confusion. She would consider the difference between the colonel and his subordinate on the one hand and the offworlders with whom she was familiar later.

Moving rapidly through the deeply shadowed alley, her mind was focused on the confrontation ahead. Major Tren lagged some hundred yards behind her, already winded but following as best he could.

She sensed the man just before he moved and automatically turned to defend against his attack. Slowed by her preoccupation, she misjudged his rush, which pushed her to the ground. He held her pinned hard under his body for a moment, his hands now groping across her breasts. A rage of hatred rose within her and, for just a momentary flash, fear.

“Looking for a good time, bitch?” His leer froze as her hand found his throat and closed around his windpipe.

There was a feral glow to her face, which was visible even in that shadow. Sarr’a held him in a grip which almost choked and which promised death. That death was in the eyes which met and held his for several long seconds before she deliberately crushed his throat. Tossing the limp body aside, Sarr’a rose quickly and turned back to Major Tren who was appalled to find himself becoming aroused. Her face was flushed, her lips half parted; the way she had moved as she killed . . . Hastily, Tren looked away and took a very deep breath. Calmer, he turned back to find her watching him coldly, her eyes glittering black.

“If you are quite ready, Major, I have wasted enough time here.” Sarr’a’s voice was very quietly dangerous.

His answering nod was ignored as she moved again toward her rendezvous. He stepped carefully around the corpse and followed.

Emerging into the square, Sarr’a paused in the shadows. It was late; the streets were nearly deserted.

“That house there,” said Tren turning toward Sarr’a and stopping. She looked almost ill.

“I am aware, Major,” she said through clenched teeth. “Be quiet. I need time to prepare.” Focusing inward as she had been taught, she worked for control of her self. Facing the Power was always difficult. Already off-balance among these offworlders, the attack in the alley had not helped. This required discipline: she could not kill Tarrask until she was certain of what he knew. Once she entered that house, Tarrask and any other Master present would have to die.

Having decided that this very peculiar woman was almost certainly going to kill him, Major Tren leaned back against the wall and watched her intently. She had closed her eyes. Prepare, she said. To face a Master of Tarrask’s level of the Power? No one but another Master did that and none of them were women. Somehow his thoughts, which should have been derisive, weren’t. If he didn’t die, this promised to be truly interesting. Who were these people?

* * *

The colonel awoke to find himself slumped forward with his arms tied behind the back of a chair. He couldn’t move it; the legs seemed bolted to the floor. He had been walking back to his quarters and there had been five of them. No, clearly there had been at least one more because he had been struck from behind.

Having a familiarity with the effects of head injuries, he straightened up carefully and was surprised that there was no rush of pain. The reason for that lack of physical injury became clear when the gray cowled Master of Darkness moved from behind him. He could not repress a shudder of fear. This was very bad. And he must not think about that.

“Excellent, Colonel Murthoc,” said the Master who was named Tarrask and was as the colonel recalled one of Fior’s inner circle. “You show the proper respect for my position. I know your opinion of my Order, so I will not ask for your cooperation. As a reminder, I am a tenth order Master; I did not have to touch you to render you unconscious.” Just distract me, thought the colonel. That is a little hope. “During this discussion, I will not allow you to become unconscious. Do you understand, Colonel?”

“What do you want to know?” He tried to inject a note of resignation in his voice. The game was to last as long as possible.

“Colonel, Colonel. I want to know everything. Where you have been; who you have seen. All of the details of your sordid love life with that filthy child you brought back with you. And the last time you saw Master Fior.”

Never fight them directly, he’d been taught. The Masters can’t really read your mind, although they can somehow merge into it and then you will tell them everything. But only after they have worn you down. Think sideways; think of your childhood. But that way was dangerous too: too many memories of his father’s profession.

Masters of Darkness could inflict pain. Their Power could physically move the organs of his body. It began. His heart began to race until he thought his head would explode with the pounding, then it slowed and slowed until he thought it would never beat again and his entire consciousness narrowed down to waiting for that next pulse and fearing it would not come. Concentrate on the pain; don’t fight it. His chest ached from fighting for air. With luck, the Master will slip and I will pass out. There was no luck, but every moment passing was a victory of sorts. This was the kind of battle he was used to: stave off defeat as long as possible. But don’t think of rescue. Or the price of failure. Then his intestines twisted and his body doubled over in agony.

Pain was exploding in his head now; he no longer had a sense of the outside world. A spider was crawling inside his skull, on the membrane of his brain: a filthy, bloated spider with long, articulated legs. He could feel each leg unfolding slowly and probing precisely as it moved. Burned as though by acid with each foul touch, his consciousness centered on the thing. He was all alone with that spider, all alone with the vilest, most corrupt being he had ever touched and it was inside his head. He screamed but the monster controlled his mouth and his lungs and there was no sound. Then, in an almost unbearable obscenity, he could begin to hear its thoughts: Fior went to see smugglers. You came back with a smuggler. Where is Fior? What is he doing? This went on eternally with the spider’s voice growing from a faint whisper to an insistent shout. He was growing almost tired enough to answer.

Then, somehow because they were becoming one mind, he could feel what the Master was not yet noticing. It wasn’t pain, so he turned himself toward it as best he could. There was a growing nothing behind him, behind Tarrask: a place of absolutely nothing. A Master of the tenth order is fully aware of everything around him, but there was nothing there: no floor, no air, no door, nothing. To the colonel, it was a quiet place where he was still himself.

Reaching deep within that self, where he was still Colonel Cully Murthoc and not the violated prey of the obscenity in his mind, he tried to gather the nothing and push it at the Master.

Master Tarrask quivered as that nothingness touched him. The colonel felt his stark denial of the possibility, his sudden terror as he realized that it was indeed there. Colonel Murthoc opened his eyes and both he and the Master saw through them together. Directly behind the gray cowled figure stood a woman clothed in midnight black. She held a sword above her head and both she and her sword were haloed in flames and in light as she drove it down through the Master’s body. Master Tarrask’s death scream echoed forever in the colonel’s mind as he felt the clean agony of the sword’s thrust. Then, he was alone in his own head again and there was peace.

He felt the bonds holding his arms give way and fell forward. Sarr’a caught him and eased him to the floor. Looking up, he could see an echo of the flames and light around her head, but she was not in uniform.

“You are a spectacular hallucination, clan commander.” He said and fainted. Frowning, she signaled one of the men with her forward. He conducted a rapid medical examination and rose.

“I can’t speak for his mind, but physically he’ll survive.”

There was a sudden gleam in Major Tren’s eyes as the pieces came together for him. Almost forgotten, he had entered the room behind the group that Sarr’a had assembled after receiving the report that a Master had captured the colonel. Now he began to understand although he still did not know how it was possible. It did explain his colonel’s interest: he had always been fascinated by the Brotherhood.

Colonel Murthoc was stirring. He opened his eyes to find Sarr’a squatting on the floor beside him.

“It was you,” he said, still confused. “Where’s your sword?”

Responding to a signal from her, the others were gone and they had taken the Master’s body with them. Sarr’a looked at him thoughtfully.

“I don’t need a sword to kill vermin, Colonel.”

He shook his head as though to clear it and started to rise. Instantly, she was on her feet and offering him her hand. He looked at it and shook his head again.

“I need you able to walk, Colonel.” Her hand was still held out. Grasping her wrist, he rose, staggering as he reached his full height.

“Major!” She had not forgotten him. He took Murthoc’s full weight. “You will escort the colonel to his quarters which fortunately are not far distant. I think, for the benefit of the duty officers, he has been celebrating his return a little too enthusiastically.” She turned to the colonel. “I regret that I cannot accompany you, but I have work to do. No,” she saw the alarm in his eyes. “This Master very obviously had no knowledge of the Brotherhood. He was stunned by our presence. I do need to incapacitate the others in the city. No, I am not going to kill them all. A pleasant thought, but it would cause too many complications.”

“He knew Fior went to see smugglers, commander. That’s all he asked about.” He offered it in the hope that it would help. The description of her he kept firmly to himself.

She nodded sharply and turned to leave, paused and looked again to Colonel Murthoc. “He is yours, Colonel,” indicating Major Tren. “You are responsible for his discretion.” Major Tren felt the coldly assessing eyes sweep over him before she left.

As they made their way back to the colonel’s quarters, Major Tren was aware that they had an escort. He assumed that he was meant to see them. And Colonel Murthoc was left to wonder precisely what he and Master Tarrask had seen together. And why the Master had not felt her approach.

CHAPTER NINE

Sarr’a returned sometime after Major Tren had gotten the colonel into bed and managed to fall asleep himself, uncomfortably, in a pair of chairs pulled roughly together. He hadn’t heard her, but she was asleep now in a corner of the colonel’s bedroom wrapped in one of his blankets. Which meant that she either had her sentries on guard or had completely overwhelmed the opposition. Probably both. He was developing a sincere respect for the woman. Which was not to say that she wasn’t terrifying. She was. But also fascinating. He didn’t have Colonel Murthoc’s flashes of intuitive brilliance, but Major Tren was an avid, one might say obsessive, collector of information. A Brotherhood clan commander explained a lot of very anomalous facts. Especially if there were more, as it appeared there might be. He would see.

Colonel Murthoc awoke in his own bed. He opened his eyes to find Sarr’a sitting on it and studying him intently. His head ached and he did not need a Zorantian clan commander upbraiding him for his stupidity. He was fully aware of it, thank you. Especially after hearing Major Tren’s report of Sarr’a’s activities of the night before. He had miscalculated very badly and taken an unconscionable risk with the lives of everyone in the city.

“Major Tren,” he said. “Find her some appropriate clothes to wear. We’ll be meeting Vice Chancellor Ant’n this morning. Those look like she slept in them. And some breakfast. I expect we’re all hungry.” He sat up as the major left. “I would like to get dressed now, commander. I believe you have a chair in my office?”

She did not move. “Physically, you will be fine. Mentally, it appears that you are stronger than I would have thought. You were with the Master for some time before we reached you, Colonel. The Power is an obscene perversion. I deeply regret my failure to protect you.”

Surprised by the lack of recrimination, he realized that he was being treated like a small child.

“You cannot protect me from the consequences of my own decisions, commander.” In spite of his headache, he met her eyes. She looked surprised by his tone. “It was necessary that I meet with the Vice Chancellor; I have my own chain of command. It appears that I underestimated the Masters. And the paranoia of the Brotherhood.”

She considered him for a few minutes, her scrutiny thoughtful, then came to a decision. “In the future, Colonel, we will discuss our plans. It appears that I have underestimated you. You should be aware that I have ordered the evacuation of all noncritical personnel. In the event that I lose contact with you or Major Tren for longer than fifteen minutes, I will begin the destruction of the city. Do you understand?” She raised her hand to stop his answer. “Yes or no will suffice, Colonel.”

“Yes, commander, I understand.”

She couldn’t read his eyes, which was another new experience with an offworlder.

“Good.” She stood up. “You should know that the Masters in this city are not currently a problem.” She left the room leaving him to wonder what that meant.

He found her outside later, stretched out in her chair in his office. He was once again in a fresh uniform. Sarr’a had finished eating and was contemplating the clothing supplied by Major Tren. These consisted of an ankle length skirt and a jacket in a dark blue, with a white shirt: the quasi uniform of a junior governmental secretary. She rose as he came in and, gathering up the clothes, left the room. When she returned, she was again nearly unrecognizable: clean, neat, even her hair almost fashionable.

“No argument, commander?”

“Tactically, you are correct, Colonel. It is better not to attract attention and a smuggler visiting the Vice Chancellor would be odd. Personally, I do not like either deception.” She paused before continuing thoughtfully. “They must dislike you profoundly, Colonel, to enjoy such stories. You cannot force them to choose freedom. If you try, they will destroy you as they tried to destroy us.”

So she’d heard the gossip. Fortunately, she didn’t seem annoyed.

“I do what I can so that they have that choice, Sarr’a. I’m a soldier.”

She shook her head, but let it pass.

“She will need a notecase and recorder to look official, Tren. You may drive us over, but we will walk back. I need you to cover the office. I want to know everything that happened in the city last night.” There was no reaction from Sarr’a who had accepted the tools of the secretarial trade from Tren and now looked like hundreds of other young government functionaries. It’s amazing what clothing and preconceived ideas can do, thought the colonel. Just so long as no one looks at her eyes. Or her boots.

Tren having supplied the proper badge, they had no difficulty leaving the building. A short time later, they entered the residence of Vice Chancellor Ant’n, the sergeant rising to meet them and to escort them to the Vice Chancellor.

Ant’n had very obviously not slept the previous night. He looked haggard and careworn in a way that the colonel, who had gone through numerous crises with him, had never seen. His eyes moved past the colonel to the woman who had entered with him. She set the notecase and recorder on a small table and, with the air of one abandoning a role, turned to meet the Vice Chancellor’s stare directly. Standing at parade rest, she waited out the long moments before he spoke.

“What did you do to the Masters?”

Her eyes grew scornful. “Details first. You are always so concerned with the details. I did nothing to the Masters. I allowed their own fears to move them in the direction I wanted them to go. They are in hiding until the battle, each faction convinced that the other killed Tarrask. Do you have any other concerns before we discuss why I am here?”

“Tarrask is dead? He was reported as missing.” He looked to Colonel Murthoc, who nodded.

“Tarrask was interrogating Colonel Murthoc when he died. There was no reasonable choice but his death.” Sarr’a spoke flatly, growing bored with this offworlder already. They always took so long to understand and they asked the wrong questions. “Shall we consider the matter of the alliance?”

“You are an associate of Red Beard?”

“Let us not be ridiculous, Vice Chancellor. I would not be here speaking to you if you thought I was just a smuggler. Colonel Murthoc has told you of the Brotherhood.”

Deduction or knowledge, wondered the colonel. And how would she have gained the knowledge? Someone other than God obviously could penetrate that field. And she didn’t care that he knew it. Probably someone on Ant’n’s staff was Zorantian. That he would find out. It occurred to him that she had not included Ant’n’s name with his and Tren’s when she made her earlier statement. Presumably, the Zorantian on Ant’n’s staff always knew where he was. That narrowed the field a bit.

“I am clan commander Sarnath Al Cador. I speak now for the Last of the Brotherhood.” It was an ancient, heraldic formula not heard for two decades. She had already faced the emotional reaction within her to standing before them as clan commander; it was still difficult.

“And his message is?” Ant’n appeared to brace himself.

“He was offered an alliance with your Confederation by a Lady Ylana and your Master Fior. He has consulted the clan commanders and accepted that alliance. I am here to offer you the choice and to work out some of the details.”

“Why? Why are you here now?” Ant’n’s voice was loud in the small room. “We agreed to your destruction. We have played the Masters’ games. Now, when all hope is almost lost, you are here. Why?”

“Your people came to us, Vice Chancellor, although they did not fully understand what they were doing. For reasons of our own, we will be at the battle of Kuarmian. We will come as your allies or we will come to destroy both fleets. It is your choice.” Her tone remained flat, although her eyes were burning. “Speaking personally, I would destroy both fleets. I do not like traitors. My father died on Zoran when your Masters’ ships came. It is not my decision. The Last of the Brotherhood has said that he is not prepared to see this galaxy turned into a charnel house. Again. He stands true to a pledge made a very long time ago, which none of you even remember.” The disdain in her voice made the colonel wince even as he filed what she was saying for future consideration. What pledge? His father had never spoken of a pledge from the Brotherhood beyond their standard, limited contracts.

Sarr’a stood in the middle of the room, prepared for battle. The sergeant standing near the door stirred and the colonel recalled that they were all close to death. If Ant’n made the wrong choice, she wouldn’t let them live. He had no doubt that she could kill all three. She could certainly take him. He braced himself to protect the Vice Chancellor for as long as possible.

“For the first time, Colonel, I do truly believe you. The Brotherhood survives and a clan commander stands in front of me.” He turned back to Sarr’a. “Your secret will not remain one for long if you ally with us.”

“That is Deb’s problem.” She was still battle ready. “Your choice, Vice Chancellor?”

“I am not such a fool that I can pass by the opportunity to ally with the Brotherhood, whatever your reasons. We in the Confederation will not last much longer anyway. We accept.” And better death by a vengeful Zorantian blade than the tender mercies of Sartak and the Imperium.

Sarr’a relaxed slightly, looking in the colonel’s opinion disappointed.

“Then we must arrange the details, Vice Chancellor. There is a ship, ostensibly a smuggler, standing just off your picket line. It contains your new command staff. You will need to give them the proper clearances.” She looked briskly to Colonel Murthoc who nodded slowly and thought: she considers these details. “What is wrong, Vice Chancellor?”

“The attack is in four days, clan commander. The plans have been made and the orders have been issued.”

There was disbelief in her voice as she snapped, “Then you had best waste no time getting them down here. At a minimum, your ships will need to know how to recognize ours. We do not want any accidents, do we?” Her tone told her expectation of the results of any accidents. “You will find, Vice Chancellor, that they will be able to improve your order of battle and integrate your fleet into our plan even using your systems.” She paused to consider if she had omitted anything. “And they are all male. We are familiar with your prejudices.”

She stopped and Ant’n began to understand what the colonel had meant the night before when he said that the Brotherhood expected victory. There was a certain logical inevitability in the way she spoke. She was annoyed to be there and disdainful of their methods, but this would work because they would make it work. He was remembering just how good the Brotherhood had always been.

“You have my authority to do what is necessary, Colonel. Sergeant, I need to speak to General Crant. He is our Chief of Staff,” he said to Sarr’a. “But you undoubtedly know that. He will have orders to cooperate fully by the time they land. He is basically sound, but these Masters of Fior’s override all his objections.”

The sergeant had returned.

“General Crant is waiting to talk to you, sir. You may contact your office from my desk, sir,” to Colonel Murthoc, who left to speak to his aide. Shortly after he had given Tren his instructions, the sergeant and the clan commander joined him.

“The Vice Chancellor will understand if you leave without seeing him, sir. He is still speaking to the General, but he will have everything arranged shortly.”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Colonel Murthoc as he turned to the door and hesitated, almost imperceptibly he hoped later, as a thought struck him. There was only one person who could be the Zorantian, as unlikely as it seemed. He felt Sarr’a’s eyes on him and he continued to walk as he considered it. The Vice Chancellor would be safe and Ant’n wouldn’t accept that the sergeant was a member of the Brotherhood without hard evidence. It explained her rapid knowledge of his movements. He would look into the man’s recorded history to see if there were clues to any others, as unlikely as that was.

They walked back through a large public square dominated by the statue of an ancient hero, The colonel was going over everything that had happened at the meeting with Ant’n.

“Let’s sit down for a few minutes and talk,” he said. “No one can overhear us here and I am quite certain that you have enough people around us to take care of any attacks, as unlikely as they are.” He watched a slow smile cross her face as she moved toward a bench. It seemed that she was prepared to talk to him.

“First, the Masters. You wouldn’t depend on them remaining frightened and in hiding. What did you do?” He kept his voice carefully controlled to avoid any appearance of demanding answers and waited. She did not respond. “Did you kill them?”

“No, Colonel. That would have been stupid.” Reproof was plain in her tone as well as the words. “That many Masters dying at one time would attract a lot of attention. They are asleep.”

“Drugged, you mean.”

“They went into hiding as I described. I simply made certain that they would not emerge until we wanted them to.” She was patiently explaining to a reasonably intelligent child and he knew it.

“Why did he insist that I not speak of the Brotherhood when he knew I would have to?”

She grimaced. “He likes games, Colonel. He wanted to see what you would do.”

“Was it a game last night that you played with Major Tren? Would you have destroyed the city?”

“I don’t play games, Colonel. I follow his orders. Those orders were extremely explicit and detailed. If necessary, I would have destroyed the city.” He was learning to watch her eyes when she answered; this time they were watching for his reaction. Whatever Deb’s orders to her had been, she wasn’t reporting them to him. Nor did she seem to be directly lying. Maybe she didn’t play games.

“Why did Deb send you?” He saw the reprimand in her eyes and continued. “No one can hear us.”

“It is a bad habit, Colonel.” She considered his question. “This is my sector; who else would he send? I know he thought it a good joke, but it is my responsibility.”

“This planet?”

“Most of the Confederation.” She saw the stunned comprehension cross his face and answered his next question. “No, Colonel. I am not going to tell you how many clan commanders there are, nor how many sectors.” Nor the responsibilities of a sector commander, she thought. It was oddly stimulating to speak with this offworlder. His mind had odd quirks, but he was intelligent.

They sat beside one another for several minutes as he tried to imagine a Brotherhood that divided the civilized worlds into sectors controlled by clan commanders. It was staggering.

“If you are that strong, why are you still hiding?” He could not stop the question and regretted it when he saw her face. The demons were there again.

“We have always been this strong, Colonel. It didn’t stop your people twenty years ago.” Her voice was bleak and she was no longer looking at him.

“Then why not simply destroy the Masters and overthrow the Imperium? You could kill everyone in the Confederation who agreed to the attack. You claim, or always did, that you fight for freedom.” There was more of the bereft teenage boy in that question than he liked, but he needed to understand why, given her very obvious pain, she would still fight with them. And why, given their strength, beliefs, and ability, the Brotherhood did not simply fight the Masters and their plans openly.

She turned back toward him, a light appearing in her eyes. “You are bloodthirsty, aren’t you? Thousands of us would die, millions or more of you. The Masters would be replaced by another group with the same beliefs and the survivors of your people would choose another Imperium or worse. And they would hate us.” She looked at him sadly. “It is the central problem of your life, Colonel. You have set up resistance organizations on how many hundred of the Imperium’s worlds? And watched some take hold and many more die. You cannot make them choose freedom. If they do, they will fight for themselves and we will help them, if they ask. But they will tell you that a full stomach, safety, education for their children, a place to play after work and a thousand other things are more important than freedom. At least, the honest ones will. The rest will tell you that they are free. You have chosen freedom for yourself, Cully Murthoc. Do not enslave yourself to them.”

She could see that he rejected the argument. It was, of course, his choice.

“If your Major Tren has done his job, the ship should be landing soon. Their arrival will be noticed. I doubt that we can convince the gossips that you are having an orgy.” Sarr’a looked up at him sideways. “That bothers you, Colonel. Why?” She paused then continued when he did not answer. “I believe I understand. You are concerned about the insult to me. And my potential reaction.”

“We have stories about the reaction of Br. . .your women to insult, commander. They aren’t very nice.”

“The sort of insult you are talking about isn’t very . . . nice, Colonel.” She had become remote again and he was sorry. “When I am offered a personal insult, I will take action within the range allowed by my orders. Which at the moment means I can’t do very much beyond self-defense. Does that reassure you?” She met his eyes. Hers were very dark and there was a disturbing pain in their depths. “He was very explicit and detailed in the orders I was given, Colonel. I believe you have personal experience with my ability to follow orders.” There was a challenge in her tone.

He rose from the bench and spoke evenly. “And with your reaction to insult, commander. I would not care to have you consider that I had insulted you again.” He turned away. “I think we’d better get back. General Crant will expect me to be there when his new staff arrives.”

Sarr’a was left to consider his response as they walked. Taken literally, it meant that he was afraid of her. Colonel Murthoc, in her view, was not afraid of very much including his own death. He hadn’t liked her threats and she suspected that they were simply more factors in the equation he was working. Why then would he feel it necessary to state that he did not wish to insult her? It concerned her that there was no reasonable answer.

* * *

The High Council of the Masters of the Chaos out of Darkness was almost empty. Its murky shadows and muted lighting gave the air a thickness which seemed to resist sound and slow movement. A heavily cowled and robed figure sat patiently waiting for the information that would certainly come.

The confessor entered and made the ritual obeisance, lying face down upon the floor, arms spread wide. He began the ritual of report in the hoarse whisper required by respect and protocol and was interrupted by a harshly rasped command.

“You may kneel that I may hear you clearly.”

Heeding the implied warning, he knelt facing the Councilor and strained to whisper as loudly and as clearly as he could.

“The reports are not coherent, Highborn. There are no reports of my penitent, Master Fior, nor of the boy on whom he bases his plan to kill Master Sartak. You are familiar with the lineage of the boy, Nat Bahadur, and his upbringing in the Home on Thune?”

The gray figure nodded silently.

“Colonel Murthoc, the head of Confederation Intelligence, has returned to their capital. He was thought to have been following Master Fior. He brought with him a boy who was at first reported to be this Nat Bahadur, but that is incorrect. Master Fior’s boy is of medium build and has sand colored hair. This one is short and dark. It has been suggested that he is merely a sex partner of the colonel, but this seems unlikely as the man has never shown any interest in boys in the past. The antecedents of this boy will be discovered and the filer of the initial report disciplined.

“Master Tarrask’s death has led to some confusion in the city. Also, the deaths of many Imperial agents have reduced the information available to us. We have been unable to determine the cause of Master Tarrask’s death. It seems unlikely that Master Fior would have had him killed since he was his ally in this move against Master Sartak. His death was odd: there was no movement in the Power to presage it. We simply felt him gone. The matter will be closely investigated.

“We believe that the Imperial agents were killed on Colonel Murthoc’s orders in a vain attempt to maintain secrecy about the offensive they are planning. Their deaths closely followed his return. There is no alternative explanation.

“There have been no further reports, Highborn. We know that the other Masters are alive. They are present in the Power. We cannot contact them and therefore assume that they are hiding until Master Tarrask’s death is explained.”

His throat, conditioned as it was by long years of reports, felt raw. The heavily robed figure rose, thus ending the confession. There was, he was thankful, no immediate penance. He backed carefully out of the room and went to seek a draught of something soothing before continuing his duties.

CHAPTER TEN

This boring room was just awful. There weren’t any games to play, no windows to look out. And certainly no one to have a decent conversation with. Ylana had tried naturally with everyone who came in. They just didn’t know how to converse politely. Master Fior and Nat spent all their time together in their room which was really quite rude, if one dared to call a Master of Darkness rude. Colonel Murthoc was gone. She hadn’t seen him since they had walked around the base. Her feet still hurt and that was two days ago. He had been so strange, saying such nasty things. Not that he was very nice anyway. The soldiers she knew, especially the officers, were much nicer. So much more fun than this boring, empty room.

And that woman was gone too. They thought she didn’t notice things, but she did. There was a man who came to check on her now; he’d been in the command center. The woman, the clan commander whatever that was, wasn’t here. Clan commander wasn’t in the book about titles so she couldn’t be very important. They were doing something that they didn’t want her to see. She was good at figuring out things like that. Her confessor, Master Tarrask, said so.

Well, if they wouldn’t let her talk to the Last of the Brotherhood about making a report, then she would have to investigate whatever was happening. She would try looking around tonight when everyone would be asleep.

* * *

There were no guards on the door. She had looked outside to be sure. It was insulting, really. There should have been a ceremonial guard at least. She was here representing the Confederation. Ylana slipped through the door, closing it carefully behind her. This time she wasn’t wearing her shoes; maybe that would help keep her feet from hurting so much.

Everything was very quiet as she slipped along the corridor and down the ramps. There didn’t seem to be many people around so they must all be asleep as she had hoped. She didn’t notice the man behind her or the sentries posted at every level who allowed her to pass when they saw him.

Ylana wandered down the ramps until she came to a large empty cavern at the bottom. Everything was gone. She looked around uncertainly as though the equipment might be hidden somewhere, but there was nothing. Back up the ramps she went. The workshops were empty and the hangers and flight deck were almost empty. They had moved Sartak’s ship inside and there were still a few ships there, most of them old and dingy. She was feeling very confused by the time she reached the top level. Where was everything? Had it been a lie? It didn’t make any sense to her, but she kept looking around. Somehow, it seemed important to figure it out.

This level, where that man who was the Last of the Brotherhood had his office, seemed very quiet too. She would be disappointed if he were gone too. He’d seemed very nice. Ylana liked people with titles and he was very attractive. It was confusing that he pretended to be that nasty smuggler, but men did strange things. Exciting things. Especially powerful and important men. And she was glad that Lord Sartak hadn’t thrown him out into space.

This was his office. It looked dark. She wondered where he slept. Behind her Reth moved quickly forward. His hand was over her mouth and she was over his shoulder before she fully registered that he was there. He carried her along the corridor and stopped outside her room where he set her down carefully, but not very gently.

“Go to bed,” he ordered sternly. Turning to leave, he found her hand on his arm.

“Please,” she said. “I don’t like being alone.” Her eyes were wide and her lips were trembling. She moved toward him.

“Only with my own species, Lady Ylana,” he said, extremely rudely. “Good night.” He pushed her inside the room and closed the door. The young woman who responded to his signal to take up a post outside Ylana’s door had a grin in her eyes, but an otherwise impassive face as he left.

Inside the room, Ylana was trembling with anger. How dare he. As if that was what she meant. He was old enough to be her grandfather. But it was scary to be alone and not to understand what was happening. And not to be able to make a report. Where had everyone gone?

* * *

Nat Bahadur followed his teacher out of the room they had been in for three days. Master Baltash Fior had announced at breakfast that they were leaving. Three days spent exactly as though he were back in school. Meditation and prayer, prayer and meditation. The Master said it was important to be ready, but he never said what Nat had to be ready for. It was hard to be sixteen, ready for adventure, and to have to follow this old man around. He was instantly ashamed of the thought.

“Quietly, my boy,” said Master Fior.

Nat started. He didn’t think the Masters could read his mind, but he wasn’t sure. To distract himself, he looked around. There weren’t many people in the corridor and none of them seemed to be watching his Master. He was still puzzled by their claim to be the Brotherhood of Zoran. The Masters at school, his teachers, had been so certain that the Brotherhood had been destroyed. They said it was a good thing, an important step in the development of the galaxy. The Brotherhood had contained criminals, people who didn’t believe in order and who fought the Masters. Then this smuggler, this man who called himself the Last of the Brotherhood, had said something about God calling them. It was very upsetting.

It was also very confusing, with Master Fior helping the Confederation against the Imperium and now going to what he said were the last remnants of the Brotherhood. When Nat asked questions, he received answers that didn’t say anything. He wasn’t a child anymore. How could he help if he didn’t know what was happening?

They were approaching the ships when someone did come up to them. He was a young man, although older than Nat, and he spoke politely, although not directly, to Master Fior.

“I’m sorry. You can’t be here without an escort. Please go back to your quarters.”

Master Fior ignored him as he usually did anyone who tried to prevent him from doing what he had decided to do. Nat had seen it several times. He hoped the man would stop trying and go away. When Master Fior was angry, he hurt people.

The man moved between them and the ships. Nat could see Sartak’s ship and Master Fior turned toward it. After that, everything seemed to happen very quickly. Several people were moving toward them when Fior straightened and seemed to Nat to grow very tall. There was an odd feel to the air, which he had learned in school to recognize as a Master using the Power. Then his Master was pushing him into the ship and the airlock was sealed. But, in the quick glimpse that Nat had gotten of the people near them, they hadn’t looked hurt. They’d looked sick, but mostly they’d looked very angry.

It wasn’t a good time for questions. Nat could tell that by looking at Master Fior. Strapping himself in, he watched the Master start the ship’s engines and take off. He wondered where they were going now.

* * *

Cursing in three languages, Deb rounded on Merik Nataen.

“And where were your people, clan second? Or is a Master of Darkness not important enough for you to watch properly?”

“My people didn’t kill him, Deb. That was difficult enough after he used the Power.” Amik stood stiffly straight under the onslaught. “They followed your orders to the letter. Both the Master and the boy are still alive.” Thankfully, Sarr’a wasn’t here. A Master using the Power on her base. There wouldn’t have been enough left to bury. Of either of them. “We’ll get them back.”

“No,” said Deb. “I will. After all,” he said through his teeth. “I have nothing better to do. Battles plan themselves, don’t they?” He was already running out the door.

Amik jumped to follow and was stopped by Reth.

“Let him go. He needs the exercise.”

The two of them watched Deb’s ship take off.

“And that makes the clan commander look sedate.” Amik turned toward Reth who grinned. “Will Deb bring him back or kill him, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Reth, shrugging. ”That depends on Master Fior and how stupid he is. Where are you going?” as he saw Amik move toward the door.

“You will excuse me. I have a few people I need to talk to. About paying attention. And overcoming personal feelings of revulsion to do their jobs.” They were of his clan; he had defended their actions to Deb. Now he would address the problem. And correct it.

“Did they tell you about Ylana’s wanderings last night?”

“Of course. When they saw you following, they let her pass. I understand you put her back to bed.”

Reth laughed. “Not likely. I didn’t mention it to Deb because I didn’t need his comments. I’ll tell him when he gets back; he should know that she’s seen the base since the evacuation.”

Deb’s ship hurtled up from the planet’s surface. He was still angry, but it was coalescing into a cold, deadly fury which was separate from the brain that was busy calculating the trajectory necessary to catch the Master’s ship. Fior was not a good pilot; he was relying heavily on automatics which could be counted upon, in this instance, to give him problems. Deb smiled to himself. It would take him time to make decisions and to implement them. With luck and skill, they could be overtaken before they left the system.

Aboard Sartak’s ship, Nat was watching Master Fior as he manipulated the controls. The Master didn’t seem to know much more than he, Nat, did. He had entered the coordinates of the system and of their destination three times and each time the guidance system had rejected them. Fior looked baffled. He knew he was doing it correctly; he had carefully memorized the coordinates for Askarn even before arranging the meeting with Deb. And he was certainly not wrong about the coordinates of the Confederation’s capital. The truth struck him suddenly: this wasn’t Askarn. He had relied on the smugglers for his own transportation as well as for Nat and Ylana. Fury immobilized him for several moments. He should have expected treachery from the Brotherhood. The navigation computer would be able to tell him where they were. And he would send a fleet back as soon as they were finished at Kuarmian. Then he saw the ship, which appeared to be coming straight at them.

Deb considered his options coldly. He could simply destroy the other ship. Fior’s death would have an unknown impact and would be, at least done this way, rather unsatisfying. He could immobilize it by destroying the engine, but that would risk exploding the ship. His thoughts were interrupted by a communication from the base below.

“Deb. There’s a Xackarn cruiser intercepting them. It seems to have been in the shadow of an asteroid.” Implied in the battle language of the message was a recognition of fault and a statement that it was being corrected.

Acknowledging the message, Deb set a course which would take him between the two ships. He began to broadcast on Xackarn frequencies.

“They’re mine.” There was a hiss of anger in his voice. He could think of no reason for Xackarn assistance to a Master nor could he conceive of a reason for them to interfere in a Master’s plan. But for them to take Fior now . . . He would not permit it.

“Ssssmuggler.” The Xackarn voice hissed and cracked as it formed the human sounds. “We watch.”

“They’re mine.” Deb repeated. Watch what? thought the part of his brain that always observed. And how did they find this base? This was not a smuggler base.

The three ships hung near each other for a few moments, and then the Xackarn began to turn away. Whatever they were watching, they were not prepared for a confrontation. When they were gone, Deb maneuvered next to Sartak’s ship and locked his to the hatch.

Moving quickly, he went through the airlock and found Nat, under orders, barring his way. The boy was obviously untrained.

“I am not here for you, boy.” Two swift blows and Nat was unconscious.

Turning away, the Last of the Brotherhood faced Baltash Fior. He could feel the Master gathering the Power to assault him. Unlike members of the Brotherhood, the Power did not make Deb ill. It fueled his already boiling anger that this worm would dare to use it in his presence. In three strides, he was across the space between them and his right hand encircled Fior’s throat, his thumb and fingertips almost meeting behind the windpipe.

“Where are you going, Fior?” he asked mockingly. “Having just found us after all these years, are you leaving so quickly? We have not even begun your entertainment.”

For the first time since early childhood, the Master felt the icy touch of fear. He had always dismissed the stories of the Brotherhood’s immunity to the Power. Deb’s father had seemed an ordinary man. It had been prudent not to use the Power in their presence; everyone had always made so much of their reaction. He had always felt certain that he could handle them. After all, look what had happened to Zoran. Fior was an essentially stupid man with one talent: his own survival and advancement. Faced with the end, he broke.

“We killed you.” His voice was a croak through Deb’s grip. “We killed all of you. I felt it.” His eyes were rolling in terror and he was beginning to shake.

“Killed us all?” Deb’s voice was still mocking. “Do you know how many you killed that day, Fior? I can give you their names. One thousand, Fior. One thousand of our best. And you shall pay for each and every one.” He paused and drew a breath. “But not now. That would be too easy and I have not yet finished with you.”

He moved his hand to Fior’s shoulder and shoved him toward the airlock. After strapping him in, Deb went back for the boy. Disengaging from Sartak’s ship, he moved off to a safe distance and fired. Turning away from the cloud of debris, he returned to the base with his prisoners.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

General Ibram Crant stood in the military planning center of the Confederation and awaited his new staff. Around him, the skeleton crew (primarily communications and weapons officers) and his executive officer, Colonel Branthor, also waited, restlessly, for the general to explain his odd orders. He was known for consistency and sound judgment, not freakish commands to clear the room in the middle of the day. After ordering a standby message, the general had imposed communications silence on the fleet. All traffic had stopped.

General Crant was not happy. Facing a battle planned for him by Fior’s Masters of Darkness, he now had to set aside that day’s plans. And probably more. He could not, however, ignore the Vice Chancellor. At least, not without resigning his commission. And General Crant would not do that just before a battle. Especially this battle, which looked to him like a bad one. Bluntly, it looked like a fight that they couldn’t win for a piece of real estate that they didn’t need and probably couldn’t keep if they got it. Which they wouldn’t, whatever lies and reassurances Master Fior gave the Senate.

His men deserved whatever support he could give them. Which would be very little if he had to wait much longer for these people. The general didn’t like political games. The only good aspect from his perspective (and it was a bitter one) of the Confederation’s long defeat was that the politicians and toadies tended to stay out of the military. There is no glory in even the best-planned retreat. Truly ambitious men tended to find relatives in the Imperium.

The Masters hadn’t appeared today. There were wild rumors they had all been killed or at least had disappeared. It did make the staff a little happier. They were loyal to their general and he didn’t like Masters of Darkness at all. They waited.

“They’re coming in now, sir.” Colonel Murthoc entered and spoke quietly to the general. For a spy, he wasn’t a bad officer in General Crant’s opinion. He seemed to be in the middle of this mess though. The general promised himself a talk with Colonel Murthoc who was at least nominally on his staff.

As the colonel spoke, a group of seventeen men moved through the door and occupied the room. They separated themselves into five groups of three. The two extra immediately approached the general who was watching them with an impassive face, if certainly not an impassive mind. They moved like a military unit. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but they were neat.

“General Crant, my name is Tul. Sir.” The pause was perceptible. The man speaking was older than the general by at least a decade. “My teams will begin reviewing your plans and updating them as quickly as possible. They are divided by staff functions so we should be able to interface with your command fairly efficiently. This is my communications officer.” indicating the man next to him. “He’ll need access to your equipment. So we can contact our forces. Sir” Again the pause, which did not actually sound disrespectful, merely as though he needed to remember it. “We’ll rely on your people for communication of orders to your fleet.”

There was something about these people. General Crant had been a soldier all of his adult life and much of his teens. He knew command presence when he felt it. They all had it. His command center was already more alive than he had ever seen. And he was to believe that these were smugglers or some other nonsense? He scanned the room and saw them already beginning their work. Professional, well trained soldiers. Command level staff. But who?

He summoned his chief communications officer. “Get this man whatever he says he needs.”

“Yes, sir.” They went off together already beginning to discuss equipment.

Tul was continuing. “We’ve reviewed the order of battle for your fleet and invasion force.” Colonel Branthor’s face showed his surprise; that was supposed to be secret. “Do you have any idea why the Masters have chosen this target, General?”

Crant shrugged. The reasoning of Masters of Darkness like Fior did not interest him. He considered it pointless to speculate.

“That base is an experimental station of some sort for Sartak. They have more power generators than they would seem to need and the latest in communications equipment. It isn’t strategically any more important that a dozen other worlds.” At least not by any logic we can see as yet, thought Tul. “Did the Masters say anything?” He was watching the general closely, but it was Colonel Branthor who replied.

“You wouldn’t recall, sir. It was the first day that they came with the plan. You spent a lot of that day in your office.” His aide was being diplomatic; the general had been too angry to go anywhere near a Master of Darkness. “They were talking about children, sir. Something about children calling someone. Master Tarrask noticed me listening and told them to be quiet.” He’d also given Colonel Branthor a very nasty headache which had served to underscore the conversation in his memory.

“Children. Nothing else?” Tul dismissed the matter, after a quick hand signal to his second to send that on to Deb. “That won’t help us much. Your fleet will need to be integrated into our battle plan, General. We can begin sending codes and recognition signals now. Your people are going to have to work a bit to be ready.” He looked at the general whose eyes were beginning to smolder. “As written, the plan is insanely unworkable. You are, of course, aware of that. We have worked to adapt it as much as possible. Your people aren’t flexible enough to do much. Our fleet will be there and we will have some people on the ground. I will show you what we have once they get the equipment to interface.”

And how your systems can be almost a full second off galactic standard is unknowable and therefore not worth mentioning. He turned away, effectively dismissing them.

After a stunned pause, General Crant turned to Colonel Murthoc. “We will talk now, Colonel. In my office.”

They entered the general’s office and closed the door. Sitting down at his desk, General Crant waved the colonel to a chair.

“Who are these people, Colonel? The Vice Chancellor directs me to follow their orders. They occupy my headquarters and calmly discuss reworking plans for a battle that is less than four days from now.” He looked keenly at the colonel. “Can I believe them, Murthoc, or is this another trick? Of someone other than the Masters. Whoever that would be.” The general closed his eyes in a sudden flash of weariness. It was almost as though he was back years ago. They certainly had the same quiet arrogance. “You will think me insane, Colonel, but if that group were half female, I would know who they are. But that’s impossible.” No, he thought, they threw that hope away twenty years ago. We have been dying ever since. “Who are they? Vice Chancellor or not, the men of the fleet deserve better than they’ve been getting. If this is another sellout . . . ”

Colonel Murthoc sat across the desk from General Crant and thought for a few moments. The general was a good soldier and a good commander. He needed to know the truth if only to assure his cooperation and therefore that of his staff. If he wasn’t safe from the Masters while surrounded by this many of the Brotherhood, they were all in trouble. When the colonel spoke, it was carefully and with precision.

“That group there was sent to us by our new allies, General. They are, as you have seen, extremely competent soldiers and they are aware of our prejudices concerning the sex of command level military officers.” His eyes met the general’s. “They do not want their continued presence known to many. Especially to the Masters.”

General Crant sat back heavily. “That is impossible. The Masters . . . ” Suddenly he laughed.

Outside, in the other room, Tul’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he shrugged. It had been a high probability that Colonel Murthoc would feel it necessary to tell the general about the Brotherhood. General Crant would be watched.

“Why not? The Masters came up with that plan our new allies so aptly called insane. Why should I believe that their planning was any better twenty years ago?” The general’s face fell. “But why are they helping us? No,” he shook his head as the colonel began to speak. “Don’t explain it. It is a miracle and sometimes old soldiers need miracles. They will have all the cooperation they need, Colonel. Maybe my staff will learn something.”

He turned away from the colonel to contemplate the systems maps on the wall behind his desk. A miracle. Perhaps. And why would they help after what we did to them? he thought. There is no point in asking; they will hardly tell us the truth. I am left with this choice; he thought and smiled ironically at the word. The Brotherhood’s plan or Master Fior’s. At least the Brotherhood offers uncertainty as to the outcome. If it is a trick . . . if it was a trick, he would be ready this time. None of them would survive his men. Including himself.

Colonel Murthoc saluted the general and left the office. Sarr’a would be waiting for him with Tren. The colonel considered his plans for the evening hours and was tempted for a moment not to return to his own office. She said the Masters were under control. It wouldn’t work: she probably had an army watching him by now with God only knew what orders of what to do if he did anything unexpected. And she had said fifteen minutes before she would begin destroying the city. It wasn’t a risk he could take. He would have to tell her face to face and deal with her reaction. It had been a long time since he’d had to justify his actions to anyone except in the most general terms. It was extremely irritating.

* * *

“No,” Colonel Murthoc said very quietly and very firmly. “I can’t just sit here. The people I work with require that I meet with them in person.” He met her gaze levelly. “Your planning staff is in place. I have my own job to do whether or not we win this battle. I need to know what is happening in the Imperium.

“Each and every one of my agents may be your people, commander. I don’t know and I doubt you’re going to tell me.” She didn’t even blink. “I still have to carry on with my responsibilities. And I am not taking you with me. Not because I’m trying to keep secrets; I’m quite sure that’s ridiculous under the circumstances. I am not going to meet with these people with you because you are a smuggler and an important one. Any number of them have been fighting Red Beard’s smugglers for years or competing with them. I am going to have enough trouble explaining this alliance without you sitting beside me while I do it. If you need me for any reason, Tren can find me.” Or your army, he thought.

Sarr’a looked up into his face for a moment consideringly. She was still wearing the skirt and jacket that Major Tren had provided. She didn’t look at all like a secretary.

“Short of physical force, there is no way to stop you, I suppose,” she said. “I could do that, of course, but I am not here to imprison you. And you are correct.” Her voice tightened for a moment. “It is possible that your people might recognize me. I will send two with you.” And at least one more, thought the colonel. “You may notice them, but they will not approach you unless you need help.” She met his eyes and spoke firmly. “That will be at their discretion, not yours. My orders are extremely explicit about bringing you safely to Kuarmian. I have already been guilty of overconfidence. It will not happen again.” That was a warning that he had best not try to lose those following him.

“I will stay here and keep an eye on Major Tren for you.” Her grin in the major’s direction showed her teeth. Tren tried to look pleased and succeeded in underlining the troubled look in his eyes. He had been correlating data and he was not pleased with his conclusion. “You will excuse me while I arrange for your protection.”

Pulling a small communicator from her belt, she spoke rap idly in a language neither man recognized. She looked up to see Murthoc watching and listening intently.

“I prefer to issue my orders in the battle language whenever possible, Colonel. We are allies; you will hear it sooner or later. It is quicker and much more explicit. I was able to explain, for example, just how much they may injure you while protecting you from your own actions.” Apparently he had not reacted visibly enough to the earlier warning. He gave her a respectful bow to indicate his understanding. “You may leave whenever you wish. I have work to keep me occupied until you return.” She settled into her usual chair and seemed to turn inward.

Major Tren followed his superior into his quarters where the colonel began quickly to change into civilian clothes.

“Sir,” he said very quietly but also very urgently. “I have been thinking about the clan commander and correlating the information we have on the smugglers.” He paused. Colonel Murthoc was almost ready to leave and the major was not quite how to phrase his conclusions. “She is, as you said, an important smuggler. That would mean, I presume, that she accompanies Red Beard frequently.”

The colonel had briefed him on Red Beard’s identity.

“Therefore, we have heard of her.” He looked at the colonel who was now watching him closely. By the slightly stunned expression on his face, he had already followed Tren’s logic. “The coincidence of the name is too much, sir. She has to be the one they call ‘Old Sorry.’ Other than small and dark, we’ve never gotten a good description. Which means that in addition to being a Zorantian clan commander, she’s a psychopathic killer. At least, by the reports we have.” Refusing to be silenced by the expression on his commanding officer’s face, the major continued, his voice still quiet, still urgent. “You must be very careful, sir. According to the reports, the trigger . . . ” Something in his superior’s eyes finally stopped him.

There was a whisper in the air behind him. Her eyes moved to him as he turned, then went back to Colonel Murthoc who was returning her stare. Major Tren watched the two of them for a frozen moment before the clan commander spoke.

Still watching the colonel, she said, “A nice bit of data retrieval and analysis, Major. You are of course correct.”

Major Tren was remembering the man who had assaulted her in the alley and the way she had looked when she killed him. And his own reaction. He wished that the colonel had been there, perhaps he would understand the danger. Or perhaps it was all a front. Looking at her standing in the doorway, body poised to fight, her eyes dark with an emotion he could not read, the major was coldly certain that it was no game.

Sarr’a was continuing. “We were discussing my reaction to insult earlier, Colonel.”

“I believe I stated then that I had no wish to insult you, commander.” Colonel Murthoc was feeling his way carefully. Old Sorry was indeed a well-known smuggler and he should have made the connection. He could only assume that the shock of the Brotherhood’s survival had dulled his wits. He had been very slow for the past several days. It was time to wake up. Her eyes were remote. He remembered the explanation of her nickname from a man who worked on the fringes of respectability and had dealings with the smugglers.

“She’ll make you sorry you talked to her, sorry you touched her, sorry you’re alive; which you won’t be for very long,” he’d said. She had the coldest eyes he’d ever seen, man or woman, he’d said and he never wanted to have them look at him again. The colonel could see something of that reaction in Major Tren’s face now. His own reaction was somewhat different. She spoke across his thoughts.

“We are allies, Colonel Murthoc.” It appeared that she had reached a decision. “You were aware of my activities before this. Now you know more. Does it matter?”

He shrugged, deliberately casual. “My job is to work with you to make this alliance, commander. We’re professionals; we can work together.” She knew his opinions of the smugglers and of the Brotherhood.

It was not particularly surprising to him that a Brotherhood clan commander would find being a smuggler stressful. Considering the reported activities of her commanding officer, Colonel

Murthoc wasn’t even certain that her actions could be called psychopathic. Maybe she did just follow his orders.

Sarr’a nodded abruptly.

“I have to go. Take good care of my aide while I’m gone.” There was just the trace of a question in his voice and a very definite challenge in his eyes.

Incredibly, at least to Major Tren, she smiled. “Yes, Colonel. The major will be quite safe.”

She watched him leave, but did not return to her chair. Instead, she turned to Major Tren.

“You’re quite intelligent for an offworlder, Major. Perhaps you’ll be able to figure out why I’m a ‘psychopathic killer.’” The sarcasm was acidic, her eyes very coldly assessing.

Major Tren went very quietly to his desk. Three minutes later, he looked up to see her dressed as a smuggler and heading toward the door.

“I thought you were staying here, Sarr’a.” He did not quite stumble over her name.

“I lied, Major. My orders are to get him to Kuarmian and he will be there. Probably intact. And, incredible as it may sound to you, I do have other concerns.” She read the question in his eyes, as he was unable to not wonder if she had lied about anything else. “You’re safe enough, Major. I have no reason to kill you. Not even a psychopathic one. I wouldn’t leave the building though. It might upset your guards.”

She was gone and he felt rather like a small animal after the cat has turned out not to be hungry after all. It was almost an hour before he went back to work.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Outside in the street, Sarr’a turned toward the port district. She was walking quickly, thinking rapidly as she moved, but she was not surprised when Kyrl joined her.

“What’s wrong, clan commander?” Her subordinate’s voice was cool and the salutation was definitely more formal than usual. She and Kyrl generally worked well together.

“Wrong?” Sarr’a inquired. “If we know where Colonel Murthoc is, there’s nothing wrong.” Beside her, Kyrl was impassive. Sarr’a stopped. “I apologize. I’ve been spending too much time with Deb. Just tell me what happened.” She started to walk again as the woman beside her began to report.

“It was late and there were very few people out. The colonel was not supposed to see us so I ordered the rest of the team to move ahead to a busier street. I didn’t sense the Master until his five hired thugs were already moving toward Colonel Murthoc. At that point, I decided that a report was more important.” She looked sideways at her clan commander. “I know you would have killed all six of them without a fuss, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“You weren’t chosen for this position because of your street fighting skills; that is true.” Sarr’a’s smile was only in her eyes as she looked at the older woman. “You were right. But, how is it that we didn’t know Master Tarrask’s location?”

“Zev can’t count.” Sarr’a looked up quizzically at the bald statement. “He reported seven Masters belonging to Fior’s clique in a meeting at Fior’s residence.” Sarr’a nodded. That was where they had found them later. “He was wrong. And I assure you, Sarr’a, that when he is next given an assignment, he will be more observant and he will be able to count.” He was currently recording arrivals and departures at the main landing field for the capital with the understanding that his records would be checked against the official logs. Both Confederation and Brotherhood.

“And Colonel Murthoc?” Kyrl still looked concerned, so she continued. “I am not questioning your ability to keep him safe, Kyrl.” She was a little impatient. “I am here to find out what I can about our operations. We have had to pull a lot of people out in order to prepare for this battle. I want to know what the offworlders are saying and doing.”

Kyrl relaxed slightly. “I have heard some odd rumors,” she conceded. The primary focus of her command was the Confederation government, not smugglers. “There’s one that Red Beard is dead. They’re not sure who killed him: Sartak or maybe even you.”

“He’s been too busy with his new game to play the old one.” Her remark seemed harsh to Kyrl who respected the ability of the Last of the Brotherhood, while aware of her clan commander’s opinions. She remained silent as Sarr’a continued. “Well, let us see what the children are up to.” They had reached the dark streets of the portside district. “Take good care of the colonel for me. If he isn’t at Kuarmian, I may envy Zev.”

The image of Sarr’a contentedly counting ships as they landed kept Kyrl grinning as she moved away.

Sarnath Al Cador continued walking down the street without making the slightest effort to conceal herself or her destination. That destination was a very seedy bar about two blocks away where she could be reasonably certain of meeting smugglers. Non-Brotherhood smugglers, who would hopefully have heard all the latest rumors. Unfortunately, the capital of the Confederation was not a major port for smuggling. There were too many policemen; expensive policemen who would not always stay bought.

She pushed through the door and was greeted by a surprised silence, a silence that spoke of a very serious situation. There, at a table in the corner, was much better than a smuggler: a man who would certainly know most of the rumors.

Around her, the conversations had begun again, somewhat nervously, as she moved away from the door.

“Izak,” she said, standing above him. He could no longer pretend that she wasn’t there and brought his eyes up to meet hers.

“Sarr’a,” he said. “A lovely surprise.” He smiled insincerely through ruined teeth. “Sit down, gentle Lady. You want the news?”

Izak was the youngest son of a very noble family, the drug-addicted, drunken youngest son. He retained his interest in gossip and earned his money selling it. Being a coward, however, he preferred not to deal with Sarr’a and talked about her only when he was very certain that she wasn’t present.

“The news,” she agreed as she sat down across the table from him. The slattern who served as barmaid did not bother to ask what she wanted. Sarr’a was well known not to drink and her lack of tolerance for interruption was legendary. She leaned forward to gauge his eyes then settled back satisfied. He was no more then halfway flown which should reduce the fantasies. There was a bright flash as she placed a coin under her right hand; gold tended to increase his concentration.

Eyeing that hand, Izak began carefully. “I have heard that there is going to be a battle.”

Sarr’a shrugged. “The blues and greens are always fighting,” she said, watching him carefully. “What does it mean for trade?”

“I have heard that the Masters are involved.” His eyes shifted as his nervousness grew.

“It would seem you have heard very little.” She moved to put the coin away. His face flushed with fear. He needed that coin and he was afraid of her disappointment.

“Red Beard is dead. That is what they say, Sarr’a. His people are disappearing and no one has seen him for almost a week.”

There was relief in his eyes when she did not move. It turned to terror when she spoke.

“And what do they say of me, Izak?” Her right hand was playing with the coin. Sweat moistened his upper lip; even through the smoke, she could smell his fear. His eyes darted around the room seeking a protector. Her eyes never left his face. There was no one here who would face her to protect him. The coin flashed as she continued to play her game. He stammered to find an answer.

“They say . . . some say . . . that you killed him. Or sold him. To Sartak or that colonel you’ve been seen with.” He did not mention the part of the rumor that had them lovers. It couldn’t be true; besides, they were saying she was a boy. That wasn’t a good subject either.

Her laugh brought silence to the bar’s patrons again. Most began looking toward the door and wishing they had had the courage to leave when she entered. Only Izak was close enough to see the genuine amusement in her eyes and he did not trust his own. These dropped to her hand and the coin and flinched in abrupt terror. Looking down, she saw the spider on the table and flicked it casually to the floor.

Sarr’a rose to her feet.

“Thank you,” she said, pushing the coin across the table. “You may advise your next patron that, until they see the body, they had best believe he is alive. It would be dangerous to act otherwise.” Turning, her eyes swept over the men and women pretending not to watch. Her voice pitched to carry to the corners of the room, she spoke again. “I have paid him. He will receive value for that coin. No one will take it from him or injure him. I may need him again.”

Behind her, Izak’s eyes widened. Old Sorry was feeling generous. Maybe the rumors were true.

Confident that the warning would be heeded, she turned toward the door. As she left, the conversations began again, guardedly. She was already considering the implications if enough people believed Red Beard dead.

Three bars farther along on her journey, she was grimly certain that the rumors were widespread. The shadow of their fear of Red Beard was keeping the responses muted now, but action was required. The Brotherhood had built the smuggler’s web of operations in order to be prepared for battles such as this at Kuarmian. As much as she hated the charade, she could not permit it to unravel now. She would send her report to Deb and do what she could here.

Sarr’a had been aware that Colonel Murthoc was present in the last, filthy establishment. Guarded by Kyrl’s team and busy with his own affairs, he was not her immediate concern. Therefore, she had ignored him and he had seemed to ignore her. Now, she realized that he was following her. For a moment she considered having him escorted home, then shrugged. If he wanted to watch her work, what harm could it do?

This next bar, which called itself a café, was the local base of operations for a group of smugglers led by a woman. Her name was Mirranthe and she considered herself a special friend of Red Beard’s. She had used that special friendship to consolidate her power and Deb had permitted it because she was occasionally useful. Her reaction to the report of his death would be of interest.

Behind her, the colonel paused for a long moment before following Sarr’a in. Anger that she would follow him after saying she would not had given way to the understanding that she was pursuing her own affairs. That had been followed by intense, he would argue professional, curiosity about those affairs. He had, however, never quite dared to go in that bar. They were a particularly nasty bunch; he wondered if they were Zorantian. Sarr’a knew he was there. He was certain of that. Had she heard the rumors that he’d been listening to all night? It was unlikely that she had not.

Inside, the air was thick with narcotic smoke and tension. It was a raucous, squalid place crowded with rough-looking men and their whores. Sarr’a had been met by a woman as she crossed the floor. Mirranthe by the descriptions he’d had. She was a large-breasted blonde of medium height which made her taller than Sarr’a. The colonel moved to a table near the door and sat with his back against the wall. One of the men who had followed him in sat down beside him. His comradely grin did not reach his eyes.

“Probably not the best move you’ve made tonight, Colonel.” He said conversationally. “But I think she may need someone to cover her back. We will just wait and see.”

Their discretion, she had said. Very nasty people who were not Zorantian, then. He leaned forward to catch what was happening between the two women. The crowd had pulled back from an open space between the bar and the tables as the two women faced each other.

“You didn’t kill him. You wouldn’t have the nerve.” The sneer in Mirranthe’s voice was vicious. “You were his lapdog, his precious bitch who thought she was better than anyone else. You’re nothing without him, Sorry.” The nickname was meant as a lash and her use of it was illuminating. Mirranthe had always been polite to her face before. At least, the words had been polite.

“And what were you with him, Mirranthe?” Sarr’a was, by contrast, very quiet. “Do you have your ambitions now that you think him dead?”

The coldly hostile faces of the men around them confirmed that many had ambitions if Red Beard were dead. It was time to respond and it was necessary. Mirranthe was speaking again.

“I do not have ambitions, Sorry. I have reality. He is dead. His people are disappearing. You are selling yourself to the Confederation, though why they would want you . . . they can’t even see that you’re a girl.” Her voice dripped venom and became threatening. “Maybe I’ll tell them about you, Sorry. Your new friends might like to know some of the things you’ve done.”

“New friends. Old friends. I have no need of you Mirranthe and neither does he. You thought you were so special to him and you grabbed all the power that brought you. Now you think he is dead.” Sarr’a was circling the other woman, moving with a feline grace. To the colonel’s eye, she seemed to have grown taller. “You told each one of them that you were Red Beard’s woman and they had you to be close to him.” She pitched her voice to carry through the crowd. “He never touched you. Even Red Beard wouldn’t have a diseased whore like you.”

Careful, thought the colonel. You’re insulting them too. Beside him the Zorantian appeared relaxed, but his concentration was intense. Colonel Murthoc could pick out five others, two men and three women, who shared the same look as they scanned the crowd.

Sarr’a was continuing. “Neither would I and that would be more to your taste, would it not?” Her voice was almost coldly impersonal. “You think yourself better than all of these.” Her hand indicated the crowd. “Do they know how you laugh at them after each coupling? Do you really think yourself strong enough to rule them, Mirranthe? Or good enough in bed?”

The blonde woman’s response was quick. She had grown up in the streets of a very black city and had learned to fight early. Her knife slashed, but Sarr’a was no longer there. Almost it seemed she danced away, her own knife now appearing in her hand. The attention of the crowd became intently focused and more than one man began fondling the woman closest to him.

Mirranthe swore as Sarr’a danced away again. “Stand and fight, bitch. Or are you a coward as well as a traitor?”

Sarr’a stood in the middle of the circle now, facing her opponent. Her body was relaxed; her head tilted as if she were listening intently.

“Come then,” she said quietly. “As you are so eager, we will end this.”

She met Mirranthe’s advance with a quick slash that laid open the woman’s left cheek. Around them, the breathing grew quicker as the blood flowed. “Come. Let us end this dance. Come to me now.” The command in her voice caught her already enraged opponent and brought her rushing blindly in. Sarr’a’s throw had her across a table, pinned by an iron grip. The knife came down, passing through the body and crushing the vertebrae beneath. Lifting the tip, she sliced open the abdomen with one smooth stroke and let go. Mirranthe fell sideways to the floor, intestines spilling as she died.

Sarr’a straightened coolly and wiped her blade on the shirt of the nearest man. He flinched, but did not object.

“Next contender for Red Beard’s place?” she said, looking around at the men’s faces. A few looked sick, but most held the sheen of sexual excitement. She controlled her disgust automatically and continued coldly. “When he’s dead, you’ll know it. I will carve it into you.” She strode toward the door, her knife sheathed.

The colonel held his breath, but no one moved until she was gone.

“Let’s go,” said Colonel Murthoc’s escort. “Show’s over.”

Outside, Sarr’a was waiting, standing near the group he had observed inside. She turned away from them as he approached.

“Was that psychopathic enough for you, Colonel?”

Her eyes were fixed on his face. Several of the Zorantians behind her directed narrow-eyed, questioning looks at him. For a moment, he stood looking down at her, this very disturbing clan commander who had just gutted a woman in front of him.

“That, commander? That was a cold and calculated intimidation of a possibly overwhelming force. And probably a mercy killing at the end. They’d have raped and killed her as soon as you left.”

He was aware of a sudden tension in the group around her. Sarr’a was studying him, an oddly wary expression on her face, then she spoke sharply.

“I think it’s time to take you home, Colonel. If you have seen everyone you wish to see tonight?”

The Zorantians around them had responded to a signal he hadn’t seen. They were gone. Without waiting for his response, Sarr’a turned in the direction of his office and began to walk. Colonel Murthoc moved beside her, matching her stride.

“I gather that you knew the lady.” Something was wrong; he did not know what. He was an intelligence officer because not knowing made him look for the answers.

Sarr’a continued to walk without replying. The night air was cool, even a little cold and the streets in this section of the city were unlit and darkly shadowed. Deciding that she wouldn’t talk, he walked beside her in silence. They had reached a more respectable street when she spoke.

“She considered me a rival for . . . Red Beard’s affections.”

That followed, thought the colonel. Any young woman as constantly with him as Sarr’a was would be assumed to be his mistress.

“Ironically, she was attracted to me, not him. But he has power.” Her voice grew distant as she considered a new line of thought. “And that,” she said very quietly, almost too faintly for him to hear. “That is a part of the problem. He has power.” She walked on in silence, her eyes intent.

Colonel Murthoc walked beside her, considering that statement. It was, on the face of it, an absurd observation. Of course Deb had power. He was the head of the Brotherhood. What else could it be called when a man controlled an organization as militarily powerful as the Brotherhood? Why then did it sound like the idea had just occurred to her?

Sarr’a stopped abruptly as they came up to the entrance of the building which held his office.

“I am not prepared to deal with idiocies, Colonel. I will meet you upstairs.”

She watched as he entered the building, then turned down an alley to one side. Kyrl was waiting. It was evident by the expression on her face that she had heard a full report, most probably Sarr’a’s own on its way to Deb.

“You will need more guards for the colonel and his aide tomorrow night. I will be going out.” Sarr’a’s voice was crisp and did not invite discussion. Kyrl nodded in acknowledgment. “I will not require any assistance. This is personal.”

This time Kyrl met her clan commander’s eyes stubbornly for a moment before reluctantly nodding.

“Amik undoubtedly gave you orders. I will speak to him.” She turned away.

Behind her, Kyrl spoke. “He didn’t know what he was saying.”

Sarr’a stopped and looked back at her in some confusion before her face cleared. “I see. You are still on watch. Don’t worry, Kyrl. I will get him to Kuarmian.”

Sarr’a ducked through the window to the building’s basement and acknowledged the guard Kyrl had placed inside. As she moved along the corridors and up the service stairs, she kept a very careful control of her surface thoughts. Beneath that surface, the darkness was growing. Inside Colonel Murthoc’s office, she satisfied herself that he was preparing for bed. Major Tren was asleep at his desk. She settled into her usual chair, determined to remain awake for the short remainder of the night.

It was the smell of rotting flesh and the maggots crawling across her face, into her mouth that awoke her, gagging and choking. It was a long several moments before Sarr’a knew first that she was awake and second that it had been a dream. The remembered smell stayed with her. Neither offworlder had heard: their breathing remained quiet and even. Sarnath Al Cador sat alone in the blackness, deliberately not thinking, deliberately not feeling, until a relative calm returned. It was worse than she had expected, but she knew what to do. There was not enough time before dawn. She would have to wait until tonight.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The day began quietly enough. Both the colonel and his aide looked a bit tired as they began the daily routine of reading and assessing reports. Sarr’a remained in her chair, her thoughts carefully focused on the coming battle, war gaming the various possibilities for the ground campaign in her head. She was working through the permutations of her ninth course of action when she realized that Colonel Murthoc was speaking to her. She looked up. The dark intensity of her eyes belied the deliberately relaxed pose of her body.

“Commander?” There was a look of concern on his face which she ignored. She waited. After a pause, he continued. “I am going to check with General Crant. Will you remain here or come with me?”

Sarr’a considered for a moment. Deb had a full report by now of the rumors and last night’s activities. There was no need to coordinate anything with Tul; she would only be a distraction. Colonel Murthoc would be as safe there as here.

“I will stay here, Colonel.” She withdrew into her own thoughts again, not quite so deeply this time. She was, after all, still on watch and she would not be careless. Duty would hold the darkness back until nightfall.

Colonel Murthoc studied her for a moment before turning away.

In a very quiet way, the command center was extremely busy. Most of the staff had been permitted to return. They had found themselves being directed by strangers, older men who knew precisely what they wanted done and who demanded that it all be done correctly and precisely. Soldiers who usually slouched at their station found themselves upright and listening intently to instructions. Most were finding the experience exhilarating. The exhaustion would come when the adrenaline stopped.

His entrance was immediately noted, but no one approached the colonel as he walked over to the general.

“Sir.” Colonel Murthoc’s salute was crisp.

General Crant motioned toward his office and joined him there after concluding his discussion with Tul. The general appeared to have moved into his office for the duration. There was a camp bed in one corner and uniforms hanging neatly from the coat rack.

“Everything appears to be moving along nicely,” said General Crant, who had closed the door and was now moving to sit behind his desk. “Assuming of course that they are telling me the truth.” He looked at Colonel Murthoc.

“To the best of my knowledge, sir, they mean to win this battle. There are of course no guarantees. And, as for afterward, we will have to see.”

“They won’t show me their own order of battle.” The general spoke abruptly and somewhat heavily. “I have no idea of the size of their fleet, the capabilities of their ships, or even that they exist. Tul speaks with such certainty . . . ” He stopped.

“It is irritating, isn’t it, sir?” Their eyes met for just a moment. “I will be joining their fleet tomorrow, not that that will do you any good. I don’t expect they’ll let me send in a report. We are in the middle of it, sir, with no control. The Masters or the Brotherhood. At least, the one says that they don’t want to rule us.” They sat in silence then Colonel Murthoc rose to his feet. “I just came by to check in with you, sir, before I left. I will see you after the battle, when I expect I will be able to tell you a great deal more about the Brotherhood.” He saluted and left.

“I hope so, Colonel,” said General Crant to himself. “I hope so.” To him, his flanks looked even more dangerously exposed than they had with the Masters’ plan. Tul said that he would see when battle was joined. Apparently, they had the technology to send their fleet’s displays here during the battle. It was unheard of, even if they were the Brotherhood.

The general had laid his own plans carefully. He no longer had any family; his wife had died some four years before. When he had been younger, much younger, he had trained in demolition. It had been difficult; his new staff was watching him very closely. But the charges were set. If this was betrayal, it would be the last time. Almost he wished he could be around when the politicians tried to defend their Confederation without the military.

* * *

Sarr’a was sitting in her usual chair, head back, legs stretched in front of her, when he came into the office from his quarters. His stride checked slightly as he noted the disheveled hair and what appeared to be blood on her shirt. After growing increasingly restless from mid-afternoon on, she had left in the middle of the evening and been gone for just over five hours without explanation. Major Tren had gone home, accompanied by a competent looking young man. The colonel had begun to be worried.

“They were all fair fights, Colonel. I never even drew my knife.” Sarr’a looked happy and, had she not been Zorantian, he’d have sworn she was a little drunk. She saw him looking at the blood and grinned. “That’s not mine and neither was the blade that drew it.” Her grin became decidedly wolfish as more of her teeth showed. “He regretted pulling it at the end.”

“On the eve of a major battle, you are playing games like this, commander? What kind of stupidity would it be if you were killed or injured?” He was trying to control his anger, but it was difficult. She looked too much like a young girl, especially now with the flush of battle on her cheeks. And she was acting more like a raw recruit than the senior commander of a command that dwarfed his.

“You were complaining about criminal scum, Colonel. I have removed some from your streets. Permanently.” She looked down at her clothing; the skirt and blouse Tren had supplied. “They seem to find this disguise an irresistible lure.” There was a warning there. “It was fun.” She looked up at him, her eyes clear, the demons that he had seen that morning gone.

“And what gives you the authority . . . ?”

“Authority, Colonel? No one.” Gazing up at him, she seemed amused. “Who would respond to this lure? I did not drag money before them or food or medicine for their children. I showed them an apparently helpless girl and they attacked. That confirmed them as scum and I killed them. Their choice, Colonel. It is not my responsibility to tell them that one of the choices is death.”

She rose to walk into the bedroom. “I’m going to get some sleep. We’ll leave after I hear the reports in the morning. And Colonel, I have set up a courier system so that you and Major Tren may communicate.”

He sat down behind his desk and contemplated a courier system run by the Brotherhood so that the head of Confederation intelligence could be properly informed of his agency’s findings. All right. There was probably very little that she didn’t know about his operations and even less that he knew and she didn’t about the galaxy at large. But pride and a dogged professionalism required that he at least try to maintain his independence. He had until morning. Sleep was not relevant. Just for a moment, he reflected on how very good she was at keeping him off balance.

The colonel had met Major Tren’s parents and his sister. The man was definitely not Zorantian unless they were willing to go to ridiculous lengths and that well before there was any possibility of a question. Everyone else was suspect. Ordinary operations would continue, but he would have to remember that someone or more than one on his staff was a member of the Brotherhood. Deb knew too much.

He needed a code and secure files. And recognized that the only secure files were going to be in his head and possibly in Tren’s. The Brotherhood had probably forgotten more codes than he could ever come up with. Which left simple substitution and very simple messages to arrange face to face meeting as his only option. How he was going to meet Major Tren without Brotherhood transportation was another question.

Colonel Murthoc pushed back from his desk and went to stand at one of the windows which looked out over the city. It was very late; most were already asleep. There were still lights in the government buildings, but the streets were quiet. There was no sound in the building around him. He rested his head on his arm and stared out into the night.

It wasn’t going to work. He spared a few sympathetic thoughts for General Crant whose command, the entire armed forces of the Confederation, was now an adjunct to the Brotherhood. A very junior one at that. And for how long? When would Deb decide that the alliance was an irrelevancy? And what would happen to the Confederation, to his home world, to the people out there in the city then? As Deb had very pointedly reminded him, the Brotherhood was not a benevolent organization. The Confederation was now caught between two giants.

It was funny really, his warning the clan commander against taking over the Confederation. No wonder she had been amused. He wondered precisely how long it would take for her forces alone to roll them up if Deb did order it. Well, victory had been a nice mirage while it lasted. And it was still his duty to protect those people to the best of his ability. There was perhaps one hope. Sarr’a had said to the Vice Chancellor that the Last of the Brotherhood stood true to an ancient pledge. Something about not permitting the galaxy to be turned into a charnel house again. That could only refer to the Algolana. They had killed billions on the altars of their God. He couldn’t see what relevance an ancient horror that had disappeared millennia ago had to the current situation, but the clan commander had seemed to feel that it was. Maybe he could use it.

At this point, he needed a lot more information about the Brotherhood. And he needed Tren to analyze everything they had on the smugglers and Red Beard. Reports would be difficult and security would be close to impossible. They would have to try.

He realized suddenly that it was light outside and that his arm was very stiff and cold. Lowering it carefully and turning away from the window, he saw what had awakened him. She was watching from the doorway, already dressed in her own clothes. He saw absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to a street urchin. Sarr’a appeared to have been studying him; there was a thoughtful expression on her face before she moved forward.

“My apologies, Colonel.” Her tone was politely curious as she came into the room. “I am not sufficiently familiar with your customs. Do you frequently sleep that way or did my presence prevent you from going to bed?”

“I was thinking, commander.” Probably not his best response, but she let it pass.

“I will be back in a few hours, Colonel, and we will leave.” Sarr’a turned toward the door.

“Commander,” he began. She turned back to listen. “About this courier?”

“Tell Major Tren that when he has something for you, we will have someone collect it from him.” She read his reaction correctly and smiled a little crookedly. “Yes, Colonel. I have someone on your staff. I apologize if that upsets you. When we have tested the boundaries of this alliance, I may introduce you.” She faced him squarely. “You are of course concerned about your messages. I give you my word that while they are my responsibility, they will remain unread. Is that sufficient?”

“I cannot of course doubt your word, commander.” He spoke carefully without inflection. “That would be insulting.”

Sarr’a checked her first reply and considered him for a moment.

“You have come a long road already, Colonel. Reth was right. You are good. You cannot dislike this alliance more than I do. But I find that I do not dislike you. I will see you in two hours.” She was gone before he could think of a reply.

He had two hours to review the history of both the Algolana and the Brotherhood. Sitting at his desk, he called up what was readily available. The Algolana, the demon Chosen of God, had invaded and conquered countless worlds millennia before. It wasn’t even certain that they were human: their armor had covered them completely including their faces. They had sacrificed billions to their God, who was reported to have been present at the Altars. Then, suddenly, they had disappeared. The legends, and most of the references to the Algolana were legends, said that they were completely gone in one day, which seemed unlikely. That was when the Darkness and the Chaos had begun. They had lasted for several thousand years.

The Brotherhood of Zoran dated back at least to the Darkness. They had always been a military organization, organized by clans. The individual and his or her absolute right of choice were the basis of their society. Hiring themselves out as mercenaries, they fought historically against the powerful, especially the Masters and the Rajkar. Although he found no credible stories of them facing the Algolana, there were statements that they had defeated the demons and destroyed them. No proof was offered; it appeared to have some mystical connection to the Way which was their, the Brotherhood’s, religion. He wasn’t familiar with its philosophy since it wasn’t very popular. The Masters didn’t like it, which probably made it worth looking into. If what he had seen the clan commander do to Master Tarrask was not hallucination, it was definitely worth an investigation.

The Masters had existed since the Darkness too. No one had ever claimed that they had defeated the Algolana.

He was making quick notes for Tren to research: as much detail on the early history of the Brotherhood as was available, the history of the Algolana, any mention of a pledge by the Brotherhood. To whom would they have made a pledge and why? If they had, however, he could understand their standing by it. The Brotherhood always honored a contract.

Tren would also have to review everything they had on the smugglers. Colonel Murthoc had been going through the files when he had time since returning with Sarr’a and he had asked careful questions of his contacts, hoping that he wasn’t asking a Zorantian. Red Beard had appeared suddenly about a dozen years ago. There were references to his being very young, but those in charge at that time had discounted them because it seemed so unlikely. They had had no difficulty believing that a reported teenage boy could kill so many and be so vicious. It was his ability to consolidate his position and continue to lead an extensive criminal organization that had made his age unlikely. The notes in the margin would fill a textbook on how not to analyze field reports. And his current reflections would fill one on hindsight. Most of the story of the unification of the various smuggling organizations was in his files, if you had the key to read it properly. He supposed that the Zorantian Brotherhood as an explanation of all the anomalies would have been unreasonable. It was still irksome to have missed them.

He had completed his research when she returned and, having showered and changed into a clean uniform, was prepared to leave to join Deb’s fleet. Tren would be busy.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Have you finished Sarr’a’s report on the rumors of Red Beard’s death?” Reth was watching Deb as he caught up on everything that had arrived while he slept.

The Last of the Brotherhood looked at him, his head at an angle, his eyes thoughtful.

“I can see why you wanted me to read it: I can use a good laugh before the battle. I particularly liked the ‘Even Red Beard wouldn’t touch a diseased whore like you.’ part. Sarr’a’s reports are always so . . . complete.”

“What are you going to do about the rumors?”

“I suspect that Sarr’a butchering Mirranthe has added enough confusion to the rumor mill for now.” He saw that Reth looked skeptical and added dryly. “You question the clan commander’s judgment?”

“I am not certain that killing Mirranthe will convince them that you’re alive.”

“I am sure it will not. But it does focus their attention on Sarr’a and her future plans rather than encouraging them to make their own. After the battle, I’ll go to Ganthos.” It was his primary smuggling base. Being seen there would end all but the remotest rumors. “More to the point at the moment, we must decide what to do with our guests. How is Fior?”

“The doctors say he is almost catatonic. Apparently you shocked him rather badly.” Reth’s smile matched Deb’s. “We have kept the boy away from him. He is concerned of course, but remarkably easy to placate. He seems to have been trained to do exactly what he is told.” Reth looked pained; every member of the Brotherhood who had spoken with Nat shared his distaste.

“Have Amik transport him to Kuarmian. Sarr’a can keep an eye on him until I can put him together with the Masters. I hope they know what Fior meant to do. I don’t.”

“You’re going to have Sarr’a keep an eye on Master Fior’s pet? Will he survive?”

“He’ll be in a rear area. She won’t be anywhere near him once the battle starts.” He saw Reth’s continued concern. “Do you really think that Sarnath Al Cador will stay in a rear area during a battle she commands because I told her to watch someone?”

“You’re right, of course,” said Reth. “And what of the Lady Ylana? You know that she was wandering around the base. Her curiosity seems to give her energy; otherwise she is remarkably lazy, even for an offworlder.”

“We will send her home after the battle,” said Deb. “I have weighed the risks. The Masters and the Confederation know that she was with Fior. Some of them know that she is with us. She is not very bright and probably not very observant. Killing her would only raise questions in the minds of our allies. We will watch her and we will ask Colonel Murthoc to do the same.”

* * *

General Crant was watching Tul directing the placement of some newly arrived equipment. It did not look impressive, but the general had been told that, with it, they would be able to monitor the progress of the battle. That was impossible, of course, given the distances and the usual breakdown of communications because of electronic jamming. Tul did not offer an explanation. As Colonel Murthoc had observed, he was extremely irritating.

* * *

The ship felt odd when he opened his eyes, still fuzzy with sleep. They weren’t moving under power; the engines were off. Alarmed, he sat up. Sarr’a was sitting at the controls, apparently staring out into space.

She spoke without turning around. “Go back to sleep, Colonel. We won’t arrive for several hours yet.”

“Then why have we stopped?”

“I need some time to think and this is a good spot.” She shifted slightly and he could see behind her, through the screen. They were in a high orbit around a planet. Puzzled, he looked for something to identify it and saw massive vulcanization to the point that the crust was split open in glowing seams that ran across the face of the globe. He closed his eyes.

“Yes, Colonel. Zoran. My home.” He said go home, she thought. That’s close enough to permission to be here despite the standing orders. She didn’t hear when the colonel spoke again.

“My apologies for intruding, commander.”

Turning away to give her some privacy with her ghosts, he sat mulling the events of the past several days. It was difficult to integrate his awareness of the Brotherhood and their activities into the galactic system as he knew it. It was still rather humbling that he had missed them; it was after all his job to know these things or to find them out. He wondered just how many of his staff were Zorantians. She’d admitted to one. He supposed it was a backhanded compliment that the Last of the Brotherhood knew so much about him, including who he was most likely to contact and what he would say. As bad as the Masters in his own way, Deb: games within games.

They were moving again; the engines had fired. He shifted so that he could see Sarr’a. Now the clan commander was a different matter. You could tell what she thought even if, he suspected, it was your last thought. Maybe especially. He liked Sarr’a which did make his job more difficult. Trauma cases were always hard. He was beginning to wonder just why she was so traumatized. She was certainly functional within the Brotherhood, even respected. They chose their leaders: a clan commander was the best they had. The rest of her clan, at least the ones he’d seen, seemed all right.

Her parents had been on Zoran during the attack and had been killed. That much she had said or implied. “I was” she had said and stopped. She was what? Certainly not on Zoran or she would have been killed too. And why not simply tell him? There was no data so he filed the questions and moved on.

The Brotherhood itself posed an interesting series of questions. How had they survived? By the look of that planet, the attack had been as murderous and as effective as described. If they had simply not been there during the attack, why did it bother them so much? They should be congratulating themselves for their cleverness in surviving. Fior said that he had felt millions of them die. It did not make any logical sense.

And how had they gotten so strong. He had personally seen at least half a dozen clan commanders. If they each had a sector as large as Sarr’a’s, there wasn’t enough of the settled galaxy to go around. And there were probably more that he hadn’t seen. Which implied things about their strength and interests. He was beginning though to grasp the usefulness of the smugglers as cover and for making money.

“We were always this strong,” she had said. Thinking back to his research, Colonel Murthoc was beginning to believe the stories about the age of the Brotherhood. And maybe some of the wilder legends. They were, from his perspective, arrogantly amoral. Taking over the smugglers was simply a more extreme version of their former activities as mercenaries and it did follow logically as a response to the attack on Zoran. The Masters had always complained that they fought against order and the natural progression of society. They were also rigidly moralistic although again the Masters would argue that their insistence on the absolute right of choice by the individual led to chaos and destruction. It had certainly led to the destruction of more than one Master’s plan. Once contracted to fight, the Brotherhood was absolutely dependable. They could not be bought off; they could only be killed. Historically, that only brought in more of them. It was interesting really that Fior had wanted an alliance, not a contract. And too bad, from the colonel’s perspective. He doubted that the Confederation had enough money, but then the Brotherhood didn’t always exact a large payment. There were, in fact, stories of them fighting, at least as individuals, for almost nothing when their interest was engaged and they considered that a contract had been agreed. Those were the more romantic stories about the Brotherhood that he’d grown up with.

If he could just find the key, he would understand why they acted in such a baffling fashion. Even before the destruction of Zoran they had been odd. Now, he had to understand them. It was his job. He ignored the very clear understanding of himself that said it was more than that.

The attack by the Masters had shaken them; that was clear.

Why would an organization as capable of defending itself as the Brotherhood so clearly was be so paranoid about another attack? Why had they risked attack by giving the Masters the location of Zoran for the first time? Ostensibly, it had been to seal the armistice between the Imperium and the Confederation. The Masters had convinced everyone that the secret location of Zoran gave the Brotherhood the opportunity to build up their strength and attack anyone with impunity. The Last of the Brotherhood had agreed in order to secure the peace between the two sides. He had been, in the colonel’s professional opinion, a fool although that had not been his reputation. Perhaps not quite so much a fool, since the Brotherhood had evidently been better prepared than anyone had expected. Still, the man himself had died with Zoran: that much was reasonably clear from the clan commander’s statements. The colonel recalled his father’s admiration of the fact that Brotherhood officers were always evacuated after their men.

Why did they stay here when they could surely have left this part of the galaxy? There was again no information. He was convinced of one conclusion, however. They were very much more than the freedom fighters and mercenaries his father and the stories had described. And he was going to know.

“As you are awake, Colonel, there is something we should discuss.”

Sarr’a had turned to look at him seriously. It was her responsibility because it had been her failure. She felt it very deeply.

He straightened up in his chair.

“I must apologize again for my failure to protect you from Master Tarrask. I did a better job of watching you on Kelmarll, but you didn’t know I was there. Deb’s sense of humor gets in the way sometimes. I think it would have been better this time if you hadn’t known.”

She watched him running through his memories of the operation nearly three years before on Kelmarll, a world then recently taken over by the Imperium, and knew by his expression when he remembered her. “Yes, Colonel. You tossed me a coin and told me to find someplace warm to sleep. I killed two men that night. I believe you killed three more. Deb has been interested in you for a long time.”

Thinking back, he could remember the eyes of that apparent child in the street. There had been hatred in them when he’d tossed that coin. It was the intense and implacable hatred that had caught his attention. That he had noticed her was good. That he had never noticed what was evidently an ongoing surveillance of himself was bad. If he had not been so caught in his investigation of the Brotherhood, he would have considered resigning his commission.

Somewhat sardonically, he wondered if he could get her to teach him how to follow someone. It appeared he needed lessons.

Sarr’a was continuing. “There will be Masters of Darkness present at this battle. I do not know if they will use their Power, but I suspect that they will. You will find it . . . unpleasant after your experience with Master Tarrask.”

It was not pleasant to be reminded of his time with Tarrask with no hint of the Power present. The lingering foulness set his teeth on edge.

“And your suggestion, commander?” With an effort, he kept his tone even.

She sat for a moment looking at him. “What did you see just before the Master died? You said something about me and a sword.”

She was watching him as if it mattered what he said. But since he didn’t know what might be significant, it followed that he should tell the truth.

“First there was nothing. That’s what Tarrask felt: literally, nothing. It was strange because I think he only noticed it because I did. It terrified him. I could feel his certainty that it was impossible. I tried to move toward the nothing and to use it against him.” She looked startled. “Then, when I could see, you were there behind him, in uniform with your sword. There were flames and light all around you. He screamed.” An echo of that scream was still present in his head; she saw the shiver run through his body. “Then, you killed him. I felt the thrust and then he was gone.”

She looked at him with respect. To have been that closely tied to the Master could have been his death or at least insanity. “That nothing is what the Masters see when they look for us with the Power, Colonel. To them, we are mirrors reflecting their emptiness. They cannot feel us.”

“Cannot feel you? Why not?” There was a stirring in the back of his mind as he realized that this was important. He would have to consider it carefully later.

“It is a combination of training in the Way and genetics, Colonel. Many people see themselves when they look at us.” It is one reason that they hate us, she thought with some bitterness. The offworlders hate themselves so much.

“You’re saying that I’m really an attractive woman with a sword?” He inquired dryly.

Sarr’a laughed with real amusement. “No, Colonel. What you saw is more interesting than that. You did see me although I was certainly not surrounded by flames and I killed him with a knife, not my sword. That would be you as righteous avenger and fighter for just causes, I imagine.” She paused, sensing his embarrassment. “To return to the Masters. If they use the Power, you will probably feel ill. Physically nauseous. The best response is to kill the Master, but that’s not always possible.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes this time. “Try to remain focused on who you are and it will pass. If you can, remember what you felt as ‘the nothing.’ It may help. I am not a Teacher of the Way, but if you choose I can find someone to help you later.”

“I would like that, commander. It sounds like a useful religion if it teaches you how to nullify the Power of a Master.”

“As I said, Colonel, that is in part genetics,” Although, she thought, you are not doing badly on your own, for an offworlder.

She looked through him for a long moment. “We will arrive soon. When we do, I will deliver you to Deb’s ship before joining my own. You will have a good view of the battle. Deb isn’t supposed to be in the middle of it, but he will be.”

Sarr’a turned back to the controls and he was left alone with his thoughts. So the Masters couldn’t see Zorantians. How was it then that Fior wasn’t aware that those weren’t smugglers around him? Maybe he was too afraid of Deb to look? Colonel Murthoc enjoyed that thought for a moment. Deb was certainly someone to have a healthy respect for. He, the colonel, had met many dangerous men and the Last of the Brotherhood certainly qualified. Although, given his age . . . the pieces came together for him abruptly. Their certainty and, yes, arrogance had blinded him to one very important fact. The Brotherhood hadn’t fought a major battle in a generation. He might have been blind to the Brotherhood’s activities as smugglers, but he couldn’t have missed that. Thinking back, he realized that the men sent to the Confederation were all at least in their fifties. And Sarr’a, clan commander or not, was at most twenty-five. Deb was perhaps a few years older. They had at best been children during the last wars fought by the Brotherhood.

Her activities the night before became explicable, if still not something he could condone. This was her first battle. Many men drank and started fights in bars in the days before a battle. She had killed many times before obviously. He had seen one rather spectacular example, but it wasn’t the same. And she knew it. This time she would lead her clan and watch them kill and die. Most especially die, following her orders. He remembered back to his first time, on an airless world where any damage to the suit resulted in the blood boiling out through the eyes as they died in vacuum. No, the first time wasn’t easy and she had a lot more responsibility than a green lieutenant in charge of a reinforced platoon. He was trying to think of some way to help when they arrived.

She had chosen to enter normal space where they could see the fleet and he was staggered. He couldn’t begin to get an accurate count and no one would believe that these were smugglers. They looked deadly. This might be Deb’s first battle, but someone could assemble ships in a hurry. Five days to do this.

They were moving toward a large cruiser. Sarr’a made no move to identify herself, so presumably it was somehow automatic. Since she’d seemed confident that no one else could fly the ship, he supposed it was safe enough. Arrogant, but probably safe.

“There, Colonel,” she said, making a fine adjustment to her controls as they slid up next to the larger ship. “They will have the hatches open for you in a moment.”

He could hear the airlock being opened and decided that he could not just walk away.

“Sarr’a.” His voice held an unmistakable command and she had turned automatically to face him before she checked in surprise. He continued more gently. “You will get through this. The first one is always difficult.” His voice became brisk. “And thank you for the ride, commander. I’ll see you later.” He was through the hatch almost as it opened.

She sat back for a moment as the airlock closed behind him.

Kindness from an offworlder. For just a fraction of a second, his hand had been on her shoulder and she had not reacted. It was odd. Then she shrugged. First the battle, then the puzzle of Colonel Cully Murthoc. She was too busy now.

* * *

Colonel Murthoc moved quickly through the airlock and onto Deb’s ship. He stopped and looked around curiously. There was something about it that was quintessentially Zorantian. He was trying to identify precisely what that was when he noticed the teenage boy who had closed the hatch behind him.

“I’m Rik. Welcome aboard, Colonel.”

Deb, you bastard, thought the colonel with just a touch of admiration. He could cheerfully play games with Sarr’a, but this would be like kicking a puppy. It was probably the boy’s first major assignment. He wasn’t old enough to be a soldier in anyone else’s army, but members of the Brotherhood made their choice at the age of thirteen and this one wore their black uniform.

Rik was continuing. “They assigned me to help you find your way around.” He grinned. “I usually work with the engines, but I guess they couldn’t spare anyone else.”

He looked to be about fifteen with light brown hair and the same questioning assessment they all had in his brown eyes. But not the intensity. Maybe that was just the older ones.

“And where are you supposed to take me, Rik?” The colonel was remembering the reports that he’d read of Deb’s takeover of the smugglers. He would have been about this boy’s age. Watch your prejudices, he thought. But they couldn’t all be that precocious.

Could they?

INTERLUDE

There is a quiet, which settles over an army before battle, a pause where new soldiers contemplate the possibility of death and old ones remember fallen comrades. Across a cold, vast, empty part of space, three great forces were poised for battle each wrapped in its meditations.

* * *

The fleet of the Rajkar Imperium was assembled under the command of Lord Sartak, Master of Darkness. He sat in his command center, coldly confident that the plans that he had made would be competently and completely executed by his men. He waited out the countdown, certain as always of victory. This victory would see the Confederation’s forces nearly destroyed and would lead, in the fullness of time, to their surrender to the Imperium. He was a patient man. Total war risked total destruction of the prize. He could wait. The only fire burning in him was for the death of Baltash Fior. For that, he would risk even the loss of the Confederation. The man and his plans were too dangerous.

* * *

General Crant was living in the Confederation’s command center. He was assured by Tul that the planning had gone well and that they were ready. Years of distrust are not easily put aside, even in the presence of a miracle. The fact that they would not show him their own order of battle infuriated him, although he could understand, reluctantly, their lack of trust. His flanks looked dangerously exposed. He reaffirmed his decision quietly to himself: that if this were a betrayal, this time he would not survive his men. Nor would his new command staff.

* * *

Aboard his own ship, Tar Abzoladan, Last of the Brotherhood of Zoran, was ready. The only outward sign of the tension he felt at this culmination of decades of planning was a small tremor in his left hand. It was not important. He held the strands of his concerns lightly in his mind. Both fleets were ready. The battle was set to begin in five standard hours. Already, the forward, scouting elements of Sartak’s fleet were penetrating the Danera system. As he gave the signal to begin, he remembered that revenge is never cold.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kuarmian is a frontier strongpoint. Formerly an outpost of the Confederation, now its people were adapting to their new status as a link in the defense of the Rajkar Imperium. The military base had brought an increase in population and in prosperity, accompanied by the usual increases in minor crime and illegitimate births. Located as it was on an immense plateau, the base was not near any of the population centers of what had previously been an exclusively agrarian planet. Although most of the facilities were located on the surface; command functions, communications, and the power generators were buried deep within the rock of the plateau.

High above, in geosynchronous orbit, there was a standard satellite station. Its weaponry was designed to dominate the system and to protect the base below. The two supported each other and were, in theory, supported by a series of frontier strongpoints, each close enough to respond quickly to an attack on a neighbor. In practice, distances between strongpoints were too great and the costs of manning adequate numbers of ships too high. After all, the Confederation was not much of an enemy to defend against. And the costs of maintaining an Imperial Court are high.

At first, the satellite sensory array operator thought it was a malfunction: the system showed too many ships coming out of hyperspace at one time. He had, of course, no way of looking outside directly in order to check his displays. His analysis was silently affirmed by the lack of reaction from the sensors that were supposed to identify incoming ships. These blips were not Imperium; they were not Confederation. No one else had a fleet this size. Indecision held him back from entering the override codes necessary to initialize the defensive armament of the station. When his fingers began to move across the keys, it was already too late.

Through the expanding cloud of vaporized metal and hard radiation, clan commander Sarnath Al Cador’s assault forces began their descent, shepherding the ships of the Confederation to the landing point chosen by Master Baltash Fior. As they came, the fleet above them laid down a barrage designed to destroy surface level facilities, to blind the sensors of the base, and to ground any potential air assault.

From her vantage point behind them, Sarr’a watched the Confederation forces disembarking and moving to take up their assigned positions under the protective umbrella of the heavy weapons she had ordered deployed first. Her own forces had set up a fluid defensive perimeter and were awaiting her orders. She directed half a dozen to join their allies to monitor the landing, another three as scouts. There appeared at this point to be no opposition. In fact, the blue uniformed troops of the Imperium were withdrawing toward their fortress. Her orders now were to continue the plan as outlined by Fior: a slow advance on the base. His plan had not included the destruction of the satellite station. She had agreed with Deb that to leave it in place was insanity.

* * *

Inside the base, its commander was attempting to organize a defense. None of his contingency plans had foreseen the loss of the covering fire from orbit. His men were primarily military policemen and technicians; his defensive weaponry was designed to protect the satellite. Programming it for ground fire was impossible and the ships coming in were already below his restricted line of fire. Perhaps . . . he turned to the fire control officer.

“Weren’t our missiles originally designed for field modification?” he asked. “Í remember when the base first became operational, there was something about that.” He’d thought it irrelevant too, but he didn’t add that.

“You’re right, sir, but . . . ” The young officer looked doubtful, but he saw his commander’s face. “I’ll find them, sir.”

The base commander moved away quickly. Unaccustomed to combat, he was finding this attack overwhelming, but oddly exhilarating. The fire control officer turned to the communications console and called the chief engineer. He started to babble as soon as he heard the older man’s voice.

“I thought they were just supposed to attack the satellite, not destroy it. What’s going on? This is almost a day early and it isn’t what we were told.” His voice held a frantic note.

“Be quiet, Lieutenant. I will relay any changes in your orders. Why did the commander want to see you? He doesn’t suspect anything?”

“No, sir. He wants me to find some modules for the missiles so they can be used surface to surface.” He gulped. “He came to me because Jak . . . Captain Marrten was on the satellite.”

“Then follow orders, Lieutenant. Both sets until I tell you otherwise.” The chief engineer sat thinking for several moments. “Can you do it? They are designed that way?”

“Well . . . yes, sir. But that was a long time ago. I don’t know where the other modules are in stores.”

“I suggest you look, Lieutenant. If things are screwed up, we may need them.” Closing the communications channel, he considered what to do next. He had been assigned to ensure the success of this operation; as base engineer, he could close down any of its functions at any time and he did not have to be concerned with meeting Lord Sartak. Overall command, however, rested in the hands of another. Taking out a communicator and entering a code which activated a special frequency, he called his commanding officer, camped with his men outside the fortress.

“Sir,” he said. “You were sent to take care of whatever went wrong. I think this is that whatever.”

The voice that responded sent a shiver down his spine. He had never met the man, but he knew his reputation.

“I saw the satellite go up. The landing appears otherwise to be proceeding as planned. It may have been an error. These people are amateurs.” The channel was closed.

* * *

“You were given orders concerning me, General.” She stood just inside the door of his mobile command center. Through the open door, he could see his sentry getting up slowly.

“Orders about you?” He looked her up and down, seeing a young woman of less than average height, dark hair and eyes. “Are you this . . . whatever the name is? Our new ally?” Ant’n was becoming senile; he had often thought it. What was Crant thinking?

“Sarr’a.” The voice was quiet, but he almost jumped to attention. Rising slowly from his desk, he looked down at her. Shirt and slacks of a nondescript gray, probably a knife in one of the boots. She had the stance of a fighter. And a sword strapped across her back. Memory stirred: he could see another woman, a little older than this one and dressed in black. Her face had had the same expression. Perhaps Ant’n was not yet senile. Just deranged.

“Sarr’a.” he repeated. “All right, Sarr’a. Are you here to advise or to command?” His orders had said it was her decision.

He could feel her eyes weighing him. Her decision had been made as she watched the landing; the reports from those sent in to observe and advise had confirmed it. For just a fleeting moment, she was glad that she had spent the last several days with Confederation officers. It made this easier.

“Command, General. We’ve tried the advising. Your men need more help than that.”

No diplomacy from this one either. Where had Ant’n found her? Them, he corrected as he followed her eyes out the door. None of the others were carrying swords, but it was obvious that they were with her.

“My people are getting yours organized, General. We will have everything landed and properly positioned shortly.” Looking up at the man who had just entered, she continued. “That presupposes, of course, that everything is properly labeled.”

The casual contempt confirmed all his conclusions. He sat back down to watch her organize his command.

Frowning, she was discussing the battle displays.

“Not really adequate. I will need scouts here, here, here, and here.” Her finger punched at the map. The man beside her relayed coordinates through a small communicator. “And, Amik.” He paused to listen more closely. “Send Zad here.” Her finger indicated an area the sensors said was empty. “There was movement. I could not see it clearly.”

“Civilians,” said the general.

“Very well camouflaged civilians,” said Sarr’a dryly. “We shall see.”

* * *

“If you are this strong, and have always been this strong, why have you fought historically only as mercenaries? If the freedom of the individual is so important to you, why will you not openly help us fight for our freedom? The forces of so-called order, the Masters of Darkness, the Rajkar Imperium are winning. They were winning before Zoran was destroyed. You are reputedly the greatest military power in this galaxy. Looking at this fleet, I believe it and professionally, I am not easily impressed.

“Why will you not fight them? Or, if is it not important to you, our freedom, why do you fight at all? Why not let them have us? So long as you are on guard against them, and I cannot imagine letting down that guard again, they could not touch you.”

Rik had brought Colonel Murthoc to the bridge. It was a curiously old fashioned bridge, with a direct view outside. The Last of the Brotherhood was holding an antique navigational instrument which, oddly, looked new. Actually, as the colonel looked around, all of the equipment looked both antique in the sense of out of date and newly manufactured. Deb smiled.

“This is the secondary bridge, Colonel. In the event that we lose the electronics, we can still navigate. And fight. You may recall that I like to look outside.”

They had begun to talk about the Brotherhood’s philosophy of self-reliance and they had come at last to the colonel’s central concern. It was a variation of the question he had asked Sarr’a and he expected a similar response. Deb’s reply shocked him.

“To be honest, Colonel, we have given up expecting your people to mature, even to grow. The revelation of the location of Zoran by my father was in the nature of a test. The speed of the reaction was rather stunning.

“We have been on watch for a long time and there are, across the civilized worlds, no more than several dozen of you every generation who strive to be themselves, who choose freedom. The numbers do not increase. There is no reliable indicator by culture, even by family, of your appearance.

“Fighting for your people would mean taking responsibility for them. And, save in one area alone, we will not do that. We are not your parents; we will not be your slaves. Many of us have tried over the years to be your Teachers. Generally, they have died young.

“Why do we not walk away? Perhaps because so long as the forces of order are concerned with you, they have less energy to focus on us.” Deb shrugged. “That is a matter of tactics. The Brotherhood remains here, alert and on watch.

“We have given up expecting your people to join us, but we will not break our word. That is at the heart of the Brotherhood. You do not understand and I am not going to explain it to you.”

The colonel, who was much taller than the Last of the Brotherhood, felt somehow smaller. On Deb’s face, there appeared the weight of thousands of years of preparation, of waiting and training to face something terrible. Then it was gone and the colonel felt as though something had snapped shut.

“Sartak’s ships are entering the Danera system, Colonel. The first echelon is already there; the second is arriving.” He saw the colonel’s question. “You had reports they were at Kartath, halfway across the Imperium and a week’s journey in hyperspace. They were. He is using . . . a new technology: they call it ‘folding space.’ It is almost instantaneous, although the energy requirements are high.” His eyes were distant for just a moment before he continued.

“Sartak chose to come here rather than closer to Kuarmian because of some technical questions concerning other ships (your ships, Colonel) that are in the area of his base. This system has been extensively surveyed. Because of its complex gravitational fields, it presents, at least to Sartak’s mind, a safe place. He does not like a large number of variables. And he needs a place to rebuild his energy reserves.” Deb’s eyes were glowing with an unholy glee. “You will excuse me, Colonel. Rik will show you to your station. We are about to teach Sartak that safety is an illusion.”

The Last of the Brotherhood did not hurry as he went to his command center, located in the heart of the ship. He knew precisely how much time he had before the fireworks began.

Behind him, Colonel Murthoc followed Rik to an area to one side of Deb’s chair. Activating the displays on the panels in front of the colonel, the boy spoke in warning.

“I was reminded to tell you that you should not watch any displays other than these, sir. It will give you a headache.”

“Why?”

“I believe our brain chemistry differs from yours, sir. Biochemistry isn’t my field. With normal day-to-day displays, it wouldn’t matter, but these are battle arrays. You wouldn’t understand and I am not sure that I should try to explain.”

Rik’s apparent candor was difficult to push. The colonel surveyed the displays he was permitted: they were several generations at least beyond those of the Confederation. He could clearly see Sartak’s fleet assembling. There was, as yet, no response from the Brotherhood. Later, in the more confused moments of actual battle, he would risk the threatened headache. These displays were excellent. How could theirs be that much better? And how could they have these reports at all?

“Doesn’t the Brotherhood use communications and guidance jamming systems? How are you getting this?”

“We have several optical-type, passive sensors outside the zone being jammed, sir. They pick up the data and pass it on to us.”

Several movements caught the colonel’s eye. Somehow too fast to be natural, they were not following any normal missile trajectory he could recognize. Around him, the members of the Brotherhood’s command staff seemed to grow more intent and, if possible, more serious.

* * *

The Danera system has long fascinated astrophysicists; therefore the Imperium had excellent charts. The star at its center has a smaller companion. Between them and around them, planets orbit in a complex geometry and have over the eons sometimes been overcome by the gravitational forces of the system. This has produced vast fields of debris, ranging in size from planetoids to dust. The interplay of gravitational fields was a complex game of mathematics; one which only a master mathematician could play.

Lord Sartak’s fleet assembled cautiously. First to appear were the fighter scouts which formed a defensive sphere. After a time, the first echelon appeared in convoy formation. Moving at standard transit speed, following Sartak’s flagship, they entered the narrow corridor between the debris fields of Danera.

Behind them, the second echelon, the support ships, appeared and joined the column. Lastly, the troop carriers and their escorts completed the fleet.

This third echelon of ships had just entered the corridor when the battle began. Automatic relays, triggered by the passage of a precisely counted number of ships, tripped switches on. Three troop carriers were hit before the minefield in which the third echelon found itself was detected. Five more were destroyed before the fleet could stop. The back door was closed.

At the head of the column, Lord Sartak fumed. How could there be mines here? And how had they remained undetected?

His eyes when he turned to question the captain of his flagship were cold with fury. Captain Sentos rushed nervously to answer. His ship had been chosen to replace one which had inexplicably been damaged by munitions explosions. He was still nervously adapting to his new position as captain of Lord Sartak’s flagship. Trying not to speculate on the fate of his predecessor was the worst.

“The mines weren’t active when we went through there, my lord. They scanned as rock.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We have had no reports of the Confederation having this type of mine, sir. Fortunately, most of the fleet was through the area before they were activated. Presumably, a miscalculation . . . ” His voice trailed off as a blossom appeared on the display before him.

“That’s not possible.” He blurted then turned an aghast expression to his commander. “That was a missile. But our deflectors should have turned it aside when they detected its guidance system.”

Another ship near them died and then another. Sartak’s fleet was pinned, unable to enter hyperdrive until energy reserves had recycled, unable to retreat through the mines. Worst of all, there was no enemy to engage; no hope therefore of winning through.

* * *

On his own ship, not far distant, the Last of the Brotherhood sat intently studying the displays before him. Near him, Colonel Murthoc was looking questioningly at the fifteen-year old boy standing beside him.

“What kind of missiles do you have that can get past deflector shields?”

Rik smiled. “They aren’t really missiles, sir. At least, they aren’t being used that way. It’s more of a bombardment.”

A bombardment, thought the colonel. “You mean throwing explosives at them?” he said. “That’s an antique concept.”

Rik shrugged. “The deflectors are designed to take out anything with an electronic guidance system, so they’re turned off. He,” the boy indicated Deb. “Worked out the necessary trajectories for the best probability of hits given their usual order of battle.” Rik’s tone was almost worshipful. “The math for the gravity fields alone was stupendous. I saw some of it; he asked my commander to look it over.

“The missiles come in, their movement determined by their own momentum and the interplay of gravitational fields: passing through the shields turns on the engines and the guidance systems.”

They watched as several ships were struck simultaneously.

“And look, sir.” Rik’s finger followed three of the missiles. “After they get through the fleet, their reverse thrusters engage. There’s a time delay, passive countdown system. Then, the missiles sit in front of the fleet as a minefield.” Together, they saw several hits, disabling and destroying two more ships.

“Now what?” asked the colonel. He was watching the workings of a very original mind and he was fascinated.

“We hit them with these missiles for a while, sir. To keep them pinned down and to destroy about a quarter of them. Then the carriers go in.”

“Carriers?”

“You’ll see, sir.” Rik was enjoying himself. He had expected to spend his first battle with the engines and he would not have complained. His avocation, however, was history; he could see it occurring around him.

* * *

Tul was frustrated enough to pound the console in front of him. Around him, his staff was treading lightly: they were all senior Brotherhood commanders, but Tul’s temper was well known. Several hours had been lost because the Confederation display boards could not be made to interface with the Brotherhood’s receivers. Data from the battle was coming in and being properly decoded. Displays would run for a few seconds before crashing. The technician, when he was being polite about the Confederation equipment, called it a time creep differential and he could not find an algorithm that would compensate.

“Tul.”

He looked up to find a young woman, one of General Crant’s clerical staff, standing in front of him. She put a small box on the console.

“My section commander’s apologies. This uses the reverse of an algorithm we’ve been using to download from their systems. Kyrl says she should have sent it earlier, but there has not been sufficient time to think.”

Behind her, the Confederation officers and staff were pretending not to watch, although shock was apparent on some faces. Handing the box to his technician, Tul turned back to the woman. “You may thank Kyrl when you see her. For now, I think you’d better join my staff.” He could see her comprehension. Allies or not, spies are never welcome. “Your name?”

“Rai.”

“Do you know how this is hooked up?” She nodded. “Then you can help him.”

A short time later, the displays flashed to life and held. Tul scanned them and nodded. It was much as he had anticipated.

“The battle has begun, General. You will note that it is in two parts. Kuarmian and Danera.” General Crant was avidly studying the information presented. The size of the Brotherhood’s fleet was a shock.

“Why Danera?”

“Sartak’s fleet is moving through that system to trap yours against Kuarmian.”

“How are you getting this information? Communications with our fleet has been jammed for hours.” General Crant was still suspicious although the displays showed Sartak’s fleet being slowly destroyed.

“That jamming is ours, sir. As is the method around it.” Tul was not going to explain the Brotherhood’s use of encrypted signals hidden in the hydrogen background to this offworlder, whatever his rank or status as ally. He continued quietly. “You have my word, General, that this is an accurate rendering of the battle.”

Around him, his staff grew silent and waited. General Crant, however, knew better than to question a Zorantian’s word.

“Then of course I accept it as accurate.” As if I have a choice, he thought. “And Kuarmian?”

“Your forces are landing. It was deemed necessary to destroy the satellite base.” Tul watched the general’s reaction as a matter of reflex. Later, he would report to Deb that the man had shown no concern for the change in plan. “Our field commander has taken charge.”

That got a reaction. General Crant laughed silently to himself as he considered the probable reaction of the commanding general to that. At least Tul was an older, experienced man. The general had not seen the young woman who had been with Colonel Murthoc, but he had heard some highly colored descriptions. Even discounting the extremely scurrilous accounts of her relationship with the colonel, who was not really the type to indulge in any of that, General Crant did wish that he could have been present when she took command.

“Sir.” One of his own guards called him back from his thoughts. “There are three Masters outside in the corridor. They insist that you must permit them to enter as they must coordinate the battle.” The man sounded tense. Dealing with Masters was not easy.

“No.” Tul’s voice was emphatic. Beside him, the young woman had removed her jacket and was wearing a knife in her belt. She no longer looked clerical. “Forgive me, sir. This,” he indicated the displays. “Is not going to be shown to Masters of Darkness. If they come in, we will have to kill them.” There was a quiet certainty in his voice which was echoed in the faces of his staff.

“What do I tell them?” General Crant was not loath to watch Masters die, but he was not certain how this was going to work. In his experience, Masters got what they wanted.

Tul’s smile was thin. “Tell them that Master Fior has ordered you not to admit them until he returns.” There were a few grins on the faces behind him, quickly suppressed. “Don’t worry, General. They won’t try anything.” If they do, thought Tul, you will not be aware of it and they will not succeed. If they should happen to understand why, we will kill them. But I would rather avoid that. His hand moved, communicating those orders.

“Go tell them that, General.”

Doubtfully, General Crant went out into the corridor. The three Masters turned to confront him, their faces expectant. As he spoke, they began to look baffled.

“My orders, from Master Fior himself, are that none of you may enter here until he returns.” He braced himself for the assault that did not come.

“Master Fior will be on Kuarmian.” It was the youngest Master who protested. “He said we had to be here for the battle.”

“I have told you my orders.” General Crant spoke with more confidence. They were actually turning to leave. Incredulous, he watched them walk away down the corridor until they were gone.

Tul spoke from behind him. “You will want to see the most recent developments, sir.”

Outside, each of the Masters’ thoughts swirled in paranoia. Why had Fior changed the plan without telling him? Always suspicious, they considered the possible games being played and tried to adjust their own future moves. Eyeing each other furtively, they wondered how the general had been able to resist them. Had Fior conditioned him against them? Or had one of them protected him?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Deb.” The communications officer had turned toward him. Seeing the Last of the Brotherhood look up, she continued. “Sarr’a needs to speak to you. It is urgent.”

Turning to the screen located to one side of his displays. Deb said, “Go ahead, clan commander.”

“There is a unit of Direwolves outside the fortress.”

“Which unit?” His attention was focused almost exclusively on her.

“The Shamshirri.”

“Perhaps next time you will trust my instincts, clan commander. Keep me informed.” He broke the connection before she could reply. “Reth! Why would the Shamshirri, the most elite unit of the Emperor’s most elite Guard, be on Kuarmian? Outside the base?” He saw Colonel Murthoc look up. “Perhaps you can answer that, Colonel. Do they normally go on pleasure excursions to frontier worlds?” The question was quietly sarcastic.

“The Shamshir? That man reports directly to the Emperor, not Sartak. What possible game is Fior playing? Or is it part of Fior’s game?” Direwolves, even a single unit, would wreak havoc with the Confederation forces on Kuarmian. Somewhat alarmed, the colonel continued quietly, “The Brotherhood never faced the Direwolves, did you?”

“Hardly, Colonel.” Reth’s voice answered him, as the Last of the Brotherhood appeared to be thinking. “They were genetically engineered in imitation of us, but the first units did not reach maturity until after the attack on Zoran.”

“Genetically engineered?” asked the colonel. “I know that was rumored, but Rajkari law is clearly. . . ”

Deb’s voice cut across him, dismissive of what was past. “Have you ever heard that the Shamshir might serve another, Colonel? Any reports, however vague?”

Sifting through his memory, Colonel Murthoc replied at last. “Actually, yes. There were reports, never anything specific, that he was becoming ambitious. It is a common problem with Rajkari servants: if they are competent, and he is much more than that, they do not feel sufficiently rewarded simply to serve the Emperor. It is possible that he is playing his own game or that of another.”

The various factions in the Court of the Imperium were relatively quiet at this point. With Sartak behind him, the Emperor appeared to be firmly in control. But, if they were working with Sartak, why would the Shamshirri be outside the fortress? And why only one unit of Direwolves, only two hundred fifty men?

The colonel surfaced from his own thoughts to the quiet voice of the Last of the Brotherhood.

“We need more information,” said Deb. He looked to Reth. “It is time that I asked for it.” Reth, looking troubled, moved to the Last of the Brotherhood’s chair as Deb left. Colonel Murthoc watched him go with puzzled eyes.

* * *

In a room not far from the command center of the ship, Master Baltash Fior floated in a stasis field. Two technicians monitored his vital signs; the Last of the Brotherhood had ordered him kept alive and as sane as possible. To the latter end, he was receiving some neural stimulation; enough, it was hoped, to balance the sensory deprivation of the field in which he was held. The difficulty was to avoid giving him an outlet for the Power. They looked up from the displays when Deb entered.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Physically, fine. Mentally, there is a small deterioration. I don’t know how long we can keep him this way.”

“A little mental stimulation will help,” said Deb grimly.

The older technician looked at him steadily for a moment before turning back to his displays. He heard a gasp from the woman beside him and put out his arm to restrain her as she moved forward.

“Don’t,” he said. “He would probably survive. You would not.”

Turning, he saw the Last of the Brotherhood standing next to the field, his right arm half within it, with his hand resting on Fior’s head.

“Watch your monitors,” he ordered. “He knows what he’s doing.” And there’s no one here who can help him if he doesn’t, he thought. Not with the Thousand gone.

Master Fior was following a path through the maze. It did not occur to him that he had been following it for a very long time. Nor that the path did not seem to change or have an end. Slowly, he became aware that there had in fact been a change. There was something behind him, just beyond the corner he had turned a moment ago. He caught a glimpse of a sinuous tail and felt the breath of the predator on his neck. Fior began to run, a panic beyond reason engulfing him as his heart began to race in response to the adrenaline.

His wild rush brought him to the center of the maze where, cornered, he searched wildly for a place to hide. The walls turned to a prison cell as he watched, a cell barren of any furnishings. With no hole to hide in, no weapon with which to fight, Master of Darkness Baltash Fior turned from the corner in which he cowered to face the hunter. Before his eyes, the large black hunting cat became the Last of the Brotherhood.

“You? You would dare do this to me?” Fury fed his usual arrogance as he shrieked the words. “When Sartak is dead and the Confederation safely part of my Imperium, you shall watch as I have each survivor of your precious Brotherhood dismembered.”

“And how will you do that, Fior?” Deb’s voice was a soft purr. “You are my prisoner.”

“You cannot hold me. I am a twelfth-order Master. When I have everything I deserve, everything which my tools shall bring me, you shall grovel at my feet.” Even within his own mind, the light of psychotic madness shone from his eyes. Around them, the cell walls shifted as Fior strove for control. For a brief moment, he stood in the throne room of the Imperium, visibly radiating power. Next to the Master stood a snarling wolf, a wolf that seemed to become a man before resuming its shape. In both guises, bright red blood ran from sharpened fangs. Behind them, now there was a group of robed and hooded figures and near them writhed a long, black serpent, its forked tongue tasting the air. Kneeling on the ground, in chains before the throne, was a broken, bleeding figure, cloaked in black. A shattered sword lay next to it. Bizarrely, in the distance, a group of happy children played childish games.

As Deb watched, they played on obliviously as they were consumed by a blackness: a dark pit so filled with evil and horror that he could not force himself to look in.

“My tools,” said the Master again, with pride.

“And how will your tools do this, Fior?” Dragging his attention back to the Master, he continued his questions. Deb kept his voice soft, almost coaxing.

“My tools are trained. They know what to do. Sartak shall die, his Power useless. I shall reign. I will show all of them and they shall all bow before me. As you will.” Confusion showed on his face for a moment. “Where is my tool? Where have you hidden him? It does not matter. I shall prevail and he will face Sartak. Sartak will die.”

“How will Sartak die, Fior?”

“He will . . . What are you doing?” He screamed and the images around them disappeared. “I am a twelfth-order Master. You cannot be in my head. Who are you? What are you? When my tool . . . ” The Master stopped, a look of cunning crossing his face. He seemed to curl around himself as if protecting some great secret, even now certain of his success.

Deb watched the Master for a moment. Outside, standing by the stasis field, he withdrew his arm and stepped back. Inside the field, Fior’s body was now curled around itself. Lost in his own thoughts, the Last of the Brotherhood turned away.

* * *

Sarr’a turned from the screen to Amik.

“Trust his instincts,” she muttered, half under her breath. Amik waited. “He didn’t know they were involved. The orders remain the same. We engage the Imperials and we wait.” Grinning at her second, she continued briskly. “We must look for more surprises, Amik. This grows more interesting.”

His eyes narrowing, Amik considered his commander for a moment.

“No.”

Her grin widened. He knew her very well and he was easy to tease.

“You’re right, of course,” she said regretfully. “I am too busy. Tell Zad I want reports every ten minutes, if only that they haven’t found him. Now,” turning to the displays and correlating them automatically with the reports from her own scouts. “Let us see what we can do.

“We have increased perimeter security. Remind everyone that, among their other talents, the Direwolves are skilled saboteurs and assassins. We do not know why they are here, but we must assume that they are aimed at our allies.

“Send Vren with a clan section of twenty to the area opposite their position.” She named the clan fourth, who was also its most experienced field commander. “Tell him he should be ready to improvise, defense for now and offense later.

“The Imperials are retreating before us. No one follows without direct orders. We will have ample warning of any counterattack. When we have these units organized, which should be shortly, General, we will send two columns thus and thus.” Her hand indicated an enveloping maneuver directed at the retreating army. “That should push them back into their fortress very nicely.”

“But that let’s them escape. We can’t follow them in there without massive casualties.” This was beginning to seem like a very futile exercise to the general.

“Can we not, General? We shall see. You are right, of course, that we must stay back from the base. Their automatic defenses will inflict heavy casualties, as will the mine field here.” Her fingers indicated a crescent area near the base entrance. “The base commander will activate that once his forces are inside.”

“Sooner, if we press them too hard.” Amik’s comment was quiet. “He’ll take his own casualties with ours.”

“Then let us be certain that we do not push them too hard,” said Sarr’a.

The general was puzzled. Pushing the enemy into a well-defended position seemed like an odd way to win a battle. The matter was out of his hands. He could only hope that Crant and Ant’n would remember that.

* * *

The oldest soldier in the squad had been watching the new “advisor” very closely for the past ten minutes. The man was very quietly organizing the unit, getting them ready for combat. There were no speeches and, surprisingly, no profanity. Just simple orders that even the youngest and newest recruits could understand.

In his experience, officers didn’t act that way. In his recent experience.

The lieutenant was one of the charge-the-enemy-and-get-me-a- medal types. Corporal Jarnes had known that the moment he first saw him. Right now, he was busy pretending this “advisor” didn’t exist. It was going to be funny if the corporal’s suspicions were correct. How they could be correct did not concern him. He turned to his latest protégé.

“Listen to that one, kid,” he said. “God’s piss, but I think we’re going to have a battle for a change.”

Feeling someone’s eyes, he turned to find the man he was discussing behind him.

“I will have no profanity in my unit,” he said quietly, then studied the corporal. “I know you.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Corporal Jarnes.

“Then you know that I mean what I say.” The words were a quiet lash. “Help him get that pack in order,” as he nodded toward another soldier. “I do not recall that you were sloppy.” He moved on.

* * *

From the observation post near his field headquarters, the Shamshir analyzed the landing. There had been an unusual precision to the initial force dispersal as well as a pattern he had never seen the Confederation employ. They had first dropped heavy weapons units, anti-missile and air defense, establishing a defensive perimeter before the troops had moved in. Generally, the Confederation command was extremely parsimonious with the more expensive systems, preferring to risk men before hardware.

“It appears that the idiots are studying tactics.” He turned to his executive officer. “Or perhaps the old man’s staff had a brainstorm.”

The Shamshir laughed shortly. He was a man in his late twenties, of above average height. Accustomed to attracting admiration wherever he went, he was unselfconsciously superior. “And speaking of Fior, where is he? How can I coordinate with him when he doesn’t even send one of his toadies to update the plan?”

His subordinate knew better than to interrupt him in this mood; he waited quietly for the orders that would follow.

Continuing his observations, the Shamshir could see that the Confederation troops were being directed by men, and what appeared incredibly to be women, wearing gray. Not gray robes like the Masters of Darkness, just gray clothing.

“They must be those smugglers he wanted.” Fior’s reasoning, never clear, was impossible to follow on that one. Always aware of his own intellectual superiority, the Shamshir considered Master Baltash Fior an idiot. The Masters were useful, would be useful in furthering his career.

At least, some Masters would be. He felt the deep anger again, his resentment of Sartak who had shown too clearly and too many times his opinion of the genetically enhanced. The Direwolves were, in the view of the great Lord Sartak, less than slaves who were at least still human. The Shamshir permitted himself to plan, for a brief moment, his enjoyment of Sartak’s death.

The forces of the Imperium were withdrawing slowly, as planned. This backwash garrison was primarily made up of technicians and military policemen, not combat soldiers. Oddly, the Confederation troops were not rushing forward to engage them as they retreated. There was a firmer hand than usual directing these men.

Without preface or warning, the Shamshir began to issue his orders. His second in command committed them to memory as he listened.

“Tell the fifty inside the fortress to stand by until we have a better idea of the course of the battle. The fifty in Confederation uniforms are to begin their infiltration. They know their targets, but they are not to begin killing them or sabotaging equipment until the Confederation has almost won the battle. These smugglers are probably with Fior. If they get in the way, kill them.” He smiled to himself. “That will teach the old man to tell me what he is doing. The rest are to assemble here, being careful to attract no attention.” He turned to go inside the bunker which served as his headquarters.

* * *

His battery was up and firing plasma bolts at the enemy in record time. Feeling pleased with himself and his men, the young lieutenant stepped back to admire their activity, narrowly missing a woman who, he now realized, had been observing his unit as they worked.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?”

Her voice seemed to be pitched for his ears alone; his men did not falter in their work or even seem to notice her. He looked at the woman who with her gray hair and clothing seemed almost to disappear into the ground behind her. Being friendly, he answered.

“Bombarding the enemy, ma’am.” He would have continued with a technical explanation of magnetic bottles and plasma, but she spoke again.

“At this range? You will be fortunate if you inflict headaches on half of them.” Her tone had become more incisive. Unconsciously, he stood up straighter. “You are to be commended for your unit, Lieutenant. They appear well trained. Were you trained on this weapon system?”

Meeting her gaze, he replied. “No, ma’am. I have read all the manuals.”

“Do your manuals discuss the deterioration in atmosphere of the integrity of the magnetic bottle? At this range,” Her eyes had swept out toward the enemy positions. “You would lose approximately eighty-five percent of your effectiveness. Against armored troops, that is laughable.”

He did not look like he was going to laugh. Behind him, his men were still firing with precision.

“How are you at moving them, Lieutenant?” She gestured toward the guns and the men.

Stubbornly, he was still meeting her eyes.

“Where do you want them, ma’am?”

She set out her map.

* * *

“You were told not to look at the displays, Colonel.” The Last of the Brotherhood had returned to the bridge and was standing behind him. Colonel Murthoc was watching the movements of ships on the displays in front of Reth. “Does your head hurt?” Deb did not sound sympathetic.

“They show movements in time. Before they happen.” The colonel was still trying to sort out the images.

Deb gave a short, exasperated sigh.

“Yes, Colonel. They show the branching of time lines several moments ahead. Are you satisfied or must you go blind?”

Colonel Murthoc turned to look at Deb. His head was pounding. “Actual time lines or some sort of predictions?” The first was impossible, but some of what he had seen could not be explained as predictions. His eyes were trying to focus.

“We will discuss physics after we win the battle, Colonel. I would rather concentrate on our response to Fior’s plan.”

“Would they give the Shamshirri headaches?” He nodded toward the displays and regretted the movement.

“The Direwolves are genetically superior to you, Colonel. Not to us.”

“And I must accept your unsupported word on that, I suppose,” the colonel observed dryly.

Deb grinned briefly. “The awe is gone already, I see. Unless you have studied more genetic engineering than our records indicate, yes, Colonel, you must. But it is much more interesting that they are here than that they are Direwolves. It seems Colonel, that Sartak was not meant to survive this battle. Your Confederation was to have won.”

Behind the colonel, Reth regarded the Last of the Brotherhood with raised eyebrows before turning back to the displays. He listened intently as Deb continued.

“At least, for a time. Fior expected to kill Sartak, sweep your Confederation into the Imperium, and take up at least Sartak’s role, if not a higher one.”

“The man is mad.” Colonel Murthoc was incredulous.

“Undoubtedly,” Deb’s thoughts went briefly back to the psychotic mind he had touched. “But are the Shamshir and the others who must be working with him? It is difficult at this point to see the full dimensions of his plan. Master Fior is not coherent.”

“He told you this?”

“Colonel, he threatened me with it.” The colonel saw a feral expression cross the face of the Last of the Brotherhood. “Despite this revelation, however, I believe we will continue with the plan as written.” Deb was looking at Reth.

“That will certainly be unique.” Reth grinned at the colonel. “Have you ever known a battle to follow the plan?”

The colonel’s answering smile was wry.

“Let us see what develops, then,” said the Last of the Brotherhood.

“You may even be in the position of saving Sartak’s life.” Reth’s observation was quiet as he moved away from the command chair.

Deb considered the matter. “Perhaps. But Fior is not likely to profit from his death in any case.” Almost Colonel Murthoc shivered at the cold hatred in his voice. “You had best tell Sarr’a. It will amuse her that the original plan called for the Confederation to win. She and the fleet commander will have to watch for assassins and traitors. The Direwolves seem to be there to steal the victory for the Imperium, Fior’s Imperium, once Sartak and his supporters are dead. The question remains: how is Sartak supposed to die?”

Reth shook his head. He could see no answer to that one.

* * *

In the Danera system, Sartak’s ships and men continued to die. Already gone were the troop carriers of the third echelon. Second echelon, primarily combat support and unaccustomed to making battlefield decisions, was hovering uncertainly. With a minefield behind them and ships exploding in front, there seemed nowhere to go, Then the massive Brotherhood carriers, with their cargoes of fighters, arrived in their midst. Still unable to enter hyperspace themselves, due to the previous energy drain, their captains broke formation and frantically sought hiding places among the system’s debris fields. It was a bad decision for many, their navigation arrays overwhelmed. Cutting a wide swathe through the remainder, the Brotherhood’s fighters turned to their primary target: the ships of the first echelon.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Sir! My Lord Sartak!” The marine officer turned from scanning the board in front of him. “I have reports of armed intruders on the ship. My men are not able to contain them.”

“Where are they?” Sartak’s voice cut across the captain’s. “And how many?”

“There appear to be three groups, my lord. One at the central systems core, one near the officer’s living quarters, and a third near the engines.”

“How can there be landing parties? There has been no breach of the hull, no airlocks opened.” The captain waved his arms at the circuits and displays showing the ship’s integrity: they were clear.

“My men are fighting, not talking, sir. I have no clear reports.” His fingers moved across his command console sending the orders for all reserves to the engine room. “Apparently, their ships appear inside open spaces within this ship.” The marine commander shook his head. “That would be an incredible feat, sir. You would have to know the ship’s precise interior architecture and exactly where this ship was going to be when you came out of hyperdrive.”

“Sir!” It was the fire control officer. “There’s something odd going on now with these missiles. It’s like our shields are working; they’re turning away.”

“But only from us.” Sartak had seen the flash as another of his ships was lost. “They mean to take this ship. It must not happen. Captain, you must engage the autodestruct immediately. The information on this ship could . . . ” He paused, then continued more calmly. “Could injure the Imperium.” No one but he was aware of all the secrets on this ship.

“Sir. My lord. That’s not possible. They have seized the control systems; the auto-destruct is off line. They are in control of your quarters, sir. My men are being slaughtered. I have never seen fighters like these. I do not understand why the Confederation would have kept them in reserve.”

Sartak scanned the ship’s status displays before him. The marine was right: these invaders would have control very soon. He had to act. It was not possible to keep the information on the ship from falling into their hands. That they had seized his quarters meant that, however improbably, they knew it was there. Therefore, he had to go to Kuarmian to send a warning to the Emperor. It was, by far, the closest base.

“Captain,” he said quietly. “My duty to the Emperor now requires that I report to him as quickly as possible. Yours requires that you work to destroy this ship. I suspect that we both have little time.”

Captain Sentos looked back over his shoulder at the Master of Darkness.

“Go quickly, my lord. We will hold them here until you are away.”

He turned back to the problem before him. It seemed only moments later that the invaders were on his bridge and his men were being disarmed. Despite the captain’s words, there had been only a token resistance. Except for marine officers, bridge crews were not trained in personal combat. Sartak’s ship was moving away as the captain heard a demand for cooperation from his captors.

Drawing himself up proudly, he replied. “Cooperate with you? Why?”

They were not in uniforms; there were even women among them.

“Cooperate or die, Captain. That is the choice.”

“Why should I believe you? A motley group of who knows who you are? You’re not even Confederation.” The captain of Lord Sartak’s flagship had never considered the possibility of defeat and surrender. His pride would not allow him to accept this criminal rabble, these pirates or so they seemed, as the victors.

“No, we are not.” Deb had stepped through the group that had secured the bridge. His eyes met and held the captain’s. He had extremely compelling eyes. “I am the Last of the Brotherhood of Zoran, Captain. You and your men will cooperate with us or you will all go out an airlock. I don’t have time for an argument. I speak the truth. Cooperate and you will be treated as prisoners of war. You have my word.”

The captain’s mind had stopped on the word Brotherhood.

“Last of the B . . . B . . . Brotherhood?” he stuttered, terror filling his eyes. His acceptance of the truth of Deb’s claim was obvious. So was his fear.

“Were you there that day, Captain?” Deb’s eyes grew colder.

“As a very junior officer and not willingly. Sir.” Clear in his eyes was the memory that the Brotherhood had had the word of every signatory to that treaty that their home world would be safe. Within two days, the fleet had arrived. He remembered the celebrations on the bridge after.

“I repeat my offer, Captain. Cooperate and live. Interfere and die. When I speak the truth, all men know it. Choose. I have no more time.”

“You have our surrender, sir. We will continue to operate this vessel as you direct.” The captain was shaking. This was a walking nightmare.

Deb’s eyes moved contemptuously past the captain to the marine commander who, although wounded in the defense of the bridge, was still defiantly standing.

“And you? If you surrender, your men will presumably follow.”

“My men will follow me, sir. And it is our duty not to assist you, but to continue to fight.” Almost all of his men were already dead, but he did not know that. It would probably have simply made the choice easier had he known. From the ferocity of their resistance, Deb suspected that the rest would indeed follow their commander. The next order was hard.

“Take him to his men. Then make it quick.”

Turning away, he met Colonel Murthoc’s eyes. “Cowardice is so frequently a survival trait of your people, Colonel.” His voice, although savage, was pitched to the colonel’s ears. It would not do to upset the bridge crew.

* * *

Watching the columns of Confederation forces push the troops of the Imperium back toward the fortress, the Shamshir was conscious of a very unfamiliar feeling. He was uncertain. This battle was proceeding as planned, except that it was not. There was a discipline present which spoke of a completely unknown factor. Fior had not yet arrived. That more than any other data point in his analysis was making him uneasy. Masters played games and it was beginning to look to the Shamshir as though he was merely a pawn in this Master’s game. Or another’s. It was intolerable. He did not suffer from an inability to make decisions or to accept painful losses when necessary. Issuing the orders to begin the withdrawal, it did not occur to him that, unlike those used by the regular Imperium forces, Direwolf frequencies weren’t jammed precisely because he was known to be there. The broadcast was monitored.

* * *

Lord Sartak piloted himself carefully away from the cruiser. As the energy reserves of this, his personal ship, were full, he entered hyperspace almost immediately. It was, actually, a conversion of the captain’s launch to his use, his own having been inexplicably lost during the explosions on his previous flagship. Shaking off the superstitious feeling that some ill fortune had taken control of his life, the First Lord of the Emperor’s Chamber prepared himself for a massive manipulation of the Power. He would need to be ready when the ship reached Kuarmian.

The communication to the Last of the Brotherhood from the commander of the fleet above Kuarmian was terse.

“He is here. He cloaks his ship with the Power. May I shoot him down?”

Deb’s response was the expected negative, but honor and distaste for the Power had required that it be asked. Tracking continued.

Sartak’s ship held its orbit above Kuarmian while he surveyed the invaders below. He had been momentarily stunned to find the satellite base gone. Communications bands were jammed locally; he could not speak to the base commander. Hopefully, the generators on the base would be powerful enough to send his message to the Emperor. Hiding the ship from the fleet around him was draining, but he could if necessary continue for several hours. Speed was essential, but he needed also to be completely certain of a safe landing.

* * *

Sarr’a was already watching the door as the man in the Confederation uniform came through into the command center. He paused, his eyes scanning the room quickly. Locating the general, he turned toward him.

To her eyes, a wolf had entered and she was stalking him before he found his prey. Her, he had dismissed as irrelevant, to be killed as an afterthought with the man beside her when his target was dead.

Amik was a full second behind her when her sword sliced through the intruder, severing his head from behind. The Direwolf ’s rifle had never reached the firing position. The general, knees suddenly weak, collapsed slowly into his chair as blood ran across the floor.

“This one didn’t get the recall message, I presume.” Sarr’a’s comment was acerbic.

Amik had turned to the door to check the sentry. She was dead. His whistle brought three members of the clan at a run.

“There will be a line of sight perimeter on this position with two of you watching the guard on this door at all times. If you can’t see the next sentry, I want the body of whatever moves. Do you understand?” He was moving back inside as they nodded. “Get someone to remove this.” His foot indicated the Direwolf corpse. There was no need to give an order regarding the sentry. Her body would go home.

His clan commander was considering the displayed battlefield with narrowed eyes. Zad’s latest report had approximately two hundred of the Shamshirri in a position tangential to the movement of the Confederation forces toward the base. That left about fifty unaccounted for. First, she would deal with the two hundred. Then Zad could find the rest.

“Tell Vren I am sending him four reserve units. That gives him one hundred. You may inform him that ideally I’d like the Shamshir’s ears. I’ll settle for two hundred dead Shamshirri.” Amik relayed the necessary orders as she watched the progress toward the base of her forces. It was difficult to sit and watch although the game was intriguing. She seemed to be picking up Deb’s habit of pushing her emotional responses aside. At least for now.

* * *

Clan third and fleet commander Trenald k’Thuen checked the air space above the battle zone. It remained clear. Carefully directed fire from her ships had eliminated most of the Imperium’s air fleet at the base. Catching them in the air was tricky; a miss endangered troops on the ground and her clan commander did not accept excuses.

Given the presence of the Direwolves, there was a high probability that at least some of the Confederation ships she was supposed to be protecting held traitors. She had issued orders that any ship moving out of line was to be destroyed no matter what imaginative story they told. Rising from the base now, D’nal saw the trails that meant missiles. Someone had thought of a way to fight back. She watched tensely as her gunners reacted to the threat and destroyed it. Two shots went wide, both fortunately striking the base itself. Making a mental note to schedule more target practice, she settled back, recognizing that her tension was primarily the result of the continued presence of the Master of Darkness. Why couldn’t he simply land?

* * *

Deb drummed his fingers on the arm of the captain’s chair in which he was sitting. It was an uncharacteristically open sign of strain and he was aware of Reth watching him. Colonel Murthoc, Rik still beside him as ordered, had finally settled near the Last of the Brotherhood, his intelligence officer curiosity apparently satisfied after a careful inspection of the bridge. His presence and green uniform, amusingly, seemed to make the captain and bridge crew more relaxed as they followed the orders of the Brotherhood technicians preparing the ship for its next role.

Resisting the urge to ask how much longer this would take, Deb watched an engineer running an inspection of the command and control systems of the bridge. They were right to be careful. His next move required that the ship be in near perfect condition.

* * *

Vren looked at the young woman studying the outlined campaign against the Direwolf unit. She had arrived during the briefing and remained after everyone else had gone to their assignments.

“Are you here to take command or just get in the way?” he asked bluntly.

“Neither, sir” Sarr’a replied quietly. “I’m here to watch and learn.” She looked up to see him glowering at her. “The Imperials are inside their base; Amik can hold the greens back until Deb gets here. I am not needed elsewhere. May I stay, sir?”

“You’re the clan commander, child. You may go or stay wherever you wish.” He did not sound as annoyed.

“I know that, sir.” They stood looking at the map for a moment.

He had been her tactics instructor, then her commanding officer. She was not surprised by his next statement.

“You want his ears.”

“I was annoyed, sir. The sentry was seventeen. She must have known he was wrong because she had passed several Confederation people through. I know I heard him kill her because I was watching the door when he came in.” She stopped.

“Then she did her duty, clan commander. You were warned. You think because she was a sentry behind the lines that she should have been safe enough. Why then do we have sentries?” She remained silent. “You cannot be fast enough or good enough to keep everyone safe, Sarr’a. And that’s not your job. You know that.” He picked up his jacket and shrugged it on. “You may stay. Don’t you get killed or Amik will have my head.”

She grinned briefly. “I’ll shadow you then.” He was well known to lead from the center of the fighting.

* * *

“Deb.” Amik acknowledged the Last of the Brotherhood as the screen cleared. “Sarr’a is inspecting the forward positions.”

“And you can say that with a straight face, clan second.” Amik waited patiently for Deb to come to the reason for the communication. “We will be there soon. When the base falls, I want you to arrange a convincing escape for Nat Bahadur. He is still with you?”

“Yes, Deb, we are holding him. How convincing must this be? Do I have to be dead?” With Sarr’a in the field, he was the ranking officer.

“I doubt you could make that look believable, Amik. He isn’t nearly good enough. Nor, I suspect, is he trained well enough to know the difference. I’m sure you’ll think of something less drastic.” The Last of the Brotherhood looked tired as he smiled. “When next you speak with your commander, tell her to keep her head down. As I said, we’ll be there soon.” He closed the channel.

* * *

There is a lesson here about arrogance, thought Sarr’a soberly as she watched Vren’s plan unfold. These Direwolves believe that their enemy is stupid, therefore they act stupidly. Recognizing one of her own faults, the clan commander resolved to take greater care in the future.

Brotherhood teams had lured nearly a dozen Direwolf sentries to their deaths before one sounded the alarm. From her place flat on the ground next to Vren, she watched the second stage commence. The Shamshir, as anticipated, sent out a unit of twenty to reconnoiter. They went over one set of hills, but never appeared on the next. Sarr’a saw the bodies pulled into hiding in preparation for the next ambush.

“We will have the measure of the man by what he sends out next,” said Vren quietly. “By now, he knows that his frequencies are also being jammed. That should tell him that we know he’s here. It may tell him that we knew before. Who does he think we are, I wonder?”

Carefully considering his options, the Shamshir narrowed them to two. Moving into the base was no longer possible from this position and going anywhere but to his own ships accomplished nothing. Therefore, he could remain where he was or engage this invisible enemy in force. Anything less than his entire force was inviting disaster. Conservatively, defense of his current position, especially against an unknown force, was the better choice. It did not, however, achieve his goal which was to disengage. His temperament also favored attack.

The screening force of twenty Shamshirri took control of the high ground just before the trail turned downhill. Setting up to cover the main force’s advance through the next valley, they signaled that the way was clear. Moving rapidly in two staggered columns, the remaining Direwolves went through their positions, planning to secure the next high ground and thus cover the withdrawal of this force. There was no movement in front of them and very little cover. A lesser unit would have been unnerved by the absence of their comrades’ bodies. These retained their discipline and their caution.

Three men back from the head of the column, the Shamshir was uneasy. They had almost reached the ridgeline of the next set of hills and there had been no attack. Glancing back, toward what was now his rearguard, he froze momentarily in shock. Rising from the ground next to their positions, the enemy was attacking and overwhelming his men. The discipline involved in holding position while his men set up theirs right beside them was stunning.

“Take cover.” Automatic weapons fire and the precisely ranged fire of plasma weapons raking the hillside above them interrupted his order. Setting up a defensive perimeter, he still had difficulty seeing the enemy. Mindful of the fate of his rearguard, the Shamshir detailed a unit of twenty to do a careful sweep of their current position.

“He’s not keeping up,” observed Vren with some satisfaction. “He is defending against the last threat. Watch.”

Sarr’a saw the Direwolf commander, crouching near a rock, look around as if searching for something. She could hear the whistle as Vren’s mortar rounds began to fall and grinned to herself as memories of training exercises surfaced. No one besides Vren used mortars; the Shamshir had most probably never heard of them.

“You might as well have signed it,” she said.

“I was not aware that they were going to be able to report it, clan commander.” Vren’s voice was dry as he signaled his forces to begin their advance.

Below them, the Shamshir watched in disbelief as an explosive charge dropped from a clear sky to explode through the prone body of the man next to him. He reached a cold decision.

“Altern!” His executive officer crawled toward him. “You will hold them here. I am taking the comm unit over the hill to set up a line of sight transmission to the relay. With luck, they can pick us up here.”

“Yes, sir.” Trained to obedience even in the face of abandonment, the officer watched his commander work his way toward the ridgeline. “All right, Direwolves,” he said. “Let us give them something to remember.”

Sarr’a watched as the Shamshirri charged the Brotherhood troops moving toward them. The fighting broke down quickly into intense, individual combat with the last Direwolves going down before superior skill. Rising from the observation post where Vren had remained throughout the engagement presumably because of her presence, she issued a direct, cold order.

“No survivors.” He had expected it, but she could tell he didn’t like it. “They have done worse on other battlefields.”

“I am aware,” he said quietly. “I have never liked comparing myself to others.”

The rebuke of the teacher to the student was plain as he turned to relay the order to his troops.

* * *

The Shamshir fired four shots in rapid succession at carefully selected targets. By the fourth shot, no one was visible. Their reaction time was phenomenal, as good as his own. Whoever they were, they now knew he had survived. Pride had demanded that, both because of his own desertion of his men and their massacre of the wounded. He was already moving rapidly along his projected escape route when the echoes died.

Vren’s wounds were savage tears; the armor-piercing explosive rounds had torn through his body armor, leaving great gaping wounds that were rapidly filling with his blood. Sarr’a reached barehanded into his chest to try to staunch the bleeding, knowing it was hopeless. Bright red blood flowed around her hands. His lips moved and she tilted her head closer.

“Stupid offworlder. Shooting an old man with you right there.”

She wiped her hand carefully clean before she closed his eyes.

“Clan commander.” Sarr’a looked up. “The other two are wounded, one severely. They are being evacuated. Whoever did this is moving that way.” He pointed to the east. “We can catch him.”

Whoever? she thought. It was without question the Shamshir himself. None of his men would have made the gesture. And it won’t be his ears I take when I catch him.

Vren’s second was waiting for her orders. She considered the time.

“No,” she said, rising to her feet. “We cannot. Deb will be here and we must be ready. Move everyone to their assigned staging area. We will be going in just as soon as he has opened the door for us. Have Zad keep watch for him: we don’t need any more sniper attacks, but I doubt he’ll be back. Do you have a secure line to Amik?” He nodded. “Tell him that with Vren gone, I am needed here for the assault. He is to take over coordination. I will see him after the fortress is taken.”

For just a moment after he had gone to carry out her orders, she looked east with narrowed eyes. Then, setting that matter aside, she began to review the assault plans.

* * *

Completing his survey of the forces on the ground, Sartak chose the northernmost entrance as his safest alternative. He was concentrating so intensely on protecting his ship and landing safely that he nearly missed the arrival of his flagship above him. For just a moment, he almost dared to believe that they had somehow won through. Then the cold grasp of reality, which had always steadied his judgment, told him the truth. They, the Confederation, meant to use his ship against the base. That same cold logic still required that he land, now as quickly as possible. This ship lacked the range of his own vessel. On the base below, it was still possible that he could send a message to his Emperor. Perhaps, after the battle which now appeared to be lost, perhaps he would be able to take a ship and escape. Ignoring the feeling of impending disaster, he began his descent.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“If we are now quite ready.”

Deb’s gaze passed over the Brotherhood fleet officers who had replaced the original crew. The black of their uniforms had completed the demoralization of Captain Sentos who had been permitted to remain after his bridge officers had been locked up. Brotherhood officers commanded the rest of the ship: the ranks of the Imperium were trained in a vicious school to obey orders without thought. With their officers removed, sabotage was not even a question.

With extreme precision, the great battle cruiser was positioned in orbit above the planet, preparatory to its assault on the base below. Rik sketched the planned attack for the colonel, as the final calculations were made.

“He’s taking this ship into atmosphere?” Colonel Murthoc kept his voice low, but still managed to express his amazement.

“Yes, sir,” replied Rik. “The trajectory is planned so,” he drew an arc on the display before them. “There is an area here,” indicating a point above the base, “where the shields of the satellite and ground bases are supposed to merge and protect flights between them. We will take advantage of that weakness to fire precisely at their main energy conduits. It has to be precise; if we hit the generators, we could vitrify most of the continent.”

Pushing that thought aside firmly, the colonel asked, “How far down do we need to go?”

“Approximately here, sir.” Rik marked a spot on the arc. He sketched a second point on their course well above their destination. “This is where we estimate we’ll lose our shields and start to peel off the external sensors.” The colonel was aware that the boy was looking at him sideways; apparently their children had odd senses of humor too. He kept his voice even as he asked the next question.

“And we had to use their ship, of course?”

“Yes, sir. Communications are jammed. They don’t know we hold the ship so they won’t fire on it.”

“Are you aware that the ships of the Imperium are built by the Emperor’s favorites? How does he know that this ship will withstand the pressure and heat?”

Rik smiled. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Thrusters firing, the ship began its descending arc.

* * *

General Crant watched in silence. Nothing in this battle had followed orthodox doctrine. Sartak’s fleet was destroyed; his flagship captured. Now, according to Tul, they proposed to use it to blast open the base on Kuarmian. How they could be sending back this information had long ceased to be relevant. The displays merely added to the sense of unreality he felt as he stood in his command center surrounded by members of the Brotherhood, watching a military machine easily winning a battle he had deemed unwinnable. He felt like a child permitted to attend an adult party.

* * *

“Hull temperature is at one hundred twenty-eight percent of design parameters, Deb.” The voice of the Brotherhood engineer was calm and quiet as she reported. “We have lost shields as expected; the sensor arrays are peeling off somewhat more slowly than anticipated.”

Still descending, the ship’s gunners were now laying down a plasma barrage to further weaken the shielding of the base.

“But, what . . . ?” Colonel Murthoc was silenced by Rik’s hand tightening on his shoulder. The boy spoke directly to the colonel, his voice a breathless whisper.

“You do not interrupt a commander during a campaign, Colonel. Most especially, you do not interrupt a senior commander. He knows what he is doing.” The colonel drew a breath and Rik continued. “I was told to give you one warning, offworlder.”

His eyes were deadly cold. Colonel Murthoc closed his mouth and sat back to observe. He did not understand how they could hit a target requiring the level of precision Rik had described without their sensors. It did seem unlikely that Deb would have neglected to consider that.

Deb sat in the captain’s position, Reth at one side and Captain Sentos on the other.

Each of the gunners understood his orders. They were the best in the Brotherhood. But Deb repeated his instructions anyway. The adrenaline was difficult to ignore; he could not simply sit and wait.

“You will destroy the energy conduits precisely, aiming manually and erring on the side of the base, not the generators. We have people down there.” It was important to reiterate that: this could still become a disastrous loss if they missed.

They were firing and it seemed to the colonel that almost everyone on the bridge was holding their breath. Captain Sentos alone appeared indifferent, but he was actually still in shock.

“Deb.” The communications officer spoke through the silence. “D’nal relays Sarr’a’s report. Their shields are down. The power is cut.”

Sitting back in his chair, the Last of the Brotherhood ordered briskly.

“Take us up.”

Engines howling, the great ship fought to gain altitude through a heavy atmosphere it had not been designed to withstand. The shrill scream cut through everyone on the bridge as they climbed until, orbit achieved, they stopped and there was quiet.

* * *

As the great battle cruiser moved down toward the fortress, Corporal Jarnes watched in awe and some fear. The ship was coming in under power. He had never seen anything that large in atmosphere. The noise was indescribable. Most of the men were already cowering in the holes they had been ordered to dig.

“Get down and cover your eyes, Corporal. You’re no use to me blind.” The voice behind him was quiet, but clear even in this deafening racket and the corporal was already moving before it finished. He had barely covered his head when the world fell apart.

As explosion after explosion ripped through the fortress, the ground around them danced. Dazed and bruised, his ears still ringing, Corporal Jarnes pulled himself up when it stopped. The cruiser seemed to still be coming down, but as he watched it moved up in a long, slow arc, climbing toward space.

“Back down,” ordered the unit “advisor.” “I will tell you when to move.”

“No, I will,” said the lieutenant, angrily facing his men. “Corporal, get these men up and moving. There’s a minefield to be cleared and it’s about time we did something in this battle.”

“I would get down, Lieutenant.” The man’s voice was quiet; he seemed to be looking behind the Confederation officer. Corporal Jarnes did not hesitate: he had his men back in their holes. The man in gray dropped flat a split second before a series of airbursts triggered the minefield, turning the rocks around it into deadly shrapnel. Again, the earth rocked around them, then stopped.

“Now,” said the unit “advisor,” looking back at the lieutenant’s shredded corpse. “Now we will move out. Assemble your men, Corporal.”

* * *

At the northern entrance to the base, Sartak was proceeding with increasing confidence. He had survived the effects of the explosions and gotten past the guards with a minimum use of the Power: they were dazed by the blasts. Moving rapidly along the corridors, his long familiarity with standard base design guided him even in the dimness of the emergency lighting.

Most of the base personnel seemed to have been pulled to the south. He met almost no one until, nearing the stairwell to the comm center; a uniformed man came toward him. Sartak would have ignored him, but this one felt odd. As the Master turned to examine him, the man drew a knife and moved with the trained efficiency of an assassin toward Sartak.

Instinctively using the Power to fling him back against the wall, Lord Sartak inspected the gasping soldier coldly and minutely. The uniform was correct; he still felt wrong and his actions supported that feeling. On the floor at his feet, the Master found the knife he had been holding. It bore a wolf ’s head on the hilt.

“Direwolf,” he said, his tone expressing both contempt and surprise. “Why are you here?”

Pinned against the wall, the man shook his head with difficulty. Twisting away from Sartak’s gaze, he fought bitterly to avoid the Master’s interrogation.

“You are worthless,” said Sartak at last. “You know absolutely nothing save that you are to kill.” As he turned away, the Direwolf ’s body shuddered as blood ran from his nose and ears. The Master was entering the stairwell as it dropped lifeless to the floor.

* * *

Brotherhood teams were the first in; they had orders to seize key points, to control the outcome, and to turn the fighting away from Sartak and his goal of the comm center. Their Confederation allies followed closely behind, directed by officers in gray. Fighting hand to hand and in quick, sharp exchanges of fire, they moved through the base room by room, corridor by corridor, stairwell by bloody stairwell. Once certain that Sartak was within the base, Amik had ordered all exits closed with Brotherhood units waiting at each. Caught with nowhere to run, the garrison fought desperately and hopelessly in an uncoordinated defense.

The reason for this lack of coordination became apparent as the bodies of Imperial officers, their throats cut, were discovered by the advancing units. Suspicions aroused by the demonstrated skill were confirmed by the discovery of the base’s senior engineer with a Direwolf knife still in his throat and several corpses in blue nearby. Two carried wolfshead daggers. The motivation for the assassinations remained unclear.

* * *

Corporal Jarnes was sitting just where the corridor branched, next to the body of his latest protégé. He leaned against his rifle; his eyes focused on some distant point and appeared indifferent to the movement of men around him. A few tried to talk to him, but he ignored them all until one voice penetrated.

“That’s a weapon, not an armrest or a crutch, Corporal. Pick it up and get moving.”

He rose slowly to stand face to face with the unit “advisor” who turned to move off down the corridor. Five or six paces separated them when the corporal spoke with an intensity that stopped the man.”

“Where were you?” As the man he knew to be Zorantian turned to face him, Corporal Jarnes continued what would have been a scream except that it was so quiet. “Do you know how many of these boys I’ve buried in the last twenty years while the politicians and the generals played their games? I don’t even remember this one’s name. He was only with us for a week or two. I forget, exactly. Where were you? Where have you been? You were always the only hope we ever had. Where were you?” His voice died on the last question and he sagged back against the wall.

The man before him had listened through the tirade. Now he replied, closing the distance between them, his own voice intense and filled with rage. “Where were we? Where were you when they came to kill us? You say you were not there? How many of the men you follow were? How many of them have paid for that? Where were you, Corporal? Where are you now?”

The lash of his voice was no longer quiet and it left the corporal quivering. The Zorantian was gone before he looked up again. Slowly, he began to trudge after him, looking for the enemy to kill. Within his mind, he asked himself repeatedly: “Where were you? Where are you?” until the answers began to come clear.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“This has been a pointless insanity. We were wrong about the outcome of the battle and we were wrong about the discovery of the base. You do realize that?” Reth was speaking quietly to Deb alone as they prepared to go down to the surface.

The Last of the Brotherhood looked at him, his green eyes as hard as the emeralds they resembled. “The Brotherhood needed blooding, Reth. As Sarr’a has argued so often, we are not smugglers. We are warriors. It is time to stop skulking and to reclaim our heritage. In itself, you are right. Militarily, this battle is for nothing. For the Brotherhood, it is our return.”

“Besides,” A touch of playfulness replaced the relentless logic. “I needed to secure the stage for the meeting of Master Sartak and Nat Bahadur. Fior chose this place. Shortly, Sarr’a’s clan will have captured it for us and the play can begin.”

Even knowing Deb as well as he did, Reth was still shaken by the depth of hatred in his expression.

“Deb,” he began and stopped, unable to continue because Colonel Murthoc had arrived. Suspicious, he looked at the Last of the Brotherhood’s now emotionless face and thought he detected a ghost of satisfaction there.

“Sit down, Colonel,” he said. There was no point in exasperation; Deb had taught him that years ago. “Strap yourself in. Deb is not known as a sedate pilot.”

“I noticed,” said the colonel with some feeling. “I’ve never seen a battle cruiser used as a battering ram before.”

“I believe Colonel Murthoc is a poet, Reth. Not a strictly accurate description, but it catches the heart of the matter.”

The airlock was closed and their shuttle was dropping rapidly away from the ship before he spoke again.

“The Shamshir and the Direwolves thought it important to be here.”

To fight a battle because others give it an importance you cannot yet see, thought Reth. There are worse reasons, but it is a perilous course. How do you choose sides?

* * *

“Where is Deb?” Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador looked behind Reth, her eyebrows raised slightly.

“I am here for your report on the status of the battle, commander.” It had taken a direct order from the Last of the Brotherhood to send him away. He was not going to discuss that with her.

Refraining from comment, she reported. “The base is ours. There are still a few fighting; we will have them shortly. Evacuation of the casualties is proceeding as planned and the charges are being set to demolish the base. Do you require more specific information?”

“You missed a Direwolf outside the base.” He placed a slight emphasis on the pronoun. “He is dead.”

She smiled. “That should be all of them, except the Shamshir.” Reth would most certainly have identified him. She saw him wince and noticed the blood on his arm. “Sit down. I will call . . . ”

“I do not have time, commander.” Seeing the stubborn set of her jaw, he continued. “Tie something around it to stop the bleeding then. I have to get back to Deb.”

Cutting his sleeve open with her knife, Sarr’a shook her head. The slash was long and deep. Her bandage restricted the bleeding, but could not stop it completely. Her hand moved behind them, ordering two to follow, but not interfere unless he needed them.

“Reth. Before you go.” Sarr’a spoke quietly, her hand on his right shoulder. “You should know that Vren was killed.”

He had almost forgotten how bad it felt to learn of the death in battle of an old friend. She had saved him from reading it on a casualty list; he was grateful.

“A serious loss to your clan.” Reth was remembering his own words to Deb about the pointlessness of the battle when she spoke again.

“I hope his game is worth the price.”

Rising, he looked down at her. “His game, commander, is to lead us. You should remember that.” He turned away before she could reply.

* * *

Nat Bahadur was walking almost blindly by the time he entered the base. Deb had been correct; it had only required an open door for him to escape. He knew that he had to be somewhere, with someone, in order to help Master Fior. Where and who did not matter to him: at last, he was going to help his Master. Moving forward in the darkness, he stumbled over a body. His conditioning permitted him to awaken just enough to avoid further obstacles.

Around him, as he wandered through the corridors, were scenes of pain and death; horror caught in the intense glare of emergency lights or the flicker of fires ignited by the explosions. Nat saw none of it, smelled none of the stench or smoke. The battle was over, but the Brotherhood phalanx detailed to protect him flowed just outside his limited area of perception. He was permitted to find his own way, presumably to Sartak. They were neither to help nor hinder him in his search.

The Last of the Brotherhood had an advantage. He knew precisely where Sartak was to be found and, therefore, was already present in the deep shadows when Nat came through the doors into the comm center. Sartak had been trying to send a message, to piece together enough power from the emergency generators to reach at least the next base. He was beginning to taste the bitterness of failure when he heard the noise outside. Turning to face the doors as they opened, the Master saw the boy who had intrigued him before.

This time the face was not catatonic. It shone with the joy and happiness that come to those about to fulfill the purpose of their lives. Nat had been trained for this moment, but he had no defense against the blast of Power which the Master sent against him. He fell at Sartak’s feet.

The intensity of the emergency lights cast great areas of heavy shadow in the communications center. Sartak bent over the unconscious body of Nat Bahadur, half in and half out of the light, as he worked to revive the boy to the point where interrogation was possible.

“What does that fool Fior expect you to do?” he asked impatiently. “You possess no trace of the Power. Yet, there is something strange . . . ”

Nat stirred and muttered something almost inaudible. Sartak stiffened and drew the dagger he had removed from the Direwolf assassin he had dispatched earlier. It had a very serviceable blade.

“No,” he said. “You are Fior’s abomination. I will not permit it.”

Moving to cut the boy’s throat, he was stopped by a man coming out of the shadows behind him.

“Hold, Sartak.” The words were the lash of a whip. They held him by their sheer force. “Face a man, not a child.”

Sartak’s expression went from deep confusion to sneering contempt as he penetrated the gloom of the center. He recognized the now beardless smuggler he had ordered spaced. And the man’s arrogance deserved the kind of punishment a Master of his level was so very able at. This man was coming between him and his prey and his business.

Deb’s breathing was deep and carried an undercurrent of a growl. He was moving like the great hunting cats he had so long admired. He held Fior; before him stood Sartak. Outwardly calm, a war raged within. This boy, this pawn of Fior’s was nothing. Whatever the plan, it had failed.

That finely tuned, analytical part of him generated the optimum response: kill Sartak and put an end to this. There was the aftermath of this battle and the war now begun to prepare. But a seven-year-old boy remembered and longed for justice and revenge. He began to circle his prey and the child’s pain and needs for the first time in two decades were acknowledged and were to be fulfilled. The child would be served even by the cold, studied skills it had taught itself. There would be no misstep in this revenge.

“So smuggler, we meet again.” Contempt dripped like venom. Fior’s pawn had almost seemed a threat, but was a rag doll at his feet. His fleet destroyed, his base all but captured, his frustrations beyond control, this stupid, arrogant smuggler now offered a final insult, one more impediment to his needed course of action.

“Smuggler. Sartak, you should always know the name of a man you order killed. My father taught me that long ago.”

“Assuming that you are a man and that you ever knew who your father was, why should I care about him or you or your name?” Rage limed his face like a beacon.

“Because my name is Tar Abzoladan, Last of the Brotherhood,” was the whispered response.

Sartak’s blood ran cold as the words washed over him and the smuggler continued to circle into the light so Sartak could clearly see the man who faced him.

“Then you are dead,” said the Master coldly.

“Do I look dead, Sartak? Do I . . . feel dead?” Deb’s voice was mocking. Underneath the surface of his mind, there was a rising current of rage. Controlling his breathing, he watched as Sartak reached for him with the Power. And continued watching as the Master recoiled in horror at what he found.

“Did you think that the Confederation destroyed your fleet, Master? Or took this fortress?” Deb’s sarcasm masked the growing rage which was fueled by the pain pulsing within him. “You destroyed a planet, Sartak. You failed to destroy the Brotherhood.”

“But you were there. Millions of you. We felt you die.” Sartak was regaining some of his poise. Surely this was some kind of trick. He had been there when the Brotherhood died. In the back of his mind, though, there was just a trace of doubt, a doubt which exploded into full belief with Deb’s next words.

“How would you know what the death of a member of the Brotherhood feels like, Sartak?” Deb’s eyes grew glacially distant. He knew. Circling the Master, Deb’s training again told him to make an end to it. Yet, the years of grief and hatred required that his revenge take time. “You cannot feel us when we are alive unless we make it that you may. Yes, Master Sartak.” The sarcasm had returned. “We were there on Zoran. We were there when your fleet appeared above the planet. The entire Brotherhood, save a few hundred who were offworld. But you did not kill us. Your fleet killed one thousand of us. They gave us our lives.” Deb’s voice was rising in intensity, reflecting the madness he felt growing inside himself. There was a black pit opening in front of his feet and he swayed on the edge. “Shall I recite their names, Sartak? Shall I tell you their names?” The last question was a hoarse whisper that left the Master shaken.

“How?” he asked, his aristocratic calm gone. “How?”

“The Thousand stopped time, Sartak. I remember seeing the missiles hanging high above us as we went to the ships. Did you never wonder at the speed with which you destroyed the planet? It is all a matter of physics, Master Sartak. The Brotherhood has existed long enough to know the workings of time and space. You think your new method of travel is unique to you. We have known it for centuries. Have you ever considered the effect of thousands of ships folding space just above a planet’s surface?”

There were two pains growing within him now, two unbearable agonies. One he felt consciously: the child’s memory of overwhelming grief and loss as he felt his parents die. The other was scraped suddenly raw when Nat Bahadur, who had been forgotten on the floor behind Sartak, spoke and tried to rise. The black pit reached up.

“No!” screamed the Last of the Brotherhood as he hurled himself across the chasm.

* * *

Across the base, through the fleet and the vastness of space itself to General Crant’s headquarters and beyond, a wave of shock and horror swept through the Brotherhood. In the Confederation command center, the members of the Brotherhood froze for a moment, then began, without instruction, to prepare to leave. General Crant returned to his office, after an unsuccessful argument with Tul. Outside, the Zorantians had dismantled their displays and were gone. He had Tul’s word that they had won. Why then they were evacuating and destroying the base, he could not totally understand although he did agree that the Confederation could not hold it.

The general sat down heavily behind his desk, then stiffened. In front of him were three detonators, his detonators. They had known his plan. Reaching into a bottom drawer, he pulled out a bottle and a glass. They had left him alive. He’d never understood the Brotherhood; it was too late to try now, Experience told him that the aftermath of this battle would be exhausting. Now that they had actually won, the politicians would have newer and bigger plans. For a few moments, he regretted not blowing everything up.

* * *

Fior’s cadre of Masters, who had arrived as the battle ended and assembled outside the base, felt a shudder in the Power and knew that Sartak was dead. But there was something different, something wrong. They had never felt a member of their Order die that way before. The Masters demanded entry to the base: they had to see the body. The grim faced Zorantians’ answer was a single word: “No.” When pressed, they added: “We have our orders.”

The Masters assumed that those orders came from Baltash Fior and they had orders not to challenge the smugglers.

Reth, his left arm dangling limp and bloody at his side, rushed into the base. Colonel Murthoc, concealed in the shadows just inside the entrance, followed. He had seen the Zorantians turn as one to face the center of the base as he felt the sickness of the Power wash over him and he wondered what had occurred.

From the comm center, Deb was being carried out on a stretcher with Reth weeping at his side as he asked: “Why? Why, Deb?” There was no response.

Despite his own ashen look of horror, the Zorantian in charge of the medical team brought Reth back to a sense of his own responsibilities.

“Deb and that boy . . . Nat Bahadur? were in the base comm. center. We are taking the boy out another entrance. He gave orders before that the boy was to be kept from the Masters. You will need to come with us, Reth. For your arm.” He spoke slowly and carefully, watching both his patients as he did so.

Of course, I will go with them, thought Reth. I cannot leave Deb like that. Then he realized the implications of Deb’s condition.

Turning to a woman at his side, Reth said quietly, “Notify Tor,” before following Deb.

* * *

Colonel Murthoc waited for a moment after they were gone. Then, drawn by a compulsion he could not fully explain, with dark memories of being probed by Tarrask stirred by the blast of Power from within that room, he went through the doors.

When he entered, the comm center was shadowed and silent. There was the smell of death, but only faintly, unlike the rest of the fortress which reeked of blood and body wastes. Elsewhere the Zorantians were busy removing their dead and wounded. There should be enough time before someone missed him. He hoped.

Sartak’s body lay as it had presumably fallen: on his back with his arms and legs splayed outward. He looked like a discarded and very broken toy. Colonel Murthoc activated the recorder in his breast pocket and began a field autopsy, necessarily informal.

“This is the body of Sartak, Master of Darkness. I recognize him from personal experience. The body appears untouched, unwounded. He looks surprised, but that is not unusual. Masters are always stunned when death finds them.” He knelt down next to the chest and examined the body armor. It was unmarked except for an area over the breastbone which had an odd sheen and, although intact, seemed almost to have been crumpled. His forehead creased in perplexity. Rolling the body over, the colonel examined it carefully. There was no apparent mark anywhere else.

“I am removing his body armor which has not been breached. There is an area on the chest which appears odd. The armor plate appears to have been altered almost on an atomic level. I have no way to test that here and no way to remove a sample. There is no visible blood.” His voice grew increasingly puzzled. “There is a massive sagging under the armor in the area of the heart. No marks on the skin, no cuts, no bruising. I am cutting into the chest cavity now . . . ” There was a long pause as he used his knife to slice through the skin. “By God’s . . . ” He stared down at pulverized bone and severed blood vessels. “His heart is gone. Just not there. And there is no exit wound.” Unbidden, his thoughts went back to the Last of the Brotherhood being carried from this room. His right hand had been covered with blood. For a moment, again, the world was not solid.

“But that would mean . . . ” he paused as he became aware of Sarr’a who had evidently been watching him for some time.

“Would mean what, Colonel?” she asked, watching him carefully. He rose and, turning off the recorder, walked slowly toward her.

“Who are you?”

“I, Colonel?” Her voice was matter of fact. “I am clan commander Sarnath Al Cador of the Brotherhood of Zoran.” She wore gray, not black, and her face was streaked with dust and sweat, but she looked it. “Who are you?”

He walked closer to her, ignoring her question in his own need for answers. They stood several paces apart when he stopped. “And what is the Brotherhood of Zoran that this. . . ?”

“Careful, Colonel,” she interrupted in warning. “This is not the time. I do not wish to have to kill you. I am too tired to enjoy it.” Her eyes flashed with a somber laugh, then were grave again. “I have lost friends today and members of my clan. I do not want to lose anyone else. What you are asking, I cannot and will not tell you. The Last of the Brotherhood will answer your questions or he will not. You will continue until you answer them yourself. You may die. I may have to kill you. But please. Not now.” Sarr’a sounded completely sincere. Her sword remained sheathed, as did her knife.

He believed her. He risked one last push: “How is the Last of the Brotherhood?”

She looked at him darkly. “They have set the charges. We are pulling out. You may stay if you are feeling suicidal.” Moving closer, she tilted her head to gaze up at him. “But you don’t seem suicidal to me. In fact, despite your persistent questions, you are the least suicidal offworlder I have ever met. We will continue this later.”

It was a pledge that postponed death and perhaps promised answers. She checked the time. “Let’s go.”

He followed.

AFTERMATH

The High Council of the Order of the Masters of the Chaos out of Darkness was met in the Council chamber on the Order’s home world. They were nine, all chosen by virtue of their birth and ability.

Even here in this chamber, shielded from all foreign eyes, the Councilors remained heavily robed with their cowls pulled down over their faces. They spoke with the familiarity of long service together.

“There is something wrong, I tell you. The probabilities do not support this outcome.” The speaker was known for devotion to statistical analysis.

“Master Fior has defeated Master Sartak as planned. Master Fior has led the Confederation to a great victory and is therefore poised to lead them into the Imperium. The boy, Nat Bahadur, performed as expected.” The Moderator of the Council summed up the reports of the previous hour. “We stand on the verge of fulfilling the age old dream of our Order. All has happened as predicted.”

“But it has not happened as predicted. The defeat of Master Sartak’s fleet was overwhelming. There appear to be few surviving ships. There are wild reports that the Confederation has allied itself with a very strong military force although such an organization does not exist. We have had no contact with Master Fior since before the battle. Where is he?”

“Master Fior is well known to be an idiot who is yet adept at gaining followers and surprisingly clever at increasing his own status. He will reappear, doubtless with a new plan.”

“And the death of Master Tarrask?”

“Normal internecine conflict between Masters,” observed one Councilor dryly. “They are forever fighting with each other.”

“It did not feel right.” The voice was quiet and spoke with authority. The others listened respectfully. “Master Tarrask disappeared from the Power before he died.” There was a murmur of consternation around the circle. “And while Master Sartak was indeed killed by the use of the Power, it had an alien feel.”

“Actually, we have had unconfirmed reports that Master Fior’s presence was felt briefly in the Power during the battle.” The Moderator was revealing new information; the circle listened closely. “This ‘alien feel’ was also reportedly there. I did not mention it because the report is still being investigated. It would seem probable that Master Fior’s plan did indeed work and that it has somehow led to an increase in the Master’s abilities. Perhaps he can even shield himself from us now.” There was a murmur around the group. “I share your concern, Councilors. We must work to regain control of Master Fior and his plans.” Even within the safety of the Council chamber, the Moderator would not name those plans. “As for Master Tarrask, he was questioning Colonel Murthoc at the time of his death?”

There was a nod of confirmation from the recording secretary.

“Then we must watch this colonel closely. He does not like the Masters. He disappears for long periods. It is possible that he has discovered something new. Find him and watch him.”

“Master Tarrask had a recorder accompanying Master Fior. If we can recover the confession, we may understand more fully what has occurred. All of it.” This voice was the Chief of Confessors, the Council’s intelligence arm.

“Proceed cautiously,” the Moderator authorized. “We do not know who or what killed Master Tarrask and we must not jeopardize the recorder until the confession is safely ours.

* * *

From the relative safety of a civilian farm, the Shamshir watched the Confederation forces withdraw. He did not fear betrayal: these people did not know that his men were dead. Terror is a great silencer. He felt the ground rock as massive explosions destroyed the base. Their departure was extremely well ordered and efficient. He knew why the Confederation had moved against this base, or thought he did. He did not know why they were withdrawing. The war between the Imperium and the Confederation involved the exchange of planets and bases, generally in the Imperium’s favor. Why destroy an asset?

Where was Master of Darkness Fior? Why had Lord Sartak’s ship attacked the base and where is he now? How much does he know? Either the Confederation had changed massively or there were other players in the game. He and his men had been betrayed; that was clear. The Shamshir had been playing for high stakes; it annoyed him to be treated as a pawn.

* * *

“I am not the only one whose grief overcomes logic.” She spoke with a note of apology in her voice. “Why that way, Deb? You could have killed Sartak a dozen different ways with your hands alone. He could not have matched you in sword and knife work. Why that way?”

The Last of the Brotherhood’s office was dark; the displays on his desk empty and silent. For the first time since a very distant childhood, he was off duty. For at least that night, Tor was responsible. Sarr’a’s question reached him. It was a good question. He couldn’t remember the answer except that it was blackly evil.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

He sensed her before he saw her. Sarr’a was simply there. Looking up, the colonel saw her nude body poised above the waterfall which dropped through the jagged rocks and vines to a basin carved by the water’s action from solid granite. She was dancing and he was caught through her dance in a wonder and rapture which came from her union with the world around them. The movements were not familiar: they seemed part dance, part gymnastic, and wholly Sarr’a in a way he had not perceived before. She was one with the trees and the water and with him.

A sharp joy cut through him as he recognized again what had been true since her very dark eyes had first met his. Her dance held him, the silent music enfolding him until, too soon, she stood poised again at the top of the waterfall and this time arced out and down. As she dropped past the rocks into the water below, the world stood still and breathless. He breathed again when she surfaced. Sarr’a floated, all but motionless, near the center of the pool. The connection between them was gone and he turned, almost in pain, to find Tor standing several feet behind him.

She spoke across his attempts to apologize for his intrusion.

“You are honored, Colonel. Sarr’a dances for herself; she rarely permits anyone to watch.” She saw his surprise. “Do you really think that she didn’t know you were there?”

He hadn’t actually thought about any aspect of Sarr’a’s dance yet. The experience had involved feeling, not thought. Tor wasn’t looking at him anymore.

“I am tired of offworlders. I am tired of the best of you seeing us as some sort of robotic soldiers. I am tired of being seen as a high caste prostitute. Yes, Colonel, I know I look like a Twilleran pleasure woman. To be perfectly accurate, they look like me. It is not surprising since they were bred three centuries ago, genetically altered, to satisfy the offworlder craving for ‘Zorantian’ women. Their creators didn’t bother with brains or anything of that sort, of course, and they ignored the obvious fact that not all Brotherhood women are tall and blonde.”

She turned back to him, suddenly, blazingly angry.

“You want her. No, it is not necessary to reply. Your reactions are obvious. You don’t know her. You have seen something of Sarr’a, but until today you had seen almost nothing of Sarnath Al Cador. You know nothing about her. You know nothing about the Brotherhood.”

“Tell me.”

He was also angry. Who was she to tell him what he could want? What he could have… He had accepted the impossibility of that and was living with it. He didn’t need the Last of the Brotherhood’s sister explaining it to him.

“You are all so arrogantly certain of your superiority and yet you hide yourselves. You never showed us anything but the soldiers.”

Tor looked at him, her head up and her eyes appraising. The colonel could see the resemblance to her brother in the way she stood and in her expression.

“Do you think that your people tried to destroy us because we are better soldiers, Colonel? Their greatest hope is that we are nothing more than mindless martinets; killing machines directed by a mercenary’s fee. We are superior. It is not arrogance although many of us have that too. Shall I show you something of who we are? You have already seen Sarnath Al Cador dance. Come. I will show you more.

“We are trained almost from birth to be ourselves, Colonel. You cannot understand that because your people train you to conform to their expectations. Each of us is an individual, self-reliant and exploring our relationship to the world around us. We each have our abilities and our weaknesses; combined we are the Brotherhood. But the ‘we’ is always by choice.”

“How can you have choice on a battlefield?” Professional curiosity was, as always, a useful refuge. He was, after all, the head of the Confederation’s intelligence service. And information about the Brotherhood was difficult to find, except when they chose to tell him.

“The choice is made before the battle. We recognize that discipline is necessary in some circumstances and war is one of them. Any one of us who cannot accept that does not choose the Brotherhood.”

She was leading him through a wooded area, where ferns grew at the base of tall trees. The valley was lovely. Colonel Murthoc was beginning to see a pattern in the placement of Brotherhood bases. This was only the third that he had visited if you counted the one where clan commander Sarnath Al Cador had unceremoniously left him after the battle for Kuarmian, but their preferences were apparent. Located on otherwise uninhabited worlds, at least by intelligent life, their bases were inside mountains or escarpments and were not visible from the surface. And they were beautiful locations. Trees here reached up into a crystalline blue sky, framing the peaks of the surrounding mountains.

Those trees grew thinner and they entered a large clearing. Just to one side, there was a statue of a hart in full flight. It appeared frozen in a single moment in time as it ran.

“And what do you do to the ones who don’t choose the Brotherhood?” That was something he had always wondered about.

“What do you imagine that we do?” Her voice became mildly derisive. “Kill them? That would be rather coercive, would it not? We find them places in your world. That is severe enough, I think, although it is not meant as a punishment. We give them every assistance that we can.”

He would swear that the hart had moved. She saw him eyeing it.

“Deb did that. And yes, Colonel, it does appear to move. Touch it.” His fingers could not reach the statue; there was a transparent block around it. “It is made of microcrystalline layers which change with the light. If you could watch it long enough, you would see it become the cat which chases the hart. It took my brother months until he was satisfied.”

“Deb is a sculptor?”

Most of what he knew about the Last of the Brotherhood did not point to an artistic sensibility, although his ordering of the recent battle showed an unorthodox turn of mind. The man was, after all, also the extremely vicious head of the galaxy’s largest criminal organization, the smugglers.

“When he has time. My brother is also a mathematician. We share a love of music. He made me a flute which he carved from semiprecious gemstone crystals. The hardest part, he said, was the stops. He worked with them for over a year trying different solutions. Reth finally made him crystalline strands of a molecule’s width for the springs.”

“Reth is our best metallurgist, Colonel.” Sarr’a spoke from behind him. This time he had felt her arrival. He didn’t know however if he was getting better or she was being polite. “And our best crystallographer. At least, now.”

She was referring to comments he had made about the degeneration of the Brotherhood during its years of hiding and she was fully aware that he had not meant a word of it.

“I shall apologize to him if you think it necessary, commander.” Colonel Murthoc turned as he spoke.

She was wearing a light robe and sandals and her hair was still wet. Her eyes were very gravely considering him and he wished that circumstances were different. Why had she permitted him, an offworlder, to watch her dance? He called himself sternly to attention and turned deliberately back to Tor and their previous conversation.

“Why do Zorantians like swords?”

It was the best he could do as a question, but he was curious. Swords were rather antique given modern weaponry. Although his father had told some strange stories of Zorantians armed only with swords facing energy weapons.

“Fighting with a sword requires personal courage and skill.” It was Sarr’a who answered him. “And we are not ‘Zorantians.’ We are Brotherhood.”

“When does the Last of the Brotherhood arrive?” Murthoc asked abruptly.

Behind him, Sarr’a’s expression grew remote.

“My brother is here now,” said Tor. “We are to meet with the others in about an hour.” She was frowning as they walked back to the base together.

* * *

The Last of the Brotherhood’s command center on this base was an almost exact copy of the one where the colonel had first met Deb. By the comments made by those transporting the colonel, this base, commanded by Tor, was more conveniently located than Sarr’a’s for most of the Brotherhood. Knowledge of that convenience didn’t help him much: Murthoc didn’t know the location of either base. Deb’s desk was the same, as was the window behind it. This view was different, looking out across a wide plain. Trees on the lower slopes of the mountains gave way quickly to flowing grasslands which stretched away to a distant horizon.

This was the first that he had seen Deb since the battle and its extraordinary end. That had been three days ago. Positioning himself in a chair to one side of the room, the colonel watched as the Last of the Brotherhood greeted the clan commanders (Colonel Murthoc counted fourteen, eight of them female) and his senior staff. Carried from the room in which Lord Sartak, Master of Darkness, had died; the man now looked tired, but well. There had been blood dripping from his right hand; a hand that now appeared uninjured although it did seem to twitch occasionally. There had been no external injuries to the body of Sartak; his heart had been inexplicably missing.

Deb began when they were all seated.

“Colonel Murthoc is here as liaison with our allies, the Confederation,” he said, pitching his voice to be heard clearly throughout the room. “We need to plan our course of action now that we have defeated Sartak’s fleet and thoroughly annoyed the Imperium.”

To the colonel’s eye, the senior commanders of the Brotherhood did not seem amused and actually looked a good deal more serious than the situation appeared to warrant. He began to wonder if, perhaps, his own presence was to prevent a discussion that the Last of the Brotherhood wished to avoid. Seeing no way to test that without leaving, he was not going to give up this opportunity to watch them at work. Particularly if they viewed the overwhelming destruction of Sartak’s fleet as a loss.

He became aware of clan commander Kalibarrna who had taken the chair next to his and was now facing him. Tor was smiling, but her eyes were serious.

“If I tell you to leave, Colonel Murthoc, don’t argue. Do so quickly.” She watched his reaction. “It is not possible to analyze data when you are dead and you will die if you hear too much.” She saw his reluctant acceptance of that and continued in a slightly lighter tone. “I must apologize for some of what I said earlier, Colonel.” His gaze went involuntarily to Sarr’a, now in the black uniform of the Brotherhood, who was seated across the room. “Primarily that part, yes. We must speak again later. There is something you should know.”

She turned away from him and with exquisite timing spoke just as her brother stopped behind her.

“Yes, Deb. We have quite finished.”

She sounded exactly like a contrite schoolgirl caught gossiping with her friends in class. Behind the Last of the Brotherhood, the colonel could see some grins and the tension in the room diminished perceptibly. Looking at Deb, he could have sworn that there was just a trace of laughter in the emerald eyes, but his face remained severe as he turned back to face the Brotherhood.

“We have destroyed one sixth of the Imperium’s fleet including about half of their most modern ships. We continue to search for survivors; it is doubtful any remain.”

Colonel Murthoc was still shocked by the savagery shown by the Brotherhood during the battle. They had given no quarter and taken no prisoners except the crew of Sartak’s flagship. That was going to cause problems for the Confederation the next time they fought. He could understand the rationale: a clear report of the battle would have pointed to the impossible, the continued survival of the Brotherhood of Zoran. It was still difficult to accept the slaughter.

“Sartak is dead. The Rajkar emperor is reportedly inconsolable There is a power vacuum as the Master had, of course, no designated successor. We are examining his ship for any information, which could assist us. Unfortunately, his files are encrypted and rather surprisingly well. It appears that he kept the key himself. It will take time.

“The Imperium is shocked by the battle. They had come to view your Confederation as theirs, Colonel, whenever they chose to take another bite.”

Murthoc began to understand that the price of victory in this battle could be the war itself.

“They will be better prepared and more dangerous next time.”

And will you be there? thought the colonel. Deb answered the question as he continued.

“We have perhaps six months before they will be prepared to launch a major offensive. It may be possible to delay that with sabotage at their naval yards. Supplying drugs has its rewards, Colonel. You would be alarmed to know how many well placed Imperial officers are addicts.”

Colonel Murthoc was beginning to appreciate how the smugglers’ operations covered the movements of the Brotherhood and their ships throughout the galaxy. Now he began to see just how useful a criminal organization could be. Deb was watching him; he supposed that some of his uglier comments about Red Beard must have gotten back to their inspiration. He was not sorry. Understanding the Last of the Brotherhood’s logic was one thing; approving of his ruthless disregard for anyone outside the Brotherhood was distinctly another. He met the green eyes without flinching.

Tul spoke from the front row.

“We will need a permanent staff working with General Crant, Deb. Slightly less impressive in terms of rank and experience this time, I think. Most of us are a little busy to spend all of our time in the Confederation. I have a few recommendations, if you like. Are we still restricted to males?”

Deb looked to the colonel, who shrugged.

“General Crant doesn’t care and, after this battle especially, his staff will take their tone from him. I don’t know how long you’re planning on continuing the pretense that you are not the Brotherhood, but I wouldn’t think it would work all that much longer. We aren’t all stupid. Lord Rys,” he named the head of the Imperium’s intelligence bureau. “Will be studying even the sketchy reports of the battle that he’s getting and the undoubtedly less sketchy reports from our capital about our new allies. Unless he has a drug addiction of which I am unaware, he will reach the same conclusion that I would: there is something very dangerous out there and all of my previous assumptions would have to be questioned. The Brotherhood would appear a possible, if unlikely, answer very quickly. He does lip service to the Masters because he supports their goals. He is not blind to their faults. And he is not likely to believe smugglers accomplished this. At least, not for very long.”

“So they unite in their holy war.” That was clan commander Sarnath Al Cador and her voice was bitter. “We hide among the filth of the galaxy for over a decade and they come to destroy us after all. Do we continue to react to them, Deb, or do we bring the war to the Imperium? Even that does not solve the real problem.”

Her face reflected the grimness now pervading the room.

What are they afraid of? wondered the colonel. What is this ‘real problem?’ Even if what I have seen is all that they have, and I seriously doubt that, they can throw us all into chaos and anarchy for generations. Why will they not? They risk another attack against them by the civilized worlds; no, they are certain of it. There is no logic in their forbearance.

On the theory that, if he didn’t look at her, Tor couldn’t tell him to leave; the colonel kept his eyes firmly on Deb.

“We will plan holding actions for now,” said the Last of the Brotherhood somewhat heavily. “There is,” he glanced toward Murthoc. “There is something wrong and, until we know what it is, we must be careful. Is that boy conscious yet?” He looked at Reth.

And what, thought the colonel, does Nat Bahadur have to do with this? Nat had been in the room with Sartak and the Last of the Brotherhood when the Master had been killed. He would push his aide, Major Tren, to find out more about the boy.

“No, Deb. Not yet. They say a few more days.”

“Then I will see you, Colonel, at the smuggler’s base on Ganthos in seven days. You remember the clearances? You may come in uniform, if you wish, but it may cause some misunderstandings.”

That was a dismissal he couldn’t ignore especially as Reth was coming to escort him to his ship. Beside him, Tor moved as though she would say something, then shrugged.

He was almost to the door when Sarr’a intercepted him.

“Before you leave, Colonel, I was asked to give you this.” She handed him a short list of names, all male, with military rank appended. “It is a clan matter.” She spoke to Reth who nodded and stepped back to wait. “These are the officers and men we found promising on Kuarmian, Colonel. They would repay your Confederation’s time in training them. Secondly, all of my people made the same observation. I pass it to you. Your soldiers seem to always assume that anyone behind their lines must be their friend.” Her face was very serious as she continued. “They will not always be Brotherhood, Colonel.”

“Thank you, commander. I will convey your recommendations to General Crant.”

And the Brotherhood will not always be our friends; he finished her thought silently as he left with Reth.

Behind them, Tar Abzoladan turned again to the assembled command officers. He waited until Sarr’a was again seated and silence was absolute before speaking.

“I was wrong in my initial assessment of this battle. The Confederation was to have ‘won.’ There would have been no retreat past Tashforan, no discovery of our base.

“However,” his voice cut through the silence. “I was right that we had to be there. I still do not know why. Something is very wrong.” Drawing himself up, he seemed to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. “Some of you have questions about Sartak. When I know the answers, you will have them.

CHAPTER TWO

Colonel Murthoc stood in the doorway, his office oddly empty without the clan commander. It had been irritating having to explain his plans to her, but… His thoughts were interrupted by a woman carrying two very dusty boxes.

“These are for Major Tren,” she said, setting them on the major’s desk and saluting. “Archival material he requested. I’m Lieutenant Karel, sir. Chief researcher for the intelligence section.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he responded. “I’ll see that he knows it’s there. It’s made rather a mess of your uniform, hasn’t it?”

She looked down at the dust smears and smiled.

“That’s all right, sir. I’m used to it. Though the things he’s wanted lately have been dustier than usual.”

Brushing off the grime as she walked, she was gone.

Colonel Murthoc looked through a few of the items in the top box and wondered how discreet his chief researcher was. Then he shrugged. Everyone knew of his interest in the Brotherhood. Maybe he should just announce that he was writing a history.

“How are your researches going, Major?”

His aide was carrying another box.

“I’m back to our earliest records, sir. There’s no mention of any promise by the Brotherhood, although the stories are fascinating. They are a charismatic people.”

“Charismatic is putting it politely, I think,” the colonel said dryly. “The Confederation only goes back about six hundred years. That’s probably not far enough. I need to know about the Brotherhood and the Algolana. That’s thousands of years.” And I’m not even sure why I know it’s important.

“It’s all just legends, sir.” Major Tren shook his head. “We don’t have anything that proves the Algolana ever existed.”

The colonel’s eyebrows went up. Galactic society in its present form seemed adequate proof of that.

“I mean formal proof, sir. Physical evidence or eyewitness testimony here in the Confederation. The worlds that have that are in the middle of the Imperium, generally. Our distant ancestors were more combative and tended to get completely wiped out. Or almost, before they ran. There certainly isn’t anything about what the Brotherhood may or may not have done to the demon Chosen of God. That’s over fifteen thousand years ago.”

“Well, see what else you can find out.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a suppressed note of resignation in the major’s voice. His job was to find the information his colonel required; he would do it. He began to consider how he was going to gain access to Imperium records this time.

“Have you found out anything about this boy, Nat Bahadur?”

That he had an answer for.

“He’s an orphan, sir. The Masters run an orphanage on a planet called Thune for several dozen children. He seems to be the oldest.”

“The Masters?” The colonel’s voice was incredulous. They were not a social service agency. “Do we know why they run an orphanage for these children? Who are they and where are they from? Is there something special about them?”

“That I don’t know yet, sir. Since it’s staffed by Masters, it is hard to place someone inside. According to my informant, they all seem to come from the same place, but he doesn’t know where. Perhaps it you asked our new allies?”

He made an oblique reference to the fact that members of the Brotherhood seemed immune to the Power of the Masters.

“Perhaps,” said Colonel Murthoc.

There was no guarantee that they would share any information with him; he rather suspected they would not.

“How are things in the Imperium?”

“A trifle chaotic, sir. There’s no one to take Sartak’s place and, of course, they aren’t used to losing.” He smiled. “We’re not used to winning which is making it a little chaotic here as well. General Crant wants to talk to you. So does the Vice Chancellor - tonight at his office would be good, he said. I believe he is there almost constantly now.”

The major hesitated then continued.

“I will have a summary of the Brotherhood’s history on your desk in the morning. At least, as far back as I can go. I’m working on some correlations about Red Beard and the smugglers, some things that have bothered me for awhile, but I haven’t completed it yet.” Major Tren rose to leave. “That’s all I have, sir.”

Colonel Murthoc watched his aide for a moment, then spoke before he had made it to the door.

“That’s not all, Tren. You’re worried about something.”

The major did not quite meet his eyes as he swung back around.

“What is it, Jon?”

“Sir,” Major Tren looked uncomfortably at his superior, then sat down again. “It’s about the clan commander, Colonel. The night before you left… the police reports listed five unusual street killings: one with his neck broken, three with their throats torn out, and one who was sliced into several pieces before he died. Gossip says it was Sarr’a.”

He looked up into Colonel Murthoc’s face, his own extremely serious. He had after all watched her kill one thug and his own reaction had been profoundly disturbing.

“They weren’t surprised, sir. She has reportedly done it before.”

“Five?” said the colonel evenly. “She said she’d killed some scum, but she didn’t say how many.”

“Then you knew, sir?” Major Tren still looked doubtful. “Do you know why?”

“Battle nerves or at least that’s what I thought. Why? What do your sources say?”

“They say she kills men when she gets… edgy, sir. Lures them in, then kills them when they touch her. Sometimes quite spectacularly according to the stories.”

The bleak look on his colonel’s face was confirming the major’s deductions about his feelings for the clan commander. In fact, Murthoc was seeing her in a robe, her hair wet, her eyes very grave and he could hear her voice saying: “It is not my responsibility to tell them that one of the choices is death.”

Both satisfied and unhappy that he had made his point, Major Tren rose again to leave. This time, the colonel remained silent as the major went through the door. Staring into space as he tried to reason through what was essentially an unreasonable situation, after awhile he gave up. It was difficult to believe that he had misread her so badly. But, if the flashpoint was touching her, he would not do so again. Turning resolutely to his work, Colonel Murthoc pushed the resultant ache from his conscious mind.

* * *

In a room high above the Confederation’s capital city, Vice Chancellor Ant’n considered the five men before him. They were seated at a large conference table and it was very late. The Vice Chancellor was, in fact, the most powerful man in the Confederation although that power had lessened as Master Baltash Fior had seduced the members of the Senate with his own plans. Chancellors came and went: it was a largely honorary position. Ant’n had held office for twenty-three years and had built his power base carefully. The lack of formal authority within the government structure had laid him open to attack from the Masters. It made him vulnerable now in a way he had not anticipated. He suspected that only the continued, unexplained absence of Master Fior was preventing a direct move against him.

“We face a serious crisis, gentlemen,” he said in summary of their discussions. “Fior promised them victory and it has come to pass. The fools do not understand the consequences. They speak in the Senate as though we will take the Imperium tomorrow.”

Ant’n looked severely at Senator Noren Brintossi, who shook his head.

“Junior members, sir. The leadership permits them to make speeches.”

“And the speeches calling for my resignation because I opposed Master Fior’s plan? Your juniors grow ambitious, Senator.” The Vice Chancellor sat down heavily. “Victory is a heady wine. They think themselves part of a government now, with real spoils to divide. They will insist on more battles to retake planets and systems we have lost. If we stand against them, we will be brushed aside. They are already in full hue and cry because the base on Kuarmian was destroyed and our forces withdrawn.”

“Why did we withdraw, General?” The Senator turned to General Crant. “I thought the plan was to hold the planet.”

“That was the original plan, yes. We could not hold it.” The general spoke shortly.

Senator Brintossi was not aware of the Confederation’s alliance with the Brotherhood. He seemed to accept them as smugglers, as did the Masters. This complacent acceptance was raising a question in Colonel Murthoc’s mind about the Senator. Of late, he had seemed to incline more and more toward the Masters’ viewpoint albeit in subtle ways.

“We should be able to withstand their hearings.”

That was Ant’n’s political adviser. He was relatively new to the group, although he had worked for the Vice Chancellor for almost a decade.

“The usual routine of answering all their questions openly and honestly.” Smiling cynically, he continued. “With Master Fior missing…”

“Will the Master be returning soon, Colonel?” Ant’n’s question was blunt and the colonel caught a flash of interest in the Senator’s eyes.

“I don’t know, sir, although I doubt it. The man who can answer that question does not confide his plans to me. I believe that it is possible that the Confederation is no longer of paramount interest to Master Fior.”

And that is as direct an answer as I can give with these others present, he thought. Senator Brintossi was regarding him thoughtfully. General Crant looked bored. If Ant’n would not meet with him privately, this was a waste of time.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I am scheduled to confer with him again in a few days time. I have a lot of work to finish first. If you require a more private briefing…?”

“I will contact your office, Colonel.”

The tone was dismissive. Murthoc was right: he could not give a briefing on the Brotherhood and their plans now. Those plans seemed rather irrelevant to Ant’n anyway, preoccupied as he was with his political survival.

“General, I presume you have matters to discuss with the colonel?”

Accepting this reprieve with alacrity, the general moved to follow the intelligence section chief out. Behind them, the Vice Chancellor addressed the remaining three men.

“We may need something more than answers for the fact finding committees. The general is certainly expendable.”

“This time, sir, we may need more than just a military scapegoat.” This was his political analyst. “Colonel Murthoc has been in the middle of this and, frankly sir, the stories about him are getting a little strange what with…”

He did not feel that he could continue with such lurid gossip and was confident that Ant’n understood his allusion.

“The colonel has worked very hard for the Confederation. I would be loath to lose him.”

The Vice Chancellor was obviously considering the suggestion. There was a silence broken finally by Senator Brintossi.

“As you say, he works very hard. And I would not want to discover during the process of removing him, that he had more friends than were apparent.”

Ant’n was too experienced a player to show his surprise, but his agreement came just a shade too readily in the Senator’s judgment.

“You’re right. We will have to consider the matter more carefully before proceeding. It is not necessary to decide this evening.”

How would the Brotherhood react to a move against their liaison? Most especially the clan commander who was at the root of the lurid gossip.

Games within games thought the fourth member of the group, who had chosen as usual to listen silently. They cannot see how stupidly irrelevant their Confederation is becoming. But where is Fior?

Outside, the general and the colonel had paused for a few moments to discuss the battle. They spoke of the juggernaut which had smashed Sartak’s fleet and the taking of the fortress on Kuarmian which had been done almost as a child’s tactical game. The colonel did not speak of Sartak’s end. He had not yet decided its importance.

“Here, sir.” He proffered the list given to him by the clan commander. “Sarr’a gave me that for you. She said her people commended them for their actions on the battlefield and recommended that they be trained. Properly, by implication.”

General Crant laughed shortly.

“Keep it, Colonel. A recommendation from me right now would probably end their careers.” He shook his head at the colonel’s look of inquiry. “For an intelligence officer, you have a damn poor grasp of politics, Cully. They’re deciding which one of us to throw to the wolves. I think the only question is, do you go with me? Your friend, the clan commander, makes it both easier and harder, I think. But you’ll probably survive this one because Ant’n doesn’t know what she’ll do.”

The general turned away to walk home. No one was going to save him from those wolves this time. He was almost certain that he didn’t care.

Colonel Murthoc watched him go, conscious of a rising disgust with his own government and the people who permitted its actions. He knew that the term democracy was a rather loose description of the actual day to day government, but this made him feel ill. Oddly, there was also just the slightest wish that they would force his resignation. That he dismissed. How could he continue to find out about the Brotherhood except this way?

* * *

“Fior’s recorder has returned, Highborn.” His whispered confession reached the ears of the gray robed figure who nodded. “The confession will be difficult to retrieve without endangering the receptacle. With Master Tarrask dead…”

“Do nothing without certainty of the safety of that confession. It is of paramount importance.”

Harshly rasped though the interruption was, the threat was clear. Penance would be severe if he failed.

“Yes, Highborn. It shall be so.”

“And the other?”

“It is difficult to place this recorder, Highborn. Colonel Murthoc moves often from place to place and he travels alone.”

Closing his eyes, he awaited the anger and the penance. There was a long silence; the cold stone seemed to pull the warmth from his body as he lay face down.

“Perhaps fasting will help you through this difficulty. You may eat bread and water only this week, penitent. Come back when you have succeeded.”

It was a public penance and therefore a humiliation before his fellow Masters.

“Thank you, Highborn.”

Rising, he made the proper genuflection before he left.

* * *

“Tren! Are you certain about this?”

His aide hurried in at his call.

“Which part, sir? I believe I differentiated between definite and tentative conclusions.”

Colonel Murthoc regarded the major in both disbelief and admiration.

“At this rate, you will have my job. Assuming you would want it, of course. You put all of this together in the last week or so?”

“Actually, sir, the anomalies have been bothering me for some time. For instance, the coincidence of collaboration between smuggling organizations and Starways Industries. Sometimes, they seem to know each other’s minds. It requires careful reading of shipping records to find the correlations: cargoes shipped impossibly early before the need was known, for example. But they are there.”

Murthoc shook his head.

“This is worse than missing them in the first place. How much of the Imperium do they own?”

“The two largest naval yards, several civilian ship builders, two weapons manufacturers, several agricultural combines, and the major medical supply house. That’s for certain. There are other possibilities.”

“Smuggling pays even better than I thought.”

And that is why they knew Sartak’s ship could handle going into atmosphere: they built it.

“Yes, sir. The primary corporation is Starways. It is, oddly enough, run by a Lady who inherited it from her father.”

Colonel Murthoc had a sudden cold feeling, something Sarr’a had said.

“Do we have a holo of this woman?”

“We should, sir. She’s very well known in the Imperium, being both beautiful and rich.”

Major Tren’s fingers moved across the keys. The colonel stared at the resultant display. The woman was expensively dressed. Through her fashionably arranged blonde hair ran enough diamonds to finance his department for the next century. And Rik grinned when I said Imperium ships were built by the Emperor’s favorites. No, I will not follow that line of thought.

“Very beautiful. Obviously very rich and just as deadly as the one we had visiting us, I suspect. Clan commander Kalibarrna, Tren. His sister, Tor.”

The Brotherhood was not in the business of building empires, she said. What did she consider an empire? His sister calls him… He winced, almost in pain.

“What do they own here, Major?”

“To the best of my knowledge, Colonel, nothing. I suspect we are not stable enough as an investment.”

Colonel Murthoc sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

“That’s probably just as well. Sarr’a as a rich heiress could get messy.”

His aide grinned for a moment, then decided that now was probably a good time.

“Sir. Would it be possible for me to take a few days leave? My sister, Mirrim, is in town and I would like to show her around.” The colonel looked thoughtful, so he continued. “I know we’re busy and you’re leaving again, but I have everything you’ve asked about in train and I can come back at night to make up the reports for you.”

He drew a breath.

“Jon,” the colonel put up his hands. “I was simply trying to remember the last time you asked for leave. Of course, you may have it. And you’re right. You will have to come back at night to send me reports. Unless we can figure out who our spy is and have him do it.” He waved a dismissal. “Get me the paperwork to sign, Tren. And have a good time with your sister. Give her my greetings and apologies for not being in town to see her.”

Turning back to the major’s report, the colonel began to read it again very carefully.

CHAPTER THREE

Malachite mountains rose to tower high above the amethyst plain. It almost hurt to breathe the crystalline clarity of the air, yet he was exhilarated. For a moment, before he remembered, he was home and at peace.

Then he always remembered. He had never actually been here of course. This Zoran had been destroyed thousands of years before his birth. The hunt began then, coming closer and closer as it became more and more difficult to move. At the last, standing frozen in the moment before discovery, he would awaken, screaming inside his head. Screams echoed and echoed in his ears, but no one else ever heard them.

Not even Reth. He would lie down again in the darkness of his room and plan intricate battles in his head. Anything to avoid sleep. When he was younger, Reth sat beside his bed and they had talked quietly, sometimes for hours, until he had slept without dreaming, but now…

Now the dreams were back. Grimly, the Last of the Brotherhood faced the unpalatable truth that he couldn’t avoid sleep forever. He was also running out of distractions for Reth. Even Sarr’a had commented on his looking tired and she wasn’t known for caring much how he felt. Especially since the morning after the battle.

Half asleep now, his thoughts carried him back to waking up with her beside him. For just a moment, before he had moved and really been awake, he had felt… he wasn’t sure what he’d felt. It was gone, but he had slept that night and not more than a few hours together since.

Thinking back to that night, he was at least more awake. He had a problem to solve. Why had he slept then, without dreaming, when logically it should have been worse? He could remember the darkness, the terrifying blackness in Sartak’s mind. That night came back with a rush and he felt again the terrible icy cold in his hand: the hand that had ripped out Sartak’s still beating heart. He had been fiercely glad about that, but the darkness had risen up around him and he couldn’t find any way back.

It had been worse.

Sarr’a put him to bed after he had walked away from the doctors and then she’d been talking to Amik in the other room, his office. Their voices had sounded very far away.

“Have there been any changes?”

“No, clan commander.” Clan second Merik Nataen was brisk. “The medical and casualty reports remain the same. As is the tactical situation.”

“I will be here with Deb. You will handle anything up to an attack on the clan, Amik. Tor is acting as Deb’s second.”

“Understood. Is he recovering?”

“No.”

She had paused and thought of another question.

“Where is Reth?”

And for a moment, a greater blackness had threatened as Deb waited for Amik’s answer.

“He’s getting his arm attended to on one of the medical ships. I doubt they’ll be able to hold him much longer, but it will take him several hours to get here.”

“I will see you in the morning then. Unless something develops.”

He had begun to shiver convulsively and did not remember anything until she had put her arms around him and held him against her body. Through the blackness, he could just hear her telling him to sleep, that he was safe. And underneath everything, he could feel her. Not just physically, but a presence, almost a light. He had moved closer. She had held his hand and the cold had eased. And he had slept. Dreamless. Almost, the feeling was enough to relax him now. Almost.

He continued to remember, still fighting to avoid sleep. The next morning, he had bullied Tor into returning to her clan. And he had satisfied Reth with only mildly evasive answers. They had been too busy with the aftermath of battle and Reth had still been half-sedated.

Sarr’a had left quickly. He didn’t like remembering that; he had been vicious. He’d been watching her sleep and when she woke up, he’d said something about this being pleasant, but had she been invited. Her face had closed and she’d said something nasty back; something about drawing lots and she’d lost. He grinned for a moment in the darkness. Not too bad for having just awakened.

Why had it helped to have Sarr’a there? It was not logical at all. He had certainly never been attracted to her physically. She always argued against his plans. She didn’t obey orders properly.

He had been furious this past week when a routine check of ships’ logs had turned up her trip to Zoran before the battle. She hadn’t denied it. She had acknowledged her awareness of the standing order not to go there. She said that she had needed to think before going into battle. And she had stood there, looked him in the eye, and informed him that he had given her permission to go, had actually, through Reth, told her to go home. The fact that he remembered saying it had not helped. He had stopped just short of invoking his right as Last of the Brotherhood to declare her unacceptable to him as clan commander. It had been difficult.

Now he wondered why he found her so hard to accept. Other clan commanders argued against his policies. Other clan commanders cut as close, or even closer, on orders. They had to have discretion in their interpretation or the Brotherhood would become a group of automatons. And very shortly after that, they would all be dead.

But when Sarr’a looked at him, with the pain visible in her eyes, it was different. And he thought that perhaps he was beginning to understand why. She was the living embodiment of the past and the pain that he held back with facts, logic, and plans. And yet, she was a very good clan commander.

The sun was coming up. Again, he hadn’t slept. He wouldn’t permit himself to sleep. He was going to have to talk to Sarr’a today and it was his own fault that it was going to be a difficult conversation.

* * *

Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador stood before the Last of the Brotherhood, hostility visible in every line of her stiffly erect frame. She had work to do and she couldn’t recall anything that she’d done recently to get Deb annoyed. He didn’t tend to repeat himself and he didn’t call her in for idle conversation. He was probably planning something and probably staying up all night doing it from the way he looked. Reflexively, she scanned him with a commander’s eye and was suddenly appalled. He wasn’t fit for duty. What was Reth doing to allow this? Then she remembered how busy Reth had been lately/

Deb saw her face change.

“Sit down Sarr’a. We need to talk.”

She looked at him consideringly for a moment, then moved to the chair he had indicated.

“Presumably you have a logical reason for choosing me to talk to as opposed to Reth. I can’t see it, but then I never do.”

She spoke evenly, but her eyes were still watching him as though she expected an attack. He remembered taking over the first group of smugglers at fifteen. Over a hundred pairs of hostile, murderous eyes staring at him, with Reth alone at his back, after he had killed their leader. Facing them down had simply held the risk of death.

“You are, I think, the only person who can help me solve this problem. We are in many ways opposites.”

He stopped. They sat in silence while she waited for him to continue and he tried to think of a way to explain. It was tempting to let the displays distract him, but he couldn’t afford that now. He had to solve this.

“Do you ever have dreams, clan commander?”

The question was abrupt; for a moment she looked confused.

“Dreams?”

“Dreams of Zoran? Not our home,” he said impatiently. “Zoran.”

“I was never there. How can I dream of a planet I have never seen, that no longer exists?”

“I require a more direct answer, clan commander. Because I do.” He could see that she was trying to understand. “When I was young, after our Zoran was destroyed, I had dreams of another planet. I would awaken, sitting up in bed, screaming in my head. I could hear myself screaming. Reth knows about the dreams, of course. After a while, they went away. When I was older, I found the planet in the archives. It was our first home, Zoran. Actually, I knew that before I looked. Have you ever dreamed of Zoran?”

“No.” She was listening to him very carefully now. “Never.”

“Perhaps that is because I am Last of the Brotherhood.” He was thinking it through aloud. Deb closed his eyes in fatigue for a moment, then looked at her and tried again. “In the dream, I am being hunted. I never know by what because I wake up just before I am found.”

She was watching him, trying to see where he was going.

“I have started having those dreams again. Every night since the battle. Except one.”

Sarr’a wasn’t stupid.

“The night I was with you.” She shook her head. “I can be logical as well, Deb. Why would that make any difference?”

“If I knew that, I might not have to ask you to let me try it again.”

“You need a guard while you sleep. That is straightforward.”

This was the clan commander speaking.

“You don’t want anyone, including presumably Reth to know why.”

She looked at him with a sudden flash in her eyes.

“No one, most especially Reth or your sister, is going to believe we have become lovers.” Then her face hardened. “And I am not going to play your games with the Brotherhood. They are bad enough with the offworlders."

“I am not asking you to play games, clan commander.” He was trying to control his anger. “I am asking for your help so that I may get some rest and be fit to continue my duties as Last of the Brotherhood. Tor isn’t here and Reth won’t be back until tomorrow. I presume you do not have to explain every action you take to your clan?”

She rose and stood looking down at him for a moment, seeing the exhaustion in his eyes.

“I will be back as soon as I get Amik up. He can monitor your messages. I will tell him that you require my assistance and that we are not to be disturbed short of an impending attack. You are not noted for being predictable so no one will be surprised and the change in routine will not hurt them.”

She was gone before he could reply.

Sarr’a was right. There was no point in waiting. He could barely sit up now. Automatically, he scanned the displays on his desk. All routine, no hints of any trouble. He realized that he had been staring blindly across the room for several minutes and rose from his chair.

Deb was sitting on the bed when she returned and he was beginning to be afraid that it wouldn’t work. If he dreamed again… The fear disturbed him, tired as he was. It was an unfamiliar sensation.

“What precisely do you require of your guardian, Deb?”

She stood in the door.

“As close an approximation to that night as you can recall. Please.”

Looking a little startled by his plaintive tone, she said, “Then lie down while I take off my boots. Do I silently curse Masters of Darkness and the Power for several minutes or can we dispense with that?”

“Only if it makes you feel better, Sarr’a. I don’t think curses affect them.”

He was trying to speak lightly, but not managing very well.

She was beside him now.

“Your head was on my shoulder,” she said quietly, putting her arm around him. “And I was holding your right hand.”

He settled against her.

“This is pleasant,” he said sleepily, without thinking, and felt her stiffen for a moment. Then she laughed.

“And this time you did invite me, though not quite the way you meant. Your apology is accepted, Deb. Now sleep. You are alive and you are safe. We will figure out the rest tomorrow.”

She heard his breathing become more even and settled herself for guard duty. It had been a long time since she had stood a watch, but it had never been difficult to stay alert, attuned to the world around her, and to think for hours.

He had said that he was having dreams of Zoran, the original Zoran. A planet that had been destroyed so many thousands of years ago that for any people other than the Brotherhood with their careful records it would have ceased to be even myth.

Why did it frighten him to dream of Zoran? Or was it being hunted that scared him? That she could understand. She had never seen Deb afraid before. The only emotion he showed with any ease, at least in her presence, was anger. Hatred occasionally. Never fear.

The inability to move was beginning to make her stiff. Automatically, she began a series of exercises, tightening and relaxing each set of muscles until the stiffness eased.

Why was he so certain that only she could help him? She considered and rejected the obvious explanation. Even Deb wasn’t that devious. If he were attracted to her, he would have said so. That wasn’t the answer.

He had said that they were opposites. Coming from Deb, it was not a compliment. He was always so certain that he was right. Why had he waited so long to ask for help? That was a silly question, but also a good one. Deb wasn’t stupid. He was in fact frequently brilliant, an opinion with which she was not happy. She could agree that the Brotherhood was in an excellent position tactically and strategically. She just didn’t like the way he went about it.

It was a question of identity and meaning. The Brotherhood was more than mere survival; it had to be. Since that day when she had understood the Power for the first time and felt it tear at the fabric of the universe around her, searching for her, she had chosen the Brotherhood and the Way. There were still too many scars, no: too many open, bleeding wounds, for her to tolerate the dual existence Deb seemed to enjoy. She recognized her feelings as a contradiction of the harmony of the Way, but couldn’t find the solution yet. Sarr’a felt she knew herself; it was the rest of the universe she had difficulty understanding.

She could feel the rhythm of the base around them and the planet beyond that. It was moving toward evening. Looking down at Deb, she could see the lines of exhaustion and illness easing somewhat from his face. He would undoubtedly sleep for hours yet and better so.

His hand twitched then and closed hard on hers, but she was already aware of the change. It didn’t feel quite like the Power, but it was similar and she reacted almost automatically to deflect it and to maintain the normal flow of the universe around them. She felt his hand relax and heard his breathing grow quieter again as she maintained her guard. Then it was gone. Increasing her level of alertness, she settled back to wait for another probe.

It came twice more during the night. Then in the last hour before dawn, she heard Reth coming rapidly toward them. He was not stopping at the clan command center. Probably he had tried to call Deb and had spoken to Amik. He came through the door and stopped, his face registering astonishment and then a question as he saw first Deb lying against her and then her uniform. She signaled silence with her right hand and motioned him to the side of the bed.

Breathing the words directly into his ear, she said, “He had not slept in days.”

Reth’s face was impassive as he nodded.

Sarr’a continued, “If you would, relieve Amik of the duty of monitoring Deb’s messages. He needs some rest. Tell him to go to bed.”

She saw the question form in his eyes.

“I am on watch. And will remain so at least until he awakens. We will discuss it then.”

It was a dismissal that given her previous choices, she had no right to make. Reth left.

Several hours later, she felt Deb stir and saw his eyes open. They regarded each other for a few moments, then she broke the silence.

“Shall I report now or shall we call Reth in?”

Glancing toward the door, he sat up.

“Report.”

“There were three movements in the Power which were directed at you. It felt strange, but it was the Power. I cannot be certain, of course, that they are the cause of your dream, but it seems likely.” She met his eyes directly before continuing. “You took no defensive action against them.”

He showed no reaction. She waited for a moment, then rose and stretched.

“You are losing your self, Last of the Brotherhood. Perhaps you play too many games, I don’t know. I am not a Teacher of the Way.”

As you are remained unspoken.

“I think you will need someone to watch your sleep until this is resolved. I will assign someone, if you wish.”

He realized that she was deliberately creating a distance between them and deliberately restating her own choices to widen it.

“As base commander, I am naturally concerned about this breach of security.”

And that was going too far.

“Reth and I will be leaving within the hour, clan commander.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Reviewing Tren’s report enroute to Ganthos and adding his own analysis, Colonel Murthoc worked to grasp the structure of the Brotherhood’s interface with the galaxy. Smuggling groups were based primarily within the Confederation. It was a pragmatic arrangement: law enforcement of that sort was less of a priority for his people than the Imperium. From those bases, they could travel almost without hindrance throughout Confederation space. Their freighters and slavers were so well known as to be almost legitimate traffic. Certainly he had been aware for some time that badly paid officials with little hope for advancement were no obstacle to their movements. They were probably not even very expensive.

Within the Imperium, the Brotherhood moved furtively as smugglers, openly as Starways Industries and its allied firms. These were hidden subsidiaries, according to Tren, owned and operated by Starways through dummy corporations.

Sarr’a’s nonchalance in referring to Starways bothered him. How could they be so certain that he would not betray them to the Imperium? And why had Deb let him see Tor? Surely, the Last of the Brotherhood did not hold such a low opinion of his abilities.

It occurred to him that, for a secret organization, they were remarkably open about themselves once you knew they existed. The question was why. It seemed a rather pointless and sadistic game to show him these facts just to kill him. The last of the Brotherhood might possibly be sadistic. Murthoc did not believe that he did anything without a purpose.

At the end of the report, the colonel found a short note about Lady Ylana. He had almost forgotten her existence. It seemed, according to Tren, that the Last of the Brotherhood had asked that they watch her after her return to the Confederation capital. The major indicated that he had assigned two men to the task and that she was behaving very strangely, wandering the city while apparently looking for someone. They had been unable to determine whom as she only asked people she knew and those very discreetly. Questioning her would be difficult; her family had well-placed friends.

His ship came out of hyperspace as he finished reading.

He had been to Ganthos twice, both visits before he had become so well known as the head of Confederation intelligence. It was an airless world; the base was underground and well shielded by the rock. It was also easily defended against anything the Confederation could afford to commit to a policing action.

* * *

Red Beard met Colonel Murthoc as he left his ship, he and Reth having also just arrived. The colonel was in uniform.

“You win.”

This was said over his shoulder to Reth.

“I didn’t think he could be manipulated quite that easily.”

To the colonel, who was ignoring the exchange, he said. “It does appear, however, that you are smarter than Lord Rys. At least, in your own estimation. Perhaps you are simply less ambitious.”

Colonel Murthoc waited patiently. Few with ‘ambition’ worked for the Confederation whatever their ancestry.

“It is the opinion of the Imperium’s intelligence service that the battle at Kuarmian was lost by a combination of factors: the untested ‘fold’ engines, the bad choice of the Darnath system for their deployment, and the hysterical and incompetent response of the fleet commanders to both.”

The colonel grinned ruefully. He could think of no officer on either side who could have competently responded to the Brotherhood’s attack.

“I knew you would enjoy that one. Reports of an overwhelming new military force allied with the Confederation are simply further evidence of military incompetence. And hysteria.”

“Lord Rys wants Sartak’s position then,” concluded Colonel Murthoc.

Not a drug addiction, he thought, but one for power. Perhaps more devastating to his ability to reason clearly. Although, there were reports that Rys had been covertly allied to Sartak. He would have to consider that.

“I didn’t think he was quite that openly ambitious. But then, opportunities like this are rare. Even the Masters seem to have been unprepared.”

“No, Colonel,” said Red Beard. “They expected Fior to take Sartak’s place. Because they know he is not dead, they are waiting for him to appear. They assume he has a plan.”

Fior always has a plan, he thought. Even now, as my prisoner, he has a plan.

This was the first that Colonel Murthoc had seen the Last of the Brotherhood as Red Beard the smuggler. His beard was itself astounding and, the colonel admitted, an extremely effective disguise. It was difficult to focus on any other part of the man. Even more remarkable, however, was the personality change. Cold calculation was still present in the depths of his emerald eyes, but there was a spark that had appeared only briefly during the battle. Deadly as Tar Abzoladan, Last of the Brotherhood of Zoran, was; the colonel felt a much more coldly evil edge to this one and he was certain that Red Beard was the more overtly dangerous. There was a cat’s playfulness behind the beard and a cat’s inhuman indifference in the eyes.

“Put this on, Colonel. Until we’ve had a chance to introduce you.” Reth was handing him a long, dark cloak. “We haven’t been here recently and I’m not sure how they’ll react to us, much less a green uniform.”

Past the landing bays, the corridor widened out into a general concourse. Assaulting their senses as they entered were the sounds, smells, and filth of a large bazaar. Treasures of a thousand worlds looked rather tawdry piled together this way, thought the colonel. He’d never understood the attraction of most of it. Many of the men present, and almost everyone was male, seemed to be at one end of the main avenue. The few who saw them seemed to freeze as red beard went by, horror on the faces of some, satisfaction on others. Several who had been standing near the landing bays disappeared into the crowd.

“He is dead and his people are gone, I tell you.”

Colonel Murthoc recognized the speaker as a well-known pirate from the Imperium’s space.

“Or,” his voice was lowered for an instant. “We can get rid of them. And we’re better off without him. He’s crazy and you never know what he’ll do next. His bosses can’t be happy with this last week. Who knows who’s been in charge? Sorry, maybe. We’ve had enough of crazy people. We need someone who remembers this is business. Profits will be better with me in charge.”

“Have you seen the body?” This man’s voice was quiet, but no less intense. “As you say, we never know what he’ll do next and it usually means more money”

He was a bit older and more cautious.

“No, I haven’t,” snapped the first man. “And if Sartak got him, we never will. They say his Lordship’s gone too, which means more trading in the Imperium. I know my way around there. Are you with me?”

His eyes swept out across the crowd. Intent on him, most did not notice the three walking toward them, nor the smallest of those three as he moved behind their new leader.

“Then let’s…”

His face froze in mid-syllable as a blade pierced his right kidney. Drawing it out swiftly, Red Beard plunged it through his neck, edge to the front, and pushed. Blood spewed forward over his listeners.

“Next,” said Red Beard, becoming visible to the crowd as the body dropped. Profound silence was broken by a voice in the back of the crowd.

“Ol’ Sorry said he was still alive. I told you. I was there when the bitch cut up Mirranthe.”

His voice died as Reth appeared beside him.

“A little more respect for the lady,” he said coldly. “She is a colleague of mine.”

“No disrespect intended, sir. Not for you. Not for the…l..lady.”

The colonel was fascinated by how pale his face had become.

“I meant it… affectionately. Sort of,” the man offered.

“I will tell her you said so,” said Reth very quietly and watched him back away quickly, his eyes frantically searching for Sarr’a.

“Now that we have that matter settled,” said Red Beard, apparently bored. Someone can clean up the mess.”

He was walking away as he continued.

“And I will expect everyone to treat my guest with courtesy.”

“Guest?”

They were peering at the colonel now, off balance and eager for a distraction. Reth had returned to stand near him as he took off the cloak. Most of them recognized him; the rest knew the uniform and their mutters were not friendly.

The man who had been arguing against a change in leaders spoke again.

“That’s Colonel Murthoc, that is. I heard Ol’ Sor…Sarr’a,” he corrected hastily, glancing at Reth. “I heard she sold you to him, not that you bought the colonel. You see,” he said to the crowd. “You never know what he’ll do.”

There was a note of pride in his voice. Looking out across the crowd, many seemed to share the sentiment. Reth watched with some amusement as a grim expression settled on the colonel’s face.

“Damaging your reputation, are we, Colonel?” he said softly. “You should have expected that.”

It was a reminder that they were smugglers here, not Brotherhood, and Colonel Murthoc nodded slowly. Galling as it was, he was playing their game now. His reputation among scum was hardly relevant. And wryly, in the back of his mind, he acknowledged that his price for ignoring smugglers, drug traffickers, and slavers was knowledge of the Brotherhood. Deb was certainly aware of that and had, in effect, bought him.

Red Beard had continued across the room; the two men hurried to catch up.

“My office is over this way, Colonel.”

His voice seemed to tighten as he spoke. Curious, Murthoc’s eyes followed his. There was a man, a beggar, sprawled against the wall to the left of the door they were heading toward. Tattered remnants of a green uniform hanging from his filthy body, he looked through them to focus on a past not yet distant enough. As the colonel watched, Red Beard seemed to shiver.

Tossing a coin that landed near the man’s hand, the smuggler chief glanced up at Murthoc.

“A product of your veterans’ medical system. First, you fail to train them. Then you do not support them in the field. And, finally, when they realize the stark reality of their situation, your doctors convince them that they are crazy. This one is luckier than most: he chose to walk away before they had completed his cure.”

He was through the door before the colonel could reply. The soldier’s eyes did not waver as he passed. Behind him, his jaw tight, Reth’s hand moved in a gesture that ensured that no one other then its intended recipient would touch that coin.

Following Red Beard through the door and another, Colonel Murthoc found himself in what appeared to be an office. Badly assorted stacks of chairs filled one end of the room, a desk and chair the other. Red Beard was settling back into the chair which appeared to be made of fine leather. Noting the colonel’s gaze, he spoke.

“The only matter that my predecessor and I ever agreed on is this chair, Colonel.” Turning to Reth, he said flatly. “I think some exercise would be a good idea before I see everyone. That went rather more easily than I expected.”

Ignoring the close scrutiny Reth gave him before he left, Red Beard spoke again to the colonel.

“And what do you think of my management techniques?”

“They’re direct, sir. Who are the bosses he referred to?”

The man in the chair looked amused.

“Are you not aware of the galactic-wide criminal organization, Colonel? I became their representative to the smugglers twelve years ago when we consolidated operations.”

“I thought Starways was a legitimate corporation, sir.”

“For an intelligence officer, Colonel Murthoc, you have a damn poor grasp of business.”

The paraphrase of General Crant’s statement left the colonel speechless. Red Beard continued as he saw Reth returning.

“You had the opportunity to see Sarr’a with her sword. Not at her best, of course. That requires a better opponent. You may watch me, if you wish.”

Jumping up, he led them through an unobtrusive door which led to a duplicate of the practice room where Sarr’a had nearly killed the colonel. Even the air seemed to change as they went through the door.

Reth spoke quietly in his ear.

“This is a restricted area of the base, Colonel. Ours. Most of them don’t know it exists. They aren’t very bright and we don’t encourage their curiosity.”

Taking up a position in one corner near Reth, Colonel Murthoc saw the Last of the Brotherhood lift his sword as three men moved around him with theirs. It was the last clear view of the man for nearly half a standard hour as he met their attack with precision and whirling grace. It was a performance far beyond any the colonel had ever seen; a level of skill he had not imagined possible and a feat of physical prowess and stamina.

Without warning, it ended: one of the men stepping back abruptly. The others stopped, and then Red Beard picked up a cloth to wipe off his sword, sheathed it and left the room. The man who had withdrawn first came over to Reth.

“Next time, someone else,” he said with some feeling. “I cannot match him in this mood.”

The colonel watched Reth nod his agreement, then they moved back into the office. Red Beard had settled into his chair, apparently contemplating a point on the ceiling. Feral tension seemed to hold him on the edge of quivering as he awaited the arrival of his men.

From different areas of the bazaar, an odd assortment of vicious looking thugs swaggered, strode, and sauntered toward Red Beard’s office. Watching as they arrived, the colonel was amused to see them discard the disguising movements after they came through the door.

All save one. And this one surprised him. If he had had to choose a smuggler from his files who was (after Red Beard) least likely to be Brotherhood, this particular pirate would have headed his list.

Swaggering in, the man screeched a chair across the floor to plop down in it near the desk. Pulling out a knife tipped by a very vicious disemboweling hook and ignoring the others in the room, he began fastidiously to clean his nails. He continued the process as Red Beard spoke.

“Cully Murthoc,” he said by way of introduction to the group. “You probably know their working names, Colonel. The others don’t matter at the moment.”

The knife had paused.

“We all knows the colonel, sir. What we don’t know, is why you brought him here? An’ perhaps you were wantin’ us to kill him for you, with the uniform and all?”

His tone was mildly hopeful, but his eyes, sharp and openly hostile, had strayed over to the colonel. He went back to cleaning his nails as Red Beard replied flatly.

“He’s here because he’s working with me.” Sitting forward in his chair, he continued. “I need to know any problems we have right now and any you anticipate. We must solve them as quickly as possible and be ready for the next round.”

“You’ve taken care of the major one, sir.”

This speaker was a middle-aged man in the back row.

“They were restless when they thought you were dead. We’ve had some schedule problems because of that, but we should get back to normal, now. Especially with the people you brought with you.”

“’Cept for the pirates.”

Red Beard was gazing in fascination at the man with the knife, the colonel realized.

“The pirates?”

“Yessir. Them pirates. That little party you had with Sartak seems to have given a bunch of independents the idea that they can do what they want, sir.”

“And your suggestion, Skally?”

The colonel realized suddenly that there was a perceptible buffer of space around the man Red Beard was addressing. It seemed that, in the Brotherhood, everyone could be himself, but not everyone had to like him for it. There was, in this instance, a definite smell. The performance, if it was a performance, did not falter.

“Well, sir. I was thinkin’ as I could take some of the men. Not ours, exactly, if you catch my meaning. And a couple of ships. We could go and clean’em out like. Sir.”

His tone was definitely hopeful now and the eyes were focused squarely on Red Beard, who nodded.

“Put it together.” He looked around. “Is there anything else?”

Glancing at the colonel, then shrugging, another man spoke.

“We have a sharp increase in the demand for arms, sir. Several systems in the Imperium are moving toward secession since the battle. About three dozen others are taking covert actions at the moment; they may move further if there’s another defeat. Their core planets are holding firm, of course.”

With a questioning note in his voice, he continued. “In the Confederation, there are movements toward secession on several worlds.”

Pausing as Murthoc visibly straightened, he looked toward Reth, who nodded.

“They are questioning the policies of the central government. Bluntly, they’re afraid of what the Imperium will do after this loss.”

Nothing the colonel hadn’t expected, but nevertheless disturbing.

“You know the overall strategy. Continue to distribute your cargoes accordingly. You’ll receive any updates.”

Red Beard looked around, then turned away dismissively.

Their meeting seemed to be ending rather suddenly; Colonel Murthoc looked around for a reason.

A man had come into the room; a man dressed in a fashion which would have been unremarkable throughout the galaxy. Here he looked a little odd: an ordinary man among pirates.

Acknowledging several greetings as the men left, he walked across the room to Red Beard’s desk, near which the colonel and Reth remained seated.

“Colonel Murthoc,” he said, with a half smile. “We have not met, but I am familiar with your work. I don’t do much in the field myself usually. There are others a great deal more competent at that.”

He glanced at Red Beard.

“I am…” he paused and an expression of dyspeptic annoyance crossed his face. “Armh will have to do, as we are not being formal.”

“The head of our intelligence service, Colonel.” Reth was again quietly explaining.

“You’ve broken Sartak’s codes.” Red Beard’s tone held a tightly reined interest. “You found something important or you would not be here>”

“True,” Armh replied dryly. “I do not enjoy fighting my way through to you. I had to kill two of them. There was an interested crowd, but they let me pass after that.”

“And they knew you were coming to him?”

The colonel had not heard that tone from Reth before. At Armh’s nod, he continued.

“Five, I think.”

“Tell Skally,” said Red Beard. “It needs to be bloody.”

Turning as Reth left, he added.

“Crowd control, Colonel. They need to remember who’s in charge.”

Dismissing the matter, he raised his eyes expectantly to Armh, who sat down in Reth’s chair.

“The encryption was intriguing. A nice puzzle,” he said, then gave in to Deb’s impatience. “We can discuss that later. Everything you expected was there: codes, plans, control sequences for their ships, the new orders of battle for each of the Imperium’s fleets. And much more.”

Deb was still impatient the colonel recognized, although the information seemed overwhelming to him. He hoped that he’d get to see some of it.

“I’m here because we found a set of coordinates. There is no indication of what they are for. The planet seems uninhabited and is not precisely in either Confederation or Imperium space.”

Deb sat back, his eyes thoughtful.

“A place. What…?” He jumped up. “There is no point wondering. Anything else? No?”

He seemed to the colonel to catch himself and added more quietly.

“That was good work. Faster than I anticipated.”

“Oddly, when we were nearly there, we had some help from Captain Sentos.”

Deb’s eyebrows rose. Sartak’s captain seemed an unlikely ally.

“He has been extremely agitated and was becoming almost violent about his need to follow Sartak’s ‘last order,’ as he puts it. Naturally, we had to be certain that did not involve destroying the files. He is supposed to go to these coordinates and it is almost killing him that we will not permit it.”

“Conditioning,” said Deb. “That’s too bad.”

His tone was not sympathetic. Armh had risen.

“You are leaving?”

“I did not think that transmitting this was a good idea, but I am rather busy.”

“Thank you for bringing it,” said Deb obviously already consumed by the problem.

Nodding to the colonel, Armh left, passing Reth who had returned a few moments before.

“Is there any reason I need to stay here?”

Red Beard looked at Reth who shook his head.

“Then let’s find out what Sartak wanted the captain to do.”

He started toward the door, then turned.

“Would you be interested in a trip, Colonel?”

Seeing the man’s expression, he grinned.

“Silly question.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“The Imperium falls apart, Rys. One battle and we crumble.”

“Hardly crumble, sir. A few dozen worlds which we have held, at most, for twelve generations. We are shaken, however, and I must admit that I do not know why.”

They were in a room dominated by a massive holographic display showing star systems and political groupings. Several dozen glowed with the red of insurrection; others showed hints of orange.

“The great Lord Rys does not know why.”

The younger man’s voice was affectionately mocking. Almost he smiled before growing serious again.

“What game is being played with us? Are we certain that Lord Sartak is dead?”

“Yes, Kilian.” The reply was heavy with sorrow. “His Masters say they felt him die and it terrified them. One of them told me that he had never felt such a Power before.”

“Logically then, it is not Master Fior. And equally logically, it can be no other. If it is Fior, why does he not claim the victory? It would not matter to him that I would not accept him: I have sons.”

The Rajkar Emperor had been trained early to the cold, remorseless logic of the Masters.

“We cannot stand without Sartak; none of his Masters will resist Fior. You and I certainly cannot. Why does he not come? Between us, Rys, there must be someone else. Someone with the overwhelming military power that they whisper of at Court when they think I do not hear them.”

“I don’t know, sir. I can’t find anyone else. My remaining agents in the Confederation don’t know any more about Master Fior than we do. Sartak’s Masters say that they have not felt Fior since sometime before the battle. Ant’n himself seems ignorant of his location, although he seems to think Colonel Murthoc knows.

“The Confederation is involved in something; that is obvious. My people speak of a psychotic female smuggler who has apparently become the colonel’s mistress. It is completely out of character. He returned without her after the battle and now he is gone again.”

“You seem rather obsessed with this woman, Rys.”

The Emperor’s voice was dry.

“She is an anomaly in a time when nothing occurs as it should. My Confederation counterpart does not take mistresses and he despises smugglers. It is an odd time, you will admit, to have fallen in love. It is more likely that she is a liaison of some sort. They might choose a female to confuse us. But I cannot see to whom.”

“Duty calls. I must go and prepare for tonight’s Court.”

“Kilian. I am sorry that I had no better news of Sartak.”

The Rajkar Emperor had learned at an early age to conceal his emotions, but his eyes grew briefly dimmer. He nodded, then turned toward the door, the only door in the Imperium that he ever opened for himself.

* * *

“Sarr’a,” Vren’s second spoke from the door. This was her private office, severe in its arrangement with a desk and several chairs the only furnishings. “You wanted to see me before the meeting?”

“Come in,” she said, indicating a chair and reminding herself that his name was Laren and he was no longer Vren’s second.

For a moment, she considered him. Tall and very dark, he was Sarr’a recalled several years older than she. He had been Vren’s second since she had left that position to become clan commander. And Vren had always chosen his own second. The clan had had a deep respect for his judgment.

“You are no longer acting ground force commander, Laren. The clan offers you clan fourth. Do you accept?”

He had expected it, but there was still a visible straightening of his shoulders before he spoke.

“I accept, clan commander.”

Her fingers moved to record that, then she rose and walked around the desk.

“Stay there. We need to talk.”

Leaning back against her desk, Sarr’a continued.

“Vren always found the best for the job. I hope that is true of you.”

He did not speak.

“He was clan fourth for almost forty years. He trained us all.”

“Vren wanted to get us through to the next battle, clan commander. He said that it was bad enough to be trained by old men; to be trained by young ones who’d never seen war would be disastrous.” Laren’s tone was somber. “I cannot replace him…”

“We do not need a replacement, Laren. We need you to move beyond your training. Our next battle is going to be dirtier, uglier, and a lot harder.”

She was quoting their mentor. He could hear Vren’s exasperated tones.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out what appeared to be a wad of paper.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, Sarr’a. During the fighting inside the fortress, I observed that some of our people showed real ability at that type of close quarters fighting. Most of them are rather young. This is a list. I would like to start a special unit, to train them. I think it would be useful.”

“Keep me informed of their progress.”

It was a good beginning. Almost certainly, Vren had anticipated this last need.

“We will join the others. And Laren,” she reached into her own breast pocket. “Your insignia.”

He replaced the one he’d been wearing and fingered the new one for a moment before turning toward the door. Sarr’a waited for him to get settled, then followed.

* * *

Seated at the fourth position at the table, he watched her enter and move briskly to its head. There was instant silence.

D’nal had warned him that Sarr’a’s meetings were rapid fire. The fleet commander had added, with a bright smile, that sometimes they were live fire, but that he wouldn’t need to be concerned for this one. Sarnath Al Cador had high standards for her staff; her personal standards were higher. She had been clan commander for just over three years. Their faults in this battle were therefore hers.

With their after-battle reports in front of her, Sarr’a began.

“These summarize to one point,” she said, nodding at those reports. “We have not trained to fight alongside or to support an ally whose capability is so far below our own. This battle was easy and still mistakes wee made. Within the clan, we have each made corrections. I will meet with you individually to discuss those changes. It is, however, not enough.

“As we cannot anticipate the next ally that will be presented to us and we cannot expect much warning, you will all prepare courses of action and training proposals from your particular perspective for dealing with each of the potential allies on the list Amik will give you.”

Amik was moving around the table.

“The Imperium?”

D’nal’s eyebrows were up. They went higher as Aric, head of combat service support, read further.

“The Xackarn?”

Their clan commander sat back.

“And every independent world, human or nonhuman, that I am aware of, excepting only those several worlds which have not yet rejoined galactic society. The Last of the Brotherhood is capable of allying us with any one of these on the list.

“If I am faced with that decision, I wish to make it on the merits of the alliance as he proposes it, not because we are unprepared.”

Her eyes swept over her now somber staff.

“Of all the clans, we are the most familiar with the Confederation. And we were still surprised by their deficiencies. I will not pay that price again.”

There were nods around the table at that.

“I will expect assessments and proposals by the end of the week.”

* * *

“They have not asked for our help.”

His voice was uncompromising in its severity.

“Are we then to teach only those sufficiently enlightened to know that they need our assistance?”

This question held a reproof which stung the first speaker despite the quiet tone.

“Then you admit they are unenlightened,” he said triumphantly and lost the argument.

“I shall not argue the theology of the Brotherhood at this time. For if they are, as you say, unenlightened, it becomes more pressing that I go. He has lost his Teachers. I am a Teacher. Why else did I choose to be born at this time, lord abbot?”

Perfumed air from the monastery gardens swirled around them as, recognizing defeat, the first speaker bowed his respect and acceptance.

* * *

Major Tren’s nose wrinkled slightly as he came through the airlock. The ship’s air held the faint, sweet smell of corruption. He had a fair idea of the contents before he entered the hold.

Forty-three precisely. Walking slowly up and down the rows, sternly controlling the reaction of his stomach, he verified the identities of forty-three Confederation agents. His memory was excellent: he could recall the name of each and something of his history.

The shipment had been sent to Colonel Murthoc. Although technically on leave, Major Tren had responded because his superior was in the field. The colonel was going to be angry. Not surprised, but definitely angry. And not with Lord Rys.

Turning, the major found the ship’s pilot apparently a prisoner of the lieutenant who had escorted him here. And apparently was the appropriate word, he thought, as the man addressed him.

“We were contracted to bring them here, Major. I’m just a courier.”

His posture was relaxed, but Major Tren was not deceived.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said in dismissal. “Make arrangements for them to be unloaded as quickly as possible. I will notify next of kin. This gentleman will want to be leaving soon, I imagine.”

Looking at him doubtfully, the lieutenant saluted and left. Major Tren turned back to the pilot and waited.

“Lord Rys sent a message to Colonel Murthoc, Major. He said: ‘We’re even.’”

His appraising eyes held no trace of irony.

“I will convey the message.” Major Tren said grimly, playing out this game that this smuggler was not Brotherhood and that the forty-three agents of the Imperium had not been killed at the orders of the Last of the Brotherhood. “The colonel will draw his own conclusions.” Moving toward the hatch, he continued. “There will be no difficulty with your departure. I will have General Crant’s staff issue orders. Do you need a receipt?”

Appreciation flashed for a moment in the other man’s eyes.

“No, Major. They’ll take my word.”

* * *

“I have survived again, Willem.”

General Ibram Crant raised his glass to the portrait of his predecessor as chief of staff of the Confederation. General Willem had been his mentor, especially in the tricks of political infighting. When the man died and his official portrait was consigned to the basement, Crant had brought it home. It was pleasant to have someone to talk to about the day, someone who didn’t need long, tedious explanations as his wife had. She was gone now and he missed her, but she had never understood his job.

“They really tried to dump me this time, Willem. I hate politics and politicians. But those files of yours worked. With my updates, of course.”

He took a long swallow of his drink and poured some more.

“It’s funny. I almost didn’t want to fight them this time. I’m getting old, I guess. And then I just got mad. God’s piss, man. We won this one and I’m spaced for that? All those years of nothing, putting their campaigns and holding actions together and they’ll throw me out when we win? No sir.”

He sat down in his favorite chair and considered the matter.

“The Masters aren’t a problem with Tarrask gone. That’s nice. Murthoc says he’s dead. It sure scared them.”

He looked up at the portrait and grinned.

“Didn’t let the bastards take him either, Willem. He’s on my staff. Nobody touches my staff. You taught me that. And you’re right.”

Nodding, he settled back into his chair.

“These Brotherhood people though, they’re strange. Stiff-assed bastards for getting the job done. At least this bunch is better than the first one.”

Draining his glass, he set it down and leaned back.

“I should tell Murthoc, though. He should look for the ones who do the job. They’re the spies.”

Nodding sagely to himself, he fell asleep.

* * *

“I don’t understand.”

I know that, Colonel, was Reth’s immediate thought but he replied politely.

“What do you not understand?”

“You have five people killed in part at least to protect him. And then you will let him go to some unknown planet with, apparently, a facility set up by a Master. Shouldn’t someone else check it out first?”

Reth was amused.

“I watch his back, Colonel. I do not govern his actions. While we are enroute, I will notify Tor, his staff, and my second. Should anything happen, they will be prepared.”

“Your second? You are not a clan commander.”

The sole insignia Reth had worn when the colonel had seen him in uniform had not been that of a clan commander. What precisely was his position in the Brotherhood? He seemed overly qualified as a bodyguard.

“No, Colonel. I am not a clan commander. Nevertheless, I have a second.”

They had caught up with an obviously impatient Deb.

“We will come back for your ship. No one will touch it.

Thus time, the colonel caught the slight hand movement that resulted in a man lounging closer to his ship.

“Are you two coming or do I go alone?”

Looking at Deb, Colonel Murthoc saw signs of an underlying strain. He appeared tired. The colonel remembered that tiredness when, immediately after the ship entered hyperspace, he noticed that the Last of the Brotherhood had fallen asleep. Reth had moved back into the passengers’ compartment and was standing over him. Almost, it seemed to the colonel that he was brushing something away, although his hands did not move from his sides.

“We can talk in here, Colonel.” Reth sounded quietly resigned as he returned to the pilot’s seat. “He should sleep until we are almost there.”

“Why does he drive himself so hard?” asked Colonel Murthoc. “Or is that a stupid question?”

“Both yes and no, offworlder.” Reth was regarding him thoughtfully. “The short answer is that he was seven. And the long one is really not your concern.”

The colonel was silent for a few minutes.

“Sarr’a said that you are a metallurgist and crystallographer. I believe I am supposed to apologize.”

Reth was silent, so he went on.

“How long have you been his bodyguard?”

“Since he was seven.”

“You seem rather overqualified.”

Reth grinned suddenly.

“I assure you, offworlder, watching Deb takes every shred of skill that I can muster. Now, as I am not going to tell you anything more about myself, I would suggest that you get some rest. As you said before, we don’t know what surprises Master Sartak left for us to find, do we?”

* * *

Inside the house, the old man was alone. Most nights he sat and dozed over the memorabilia of a long and distinguished military career. That had been capped by years in the diplomatic service until, after nearly fifty years, he had retired some five years before to this quiet country cottage. His head exploded as the two armor-piercing, anti-personnel rounds struck almost simultaneously below his left eye and in his chin.

* * *

Enclosed within a ship which was itself enfolded in the construct men call hyperspace, he slept. And inside himself, he moved into the world he called his own.

Turning from the corridor into his outer office, he paused to watch his staff. A few looked up in greeting, but most remained engaged in their work. He walked through into his office and, as he passed within, tripped. Looking down, he saw a filthy man whose green rags proclaimed his former profession. Legs stretched across the doorway, the vacantly staring eyes never blinked as they looked up at him.

“But you are on Ganthos,” he protested.

“Am I?” said the soldier. “I am here.”

Looking around, he saw the bazaar and smelled its filth. He moved along the concourse, shadowy figures greeting Red Beard as he walked. Coming at last to the door to his office, Deb awoke to find the ship leaving hyperspace as they found Sartak’s planet.

CHAPTER SIX

“What do you want me to do, Sarr’a?”

Tor studied her friend carefully. The antagonism between her brother and the clan commander was deep, but this visit was unprecedented.

“He is the Last of the Brotherhood. Yes, he is erratic and not at all traditional. What do you want me to do?” she repeated.

Sarr’a considered her words. After several days of intensive thought, she had reached the conclusion that duty required this report to the Last of the Brotherhood’s heir. She had expected it to be difficult: it was. Tor was after all his sister.

“This is worse than erratic. And it has nothing to do with our disagreements. He cannot sleep without a guard.” She paused. “And he came to me.”

Tor almost grinned. The emphatic last word was so incredulous. For just a moment, she wondered if their mutual dislike hid an attraction. Grimacing mentally, she rather hoped not. Sarr’a was continuing.

“I am not her because you are my friend. I am here as clan commander. You do not remember before; you were too young…”

“I remember more than you think.” Tor’s voice was very quiet. “I remember my older brother. At the end, he was seven and I was two. Sometimes he would play with me.”

She smiled.

“He was always the hero and sometimes I was the monster and sometimes the poor offworlder who needed to be rescued.”

Her expression tightened.

“Then the offworlders decided that they didn’t want to be rescued anymore. My parents died and my brother went away. He has never quite come back. And, like you, I spent a lot of time with my mother’s clan.”

Tor rose to her feet, her eyes again fixed on Sarr’a’s.

“I repeat, clan commander. He is the Last of the Brotherhood. What do you want me to do?”

“The Power that hunts him in this dream,” Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador met the intent gaze squarely. “I do not believe it is external. I am a warrior, not a Teacher,” she added. “I am not certain.”

Tor’s eyes were disconcertingly similar to Deb’s at that moment.

“Your father was a Teacher,” she observed.

“I have not had that training.” Sarr’a’s voice was carefully expressionless. “I chose the military.”

“Sometimes,” said the Last of the Brotherhood’s heir, who was also a clan commander. “We can choose whatever we wish and it does not matter. We are who we are.”

Sarnath Al Cador’s eyes had grown darker.

“At a minimum, he should not be left alone.”

“Agreed,” said Tor. “Reth is almost always with Deb. I will consider whether I should speak to him about this.”

“Deb was sending him away when he was forced to ask my help,” said Sarr’a dryly. Rising, she spoke formally. “You are aware of the situation, Tor. That is all I can do. Or would,” she added. “I do not know where he is leading us, but I have chosen to follow.”

* * *

Beneath them rolled the glistening orb of a world no one had ever bothered to name. Much less than a true planet, though more than a moon, it showed signs of being torn from some larger body.

“These are the coordinates, but it is an airless lump. There are no indications of a settlement, base, or any complex on the surface. What do you think, Reth?”

“Deb, I have no idea. Whatever Sartak his here could be impossible for anyone else to find.”

“No,” Deb’s voice had become a quiet growl. “Sartak meant what he left here to be found. His ship’s commander was programmed to find it. And no Master of Sartak’s level would leave only one tool behind. There will be others. We need to be first: we don’t know what complications these tolls were to set in motion. We must be first.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.

Colonel Murthoc ventured a thought.

“Obviously, it’s below ground.”

“Really,” sneered Deb.

Murthoc had only begun to express his conjecture.

“We need,” he continued. “To find an anomaly. An unnatural formation on the surface or immediately beneath it.”

“Do you think it would be that simple?”

It was Reth’s turn for conjecture.

“Yes, of course.”

Colonel Murthoc was becoming more focused.

“Sartak never expected anyone not designated to know about this place. Conditioned puppets can’t think for themselves. Nor can they be given complicated instructions. He hadn’t had his new ship or its captain long enough to sufficiently mold his neural pathways for anything complex.”

“I’m truly impressed. A marvelous piece of deduction. So, now, where is it?”

Reth wasn’t sure whether Deb’s snide volley at the colonel was impatience or annoyance at the offworlder’s getting ahead of them.

Murthoc grinned to himself. “A thin layer gravimetric scan to begin with. This world looks like mostly rock, very little dense metals.”

“Passive scans until we know more. Reth, wide spectrum electromagnetic, also passive. I don’t want to announce our presence.”

Deb was determined to be cautious even if it took longer than he wanted. He put out of his mind how many days his caution might cost.

Hours crawled by until they began their sixth orbit. Suddenly, as they shifted pitch relative to the rock’s equator, a mass anomaly registered.

“We are getting a gravity resonance.” Reth was puzzled.

“Are you sure we’re using passive scans?”

Deb was profoundly annoyed. Reth wouldn’t have ignored his desire for caution, but the colonel… But how could the colonel have altered the equipment settings?

“Something down there sensed us and began ringing a welcome bell. And not just a ‘gravity gong,’ we are being hit by a highly directional, low intensity, cosmic ray cascade.”

Reth was very impressed; he’d never seen cosmic rays come from a planet.

“I think we have your ‘anomaly,’ Colonel.”

Deb was suddenly lost in thought.

“Of course,” he exclaimed. “We downloaded the coordinates directly from Sartak’s decoded files. He must have had recognition protocols hidden in there somewhere.”

What he didn’t say aloud was his deep concern that those subroutines had been overlooked; he filed that for later action.

“So now what do we do?” was Murthoc’s slyly pitched gibe.

His sarcasm was not lost on one of his two companions; Reth was amused.

Deb was lost in thought; even if the colonel’s remark annoyed, it did not distract. His long established control was almost fully returned. Whatever demons haunted him, they were pushed aside by the welcome challenge and danger before him. Careful consideration was to be given to each possible course before them. Silence dragged on until Murthoc began to speak. Reth waved him to silence: Deb was in command here. Almost he seemed to be gazing through the very rock below.

“Yes.”

The word exploded from his lips. Murthoc started and began to rise from his seat.

“Yes, what?” came from Reth patiently.

“What else? We go in. I believe it is a welcome call. And, more importantly, I want to know what’s down there.”

“There is a danger of a trap.”

“Really, do you think so, Colonel? Where is your faith in people?”

Reth could barely keep from laughing. Deb was showing more of his old self. Not just the sarcasm, but the bright shining glee in the eyes that accompanied it. Slipping smoothly into the pilot’s acceleration chair, he happily awaited the next command from the Last of the Brotherhood.

“Well, Reth. Let us see what Sartak guards so closely and yet is so anxious to have discovered.”

“Where shall I land? Or will you leave that decision to me?”

He had already begun his landing checklist and he knew what Deb would direct. His questions were mere formalities.

“I think we should follow the ‘beacon ‘ from yon planet. It does emanate from near our ‘gong.’”

Reth was aware of how ‘fey’ and how ‘normal’ Deb was by the growing peculiarities of his speech. Even as a boy, he had loved the nearness of the dangerous unknown. As a man, it was a relief from the dry tedium of command.

Colonel Murthoc noted the Last of the Brotherhood’s growing excitement, but was still too unfamiliar with the man to understand how much more dangerous this mood made their situation. He lacked Reth’s intimate knowledge of how foolhardy this leader could become: a man who feared neither injury nor death, on a lark.

A quick pirouette and the ship began its decaying spiral orbit to whatever destiny Sartak had in store for them. Deb lowered his gaze, rubbed his hands slowly together, and began a secret revel. Reth’s hands moved flawlessly over the controls bringing them first to a stationary position directly above the energy source they were using as a beacon. He visually scanned the deeply shadowed surface, grinned briefly at what he saw at the edge of a “crater,” and completed their descent.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Reth was willing to play a little with Deb.

Murthoc was left out of this exchange, at least for the present. He was caught up in trying to determine what had amused Reth before the final descent and it was lost to him. He saw nothing, until…a straight edge, an absolutely unwavering line of solid rock, a pointer made of pure obsidian at an angle of just about thirty degrees to the surface and at least five times the length of their ship. As natural a formation as a bridge or a sports arena.

“Look,” said Reth, extending his arm to full length, gesturing to the base of their newly found pointer.

Now that they were level with the base of their guiding volcanic rock, its meaning was apparent. Next to it, beneath a shelf carved from the crater rim, was a large and obvious pressure door.

“Colonel,” Deb chimed in glee. “You were right. It is underground.”

Murthoc wasn’t sure if he was being mocked or if the Last of the Brotherhood was showing a kind of enthusiasm that he hadn’t seen before. He began to speak, but thought better of it.

“Reth,” Deb had already turned his attention back to their mission. “Maneuver us nose-to-nose with that door.”

Again Murthoc began to speak, but this time it took only a sidelong glance from Reth to silence him. The colonel glumly acknowledged to himself that he was becoming tractable. It was not a happy realization.

Reth’s fingers played across the ship’s controls like some master musician’s over a favored instrument. The ship deftly glided over the surface of the crater rim; its pilot focused on his task with an intensity that was almost electrifying. Behind and to his left sat Deb. Locked in his own fugue, scanning the darkness and the orb as they made for their goal. Something momentarily caught Deb’s attention: a natural shelf at the crater’s floor. He made no mention of it to Reth or the colonel. Suddenly they were inches from the entrance or, at least, they all hoped it was the entrance.

“Is this as nose-to-nose as you would like?” Reth chuckled to himself.

“I would have lined us up a little more precisely at the center of the door, but it’s adequate.”

Deb was continuing their long-standing joke about piloting skills. He had however no jokes about the danger they were in or how utterly bereft of any plan they were.

Murthoc joined the silent and intense scrutiny that now reigned in the cabin. There were three sets of eyes straining for a clue, three minds searching for a path. The emptiness of the vacuum without was their only reward.

“Our door lacks a knocker or a bell. I wonder how Masters signify their desire for entrance?” Deb was muttering to himself.

“They use the Power.” Reth was also mumbling.

“But their puppets don’t have that luxury,”

Murthoc had become emboldened by his impatience. He was seemingly ignored.

“LORD SARTAK COMMANDS,”

Deb shouted into the communications pickup, and it was sent in a tight beam to the door. It began to open.

“We are too clever by far,” was Reth’s sage comment.

“Yes, by far. We have been infected by our enemy’s opinion of themselves. We expect ingeniousness when we should prepare for simple feral cunning.”

There was a bitterness in Deb’s voice which surprised the colonel.

The enormous multi-reinforced door split at its center and slid smoothly out of their way. Reth glided them gently into the pitch-black cavern. Once they were past the door frame, their vault sealed itself with the utmost efficiency. Lights flickered and suddenly a berth was fully visible. Their landing on the extended struts sent the slightest of shudders through the ship’s hull.

“Is it safe?”

Two stunned and dumbfounded Zorantian faces met Murthoc’s inquiry; he became sheepish.

“I mean: is the air breathable?”

“Yes, Colonel, quite breathable.”

Even Reth seemed to be mocking him now.

At the far end of the chamber was a second door; it opened at their approach. As it closed, the new cavern reacted as had the first: it illuminated itself. They played their lights into side corridors that remained dark, noting an enormous array of equipment which included an exact duplicate of Sartak’s persona; deep space shuttle that had been so recently stolen from its master and destroyed.

They came to another set of blast doors more heavily armored than the outer pressure doors. These did not open on their approach.

“SARTAK COMMANDS.”

It gratified Deb that these doors also opened.

The room beyond was vast and already well lit. Again, there was a stunning collection of equipment housed there. But this was equipment with the unmistakable stamp of biological research to it. Deb’s grin was almost broader than his face as he examined the nearest of the more than a dozen culture tanks. Then he laughed.

“Clones. Humanoid clones.”

“Why would Sartak be cloning people?”

Reth moved to Deb’s side.

“Not people. Masters. Or to be precise: one Master named Sartak.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Why bother?”

Reth was more to the point.

“Colonel, these tanks have transparent covers. And who could mistake those aristocratic features?”

“Again, what’s the point?”

Reth was almost annoyed. It seemed a very senseless exercise as clones were not the same person. He had begun to expect more.

Deb extended his right hand with a dramatic flourish.

“Thazian engramic transfer technology, my old friend. Ha, Ha.”

Reth looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his face brightened as the implications became apparent.

“Outlawed technology, as I remember.”

It was his turn for a smile, but it was only a sly grin.

“So is cloning, especially for a Master. Upsets those holding the reins.”

Deb was having trouble controlling himself.

“Would someone please explain all this to a simple offworlder?”

“Quite simple.”

Deb still couldn’t stop laughing to himself. Murthoc ignored what he assumed was a pun.

“The reproductive cycle of Masters is carefully controlled, as I’m sure you know.”

The colonel hadn’t known that piece of highly guarded intelligence. It raised interesting questions, including who did the controlling.

“There are those who are concerned about possible dynastic complications. It’s all really a matter of control.”

As is everything with the Masters, Deb thought. They would control all things.

“But aren’t clones a cumbersome approach?”

“Oh yes. And Masters are strictly forbidden from ever using that ‘outlawed’ science. But when you combine it with the even more ‘outlawed’ engramic technologies, you’ve got one fit-provoker for the Order of the Masters.”

Especially, Deb continued silently, when it involves a Master who wasn’t supposed to reproduce.

“All right. I don’t know anything about these engram systems; so, please enlighten me.”

Murthoc was beginning to feel like some untutored schoolboy.

“Well,” Deb was in rare good humor. “It seems that the Thazians developed an almost flawless method of transferring an individual’s thoughts, or engrams, to specially prepared receptacles. Their idea was to preserve their finest minds, thus furthering their civilization. The Order of the Masters objected, of course, no progress being possible without them.

“Shortly afterward, the Thazian culture ceased to exist. Of course, their dangerous technology, being fully responsible for their demise, was destroyed and all further research outlawed. Oh yes, it was discovered that an immature brain was an almost perfect receptacle for transfers.”

He looked down at the nearest tank, noting that it was cycling to full vivification. With no time left, Deb launched into an improvised plan.

“Colonel, I think you’d best take cover over there.”

He directed Murthoc to a dimly lit equipment bay. Reth needed no guidance from Deb; he drew his knife and slipped behind a cabinet.

As the chamber ended its cycle, the transparent cover slid back with a jolt. Its occupant, gasping and sputtering as it tried to clear its air passages of fluid, tumbled out on to the floor. Deb was tempted by several courses of action, ranging from laughter to execution. He suppressed them all. He had decided on a crueler fate for his enemy: the role of pawn.

Its vision blurred; its thoughts muddled; the clone took several moments to register its rescuer. “Remembering” who it was (had been, would become,) it lifted itself with great deliberation to its feet. It stood: totally nude, dripping wet, with its best aristocratic airs, and prepared to command the being that leaned nonchalantly against yet another tank containing a precise, immature duplicate of itself.

“You will get me clothing and food,” came the command.

“Lord Sartak, you contracted for transportation not valet services.”

With its thoughts clearing, the clone tried to compose itself. It had expected or been told that its awakening would be at the hands of a conditioned servant. Something was wrong, the thing before him… He remembered: this one was a notorious smuggler. Sartak’s plan, his plan had gone wrong. He looked around with growing panic, then mastered himself. Weeks were missing. It had been over two weeks since the last engram transfer. He had no idea what situation confronted him.

“My apologies, smuggler,” he would probe his way through this. “I am confused by the process. Give me a moment.”

Reth tightened his grip on his blade; Deb’s eyes narrowed and Murthoc began to worry when “Sartak” would use the Power to scan the cavern.

“Do you understand, smuggler, what all this is?”

“None of this matters to me. Our deal is for me to get you home. You do remember my price?”

“Refresh my memory.”

There was no hint of the Power. There was no hint that this Sartak “remembered” their meeting on the flagship.

“You were to give me access to Imperial markets.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.”

A direct lie. Deb wasn’t sure if the transfer process was defective or if memories surfaced slowly. But this Sartak did not know him. And with no aura of the Power it could mean that the entire cloning process was ineffective. To proceed was dangerous, but Deb was at his fey best. He reveled in this new game. The possibility of yet greater revenge against Sartak began a smile across his face, but he suppressed it.

“Sartak,” Deb needed to prod this along: another rescuer could arrive at any moment. “I think we should begin your return. Vast changes are underway out in the wide universe and your steadying hand is required.”

Sartak’s clone glowered at the insolence of this insect that stood, or rather leaned nonchalantly before him. The smuggler was obviously attempting to manipulate but there was no clue as to his motives. In the end, he hooded his gaze and followed the lead set by the man before him. He would however, he promised himself, repay the smuggler’s arrogance. He was unaware that his original had already tried. Twice.

“Very well, smuggler, we will do as you suggest. I have my personal shuttle in the outer lock area…”

“I would suggest other transport. Things are in flux in your well-ordered Imperium and your personal shuttle might not get the reception you expect.”

Fior’s toads are afoot in my absence, thought the new Sartak. If I can trust this one.

Deb virtually read the clone’s mind.

“You’ll have to trust me on this. I have one of my ships and my second best pilot to take you home.”

The clone started at the word home and both Deb and Reth knew why. Lord Sartak’s hatred of his Order’s leadership was known: finding the reason behind it had been expensive. Sartak had been forced to pay a monstrous price for his early defiance of his ‘masters’ and had sought revenge for most of his adult life. This thing that stood before Deb was just the latest chapter of that revenge. No, it was just the beginning of a new chapter. Deb mulled all this as he created his plan.

“Reth,” he called out. “Get our client dry clothes and some survival rations. You’ll need to be leaving quickly.”

Reth, with his usual efficiency, happily prodded the clone along. He was well aware of the chance of others arriving. Within minutes, the two unlikely traveling companions were preparing to depart in the smuggler’s ship.

“My pilot will be in regular contact with me, Sartak, and only I know the codes to override the self-destruct system. It’s already armed and will cycle every few hours. I hope you’ll enjoy your journey and my pilot’s company.”

His grin was broad and feral. Sartak stood stone-faced before him and made no reply. Reth, as always, was prepared for anything. He was, after all, Reth.

Once the pressure doors closed, Deb bolted at his best speed, tore past the colonel and ripped off the access panels of two small and inconspicuous cabinets. Moving with intensity and precision, he reconfigured several control nexuses and went on through a reprogramming sequence. Abruptly, he stopped.

“I’m beginning to like Sartak just a little bit. Disinfecting these caverns with a non-persistent nerve agent was clever.”

Murthoc was completely confused until he moved close enough to read the manufacturer’s nameplates affixed to the cabinets: Comways. Starways wholly owned computer subsidiary. He guessed that the nerve agent that Deb had offhandedly mentioned was a product of another Starways company. This all had an unreal quality that the Confederation officer was finding hard to deal with. Then he was startled by a thought.

“Reth. Will he be all right?”

Deb’s smile at this was almost fatherly.

“Reth trained Sarr’a.”

Deb’s single sentences conveyed volumes. Murthoc was beginning to learn.

With that, Deb was again moving through the caverns. Seemingly from nowhere, he produced satchel charges and began planting them with apparent great expertise at key points.

“From Reth. If you’re ready, Colonel, we can leave now.”

Without further explanation of the origin of the explosives, he boarded and began a power up and preflight check of Sartak’s shuttle. Within minutes they were beyond the outer lock and should have begun their ascent. Deb hesitated.

“We’re going to check something.”

He eased the ship carefully downward to the shelf that had attracted his attention before. The light was dim, but the Last of the Brotherhood was cursed with superb sight. Just beneath the shelf, at the crater floor, were the remains of housing for the construction crew that had built the laboratory. For months they had struggled in total vacuum to build this sanctuary. They had faced the threat of explosive decompression, of cave-in, of maiming injury to complete this secret that was the hope of the Imperium. They had done all that was required of them and they had done it well. As they celebrated that job well done, as they prepared for their long awaited reunions with their families, with their lovers, with their lives they were murdered.

“I do not think I like Sartak even as much as I though,” said Deb quietly as they passed over the ruined dome and the mummified remains of the workers.

Murthoc decided not to bite his tongue this time.

“Wouldn’t you have done the same?” he asked.

Silence stretched between them as the ship rose from the planet. Behind it, explosions tore open Sartak’s hidden base destroying his carefully nurtured future.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Concordant Plaza was crowded with men and women dressed fashionably for business. A man in the casual attire of a smuggler should have been easily seen, but he was not. Sartak, still cloaked, with his head hooded, himself remarkable and beginning to draw attention in the crowd, did not dare to use the Power yet. He judged this too public a venue to risk failure: it would take time and judicious exercise for the finesse and control he had previously enjoyed to develop in this new body.

His smuggler escort was gone. Pragmatically accepting temporary defeat, Sartak turned toward the palace. There were a dozen hidden entrances to this ancient hub of the Imperium; one would allow return to his own world. His problems with this smuggler could be addressed then.

From behind a pillar not quite opposite Sartak’s searching gaze, Reth watched as the Master left. Turning away, he entered the towering headquarters of Starways Industries. Sculpted of incorruptible metal and glass, it dominated the plaza. Starways Industries, owner and operator of, among other ventures, the largest naval shipyard in the Imperium.

A security guard looked up, smiled slightly, and activated a hidden switch. The door to the penthouse lift opened and Reth entered. Almost a standard hour later, Starways distinctive executive transport arrived at the estate of the company’s owner carrying a senior Starways executive.

* * *

“But I do not discuss business at parties, Lord Rys.”

Eyelashes that somehow retained their gold as they framed her sapphire eyes fluttered at him. He was not impervious to females and this one was very artful. Recalling the gossip about her mother, Rys was not surprised. Twilleran pleasure women were always well trained. This one was also intelligent; that must have come from the reclusive father who was said to have created Starways.

“What do you discuss, great Lady?”

Appearing to realize that he found looking up to a woman disturbing, she sank gracefully into a chair.

“Art, literature, music,” she said, her eyes still focused only on him. “You.”

Her guests flowed around them, but did not interrupt. She had chosen to speak to him; the Lady did not favor those who disturbed her conversations.

“That would be discussing my business, ma’am. I don’t do that either.”

“You are a strange man, my Lord, who will not discuss himself.” Those eyes were laughing up at him. “What will Lord Rys discuss with me? You do not like my musicians. And you are not attracted by my art>”

She had meant the double entendre, he realized. It had been years since he’d played this game.

“On the contrary, great Lady, I find it very attractive. As art. Shall we set it aside and you will tell me why you invited me?”

Her smile was blinding; more than one man in the room cursed Rys under his breath.

“Business then, my Lord. And politics. They are in this case the same.”

Her voice retained its musical tones, but he noticed that her eyes were more intent.

“Power vacuums are bad for my business. I am, as always, concerned for Starways.”

Sitting down in the chair closest to hers, he considered her. This was much too public an approach if she wanted to suborn him from the Emperor’s service. He had noticed the Shamshir earlier in the evening and wondered at his presence. Reports about that man were growing disturbing. For himself, avoiding political factions was done almost without thought. If she and Starways were not so intriguing and so difficult to get close to, he would not have accepted her invitation. He served the Rajkar Emperor and, through him, the Imperium.

“I have heard,” he said quietly, taking this rare opportunity to probe. “That Starways is not above profiting from political unrest.”

His tone was noncommittal.

Her eyes flashed.

“The best run company has those who use it for their own ends, my Lord. I assure you; we are taking steps against them.”

Are you? He thought dryly as she continued.

“It is ending this anarchy that I wish to discuss with you. The possibility, shall we say, of an alliance of our interests?”

Stunned, he was unable to answer for several moments. His games to protect Kilian had been interpreted by this woman, and undoubtedly others, as a desire for personal power. That he should have anticipated it was his second thought. And the next was the reflection that they would not understand his tie to Kilian and therefore could not anticipate the depth of his allegiance.

“A personal alliance, great Lady?”

His eyes were intently observing her very well played reaction to his response.

“With the proper guarantees, my Lord, we should both find it stimulating and profitable.”

She was watching him through those eyelashes and, almost, he was tempted.

Rising, he said with genuine regret.

“I am only a servant of the Imperium, ma’am. I could bring nothing to such an alliance save what my Emperor has given me.”

Even for the opportunity to learn about your Starways, he thought, this is much too dangerous a game.

“A man of honor,” she said quietly and smiled again. “They are so rare.”

She managed, quite politely he was certain, to inject her own note of regret into the comment.

“You are welcome to enjoy my party, Lord Rys.”

Bowing, he accepted the dismissal. She fascinated Kilian; Rys could now see why. By his observation, the Rajkar Emperor had always preferred the chase to the capture: too many court ladies were only too eager to be his mistress. This one did not surrender.

As he turned away, he saw the servant step forward to whisper in her ear. Rising and walking with an unhurried, graceful step, she moved into a private section of the house. Very private, thought the head of Imperium intelligence ruefully. Neither electronics nor servants carefully placed in her household had ever penetrated that area. Not surprising, but frustrating. He was not naïve enough to suppose that even as her husband he would have access.

* * *

“Reth.”

Her greeting held none of the artfulness she had used on Lord Rys, simply welcome and a touch of surprise.

“Is he here?”

That seemed as unlikely as Reth’s appearance without him. She remembered Sarr’a’s report.

“Rather impressive battle armor, commander.” Reth was eyeing her gown. “He is going back to Ganthos with Sarr’a’s colonel/”

So even Reth had noticed that.

“Battle armor indeed, Reth. I have been speaking with Lord Rys, proposing an alliance of our interests. Starways interests. He is, if you will believe it, not attracted to me. Well, not much. He is a complex man and I think my brother underestimates him. And his Emperor.”

“What would you have done if he’d agreed?” Reth asked curiously.

“Married him.”

Her tone had the snap of the clan commander.

“After months of negotiations, if not years. The dress alone…”

She grinned at him, then grew more serious.

“Why are you here, Reth? Another of my brother’s errands?”

“More or less,” he agreed calmly. “I have brought Lord Sartak back to his, hopefully, grateful Emperor.”

Tor stared at him.

“How? He is buried under tons of rock on Kuarmian?”

“His clone, I should say. He maintains a cavern with at least a dozen of them. Or did before Deb found it.” Reth added dryly.

“Clone technology is outlawed by the Imperium,” she said. “And no clone is ever the same person.”

“Thazian engramic transfer, commander. Also outlawed. By the Masters, as I recall. A very busy criminal, Master Sartak.”

“And Deb sent him here? Why?”

“What better way to upset everyone than to have Lord Sartak reappear after he is dead. Confusion to our enemies.”

“If not to ourselves. I will notify my people to be properly astonished. And gratified, of course. Are you staying long?”

He noticed with some surprise that the question was particularly serious.

“Your brother will manage for a few days without me, Tor. I am here to receive your analysis of the current state of the Imperium and the results of our campaign to destabilize it.”

She sat down at her desk and called up the latest status reports. Scanning them quickly, Tor smiled slightly.

“The current state of the Imperium,” she repeated, her tone and expression all business. “Twenty-nine systems in open revolt, totaling forty-one key industrial worlds. Not many compared to their total count, but each is strategically disruptive. They are among the ones most recently added to the Imperium, of course. Decades of work came together rather quickly after the battle.”

Tor looked up at Reth.

“I am concerned that the abruptness of the campaign will undermine what has been a patient effort. Kuarmian excited them more than I had anticipated. Their enthusiasm may wane as quickly.

“Sartak’s return should disrupt the Masters who have been trying to take his place. Or more accurately, to hold it for Fior. There has been more or less open warfare between the two factions. It is regrettable that we did not realize how many adherents Fior had before the battle.”

Her tone was acerbic.

“It confirms that, rather than being the underdog as we had thought, he was the agent of their High Council. What does my brother plan to do with him?”

“Fior?” Reth shrugged. “Interrogate him again at some point. It is rather dangerous to let him out of the stasis field. Killing him tips the table over in the middle of the game.”

Tor nodded. “I understand that. I do think that we need to know more of his plans. What about this boy?”

“He’s being questioned. I haven’t seen a report yet. He may not know his own purpose.” Reth turned the conversation back to the Imperium. “So Rys is loyal to the Rajkari. We have suspected for some time that there was more to that relationship than was obvious. And the Shamshir?”

Tor looked pained. “That one is too certain of his own worth to be interested in me although I think Starways might have tempted him. If he could see himself as a mere businessman. Sartak returning will make things difficult for him: he has been telling people that he was on Kuarmian because Sartak asked for his help.”

“That should be amusing,” said Reth. “This Sartak has no memory of the two weeks before the battle. It will be a nice test of genetically enhanced perception. And nerve.”

“He will run,” Tor said with disdain. “He is a coward who abandons his men in battle. He has not even reported their deaths.”

“Then he will serve our purpose,” observed Reth dryly. “And it he takes the rest of the Direwolves, there will be other mercenaries than yours to confuse the offworlders. But let us not permit our disgust with the man to blind us to his schemes. I do not like being caught unaware as we were by his presence on Kuarmian. What have you discovered about him? Who is he working with?”

“Other than Fior? There is, so far, no indication that he is working with anyone.”

“Then find out. Top priority, commander.”

* * *

Sartak walked through the tunnel leading to his quarters in the Palace. It was a private entrance; no one had used it recently. The dust underfoot was marked only by his own tread.

Master of Darkness Kerth Riel had the misfortune to be on duty awaiting the arrival of Master Baltash Fior when Sartak, First Lord of the Imperial Chamber, reclaimed his own. The tenth order Master was challenged by a cold voice issuing from a man who stood in a shadowed section of the room and, for a brief moment, Riel wondered why he had not felt him enter. This one was too tall to be Master Fior and a lesser Master should have been apparent to him.

“Who are you who sits in my quarters?”

“I am Riel. I am assigned to assist Master Fior when he comes.”

The habit of obedience to that tone pulled the answer from him even as he was recognizing the voice. Terror struck at him as he strove to build a wall between them in the Power. The man he now recognized as Lord Sartak laughed, an icy sound that brought a high scream to Riel’s lips. That scream wavered thinly; the air from his lungs pushed out as Sartak almost negligently crushed his body with the Power.

“Not as weak as I feared,” he murmured, then smiled as he followed the rippling effects through the Power. “That will have announced my arrival.”

The Household Guards froze almost literally after bursting through the door. He did not, however, hurt them: they were after all his own troops. Sartak addressed their commander from the shadows.

“Captain Weyn. Direct someone to clean this up. And send me my valet. I shall be attending the Emperor as soon as I am presentable. Next time, I will require a more decorous entrance.”

His hands moved in a familiar gesture; they found that movement was possible and bowed deeply.

“Yes, my Lord. At once, my Lord.”

Captain Weyn smiled inwardly at the return of his rightful Lord; he had chafed under the rule of the usurpers he had been forced to obey.

How he had returned was not their concern. They left to do his bidding, confident that the world would soon be set to right. Within the Palace, there was satisfaction and consternation as word spread of his return. In widening circles, throughout the civilized worlds, Masters of Darkness feeling Riel’s death and Sartak’s renewed presence, wondered and rejoiced or feared depending upon their allegiance.

“He is here!” There were tears on the Master’s cheeks as his face glowed with ecstatic joy. “Truly he is the greatest of us!”

“Who is here?” said Rys sharply.

They had been speaking together in the Lady’s garden when the ninth order Master had suddenly stiffened upright. Rys had been endeavoring, almost fatalistically, to convince Sartak’s Masters to join together against Fior. They were, after all, facing death when he arrived. It had been a weary effort: their distrust and suspicion of each other appeared to be congenital. At least, they could not be soothed by any assurances he could make.

“Master Sartak.” His voice was worshipful. “He returns to us. He has killed Riel.”

There was a note of triumph and pleasure in the last.

“But you said he was dead.”

Unbelieving, Rys froze for a few moments, a man handed an impossible reprieve from his own impending death and the loss of everything he holds important. Then he began to consider the possibilities and what must be done.

Two hours after Riel’s death, Lord Sartak was formally attired for Court. His conditioned valet had skillfully applied the cosmetics necessary for him to appear his “actual” age. He was a trifle slimmer, not surprising perhaps in one who returns from the dead. His tailor was already working on the necessary alterations.

Entering the operations room known only to the three who ruled the Imperium, he found Lord Rys. Alone. Closing the door firmly behind him, Sartak strode forward into the light and waited. Almost he regretted not having prepared them for this moment; he recognized that “he” had never truly believed in its arrival.

“There is no doubt that you are a Master.” Rys kept his tone neutral. “Nor is there doubt that other Masters accept you as Sartak.”

He moved forward so that they stood face to face.

“But you are not. At least, not precisely. What sort of trick are you? And whose?”

Gone was the middle-aged bureaucrat with the Court-trained manners. This man had unflinchingly decided the fate of worlds and would again. He faced in this Sartak either possible salvation or the vilest of treachery and he would decide which.

“I am my own trick, Rys.”

Sartak could understand Rys’s dilemma. Not two hours before, Rys was planning an endgame against the anticipated triumphant entrance of Fior to the Palace. Now he was confronted with the impossible: Sartak and his faction in the ascendancy. And by keeping his plan secret, Sartak had possibly destroyed all trust between them.

Rys had seen intelligence reports with the threads of an explanation. The First Lord of the Imperial Chamber had been acquiring the artifacts necessary for a return from the dead, but… That one word led the head of Imperium intelligence to a host of possibilities and dangers. This could be some trap that even his long experience had not prepared him for.

“Trust is all, Rys. Without it, we are lost: you, the Emperor, my followers among the Masters. This is no time for doubts. My careful planning and preparations have exposed our enemies both within and without. Now we can rid the Imperium and the Confederation of their puppeteers. Or have your plans changed in my absence?”

It was part bravado and part calculated test. He was painfully aware of the gap in his memory. He had no trust in the smuggler’s account of things and he knew there was not one among his own loyal Masters who was competent to give an intelligible assessment of the situation. His own skills, fully transferred but only lightly tested, were his best and probably only tools.

Rys considered him with the greatest of care. He would have to be certain of this “Sartak” before Kilian arrived. If it was a trap, he had one chance to defeat it. Perhaps not even that, given that the man was a Master. But it would take all in the room, this one chance.

“All right, trust it is then. Tell me about Thazian engram technology.”

His face grew harder, feral, and sported a wolf’s grin as he revealed some of his own knowledge.

“It is,” Sartak began. “The only way a clone can truly become the thing from which it has been derived. It is also, my competent friend, my death if the Council learns of its use. If you thought they hated me before…”

He paused for a deep breath and to covertly gauge the other man’s reactions. He seemed to be listening intently.

“It allows for the transfer of all memory, all experience, all emotion, including the most smoldering of hates.”

“So even the clone remembers why he is the bitterest of enemies of those who rule his Order?”

Tears began to well in Sartak’s eyes as he permitted himself to “remember.”

“They made me kill her, Rys. To tear out my child as it grew within her and then to stand watching as she bled to death.” Remembered pain and hatred shown on his face. “She was not an approved breeder. My penance was to kill her. My punishment was to never have a child.”

Rys permitted none of the horror he felt to show. He had known of the deaths, not the method. Their three-way alliance was secure. It was not possible that a puppet of the Master’ ruling Council would know of that or be permitted to show that reaction.

Ironically, within the clone, there came a realization. He was speaking of another’s life. And this body was whole. But the revulsion against the Council felt real.

“Do we continue our alliance, my friend, or do you release that switch you are holing closed?” Sartak had his own feral smile. “I have sources of my own, you know.”

Turning away for a moment, Rys disarmed the system that would have incinerated the contents of the room and pressed the switch admitting the Rajkar Emperor.

As the great doors closed and sealed automatically, Rys turned.

“Kilian, I should like to present Lord Sartak. Or at least as close as we have need of.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“You said that we could discuss physics after the battle, sir.”

Murthoc had decided that direct questions were the best approach. While he suspected that the answers he received from these people weren’t as complete as they appeared, his job (as well as his inclination) was to gather what information he could and then evaluate it.

“Which aspects of physics, Colonel?”

The Last of the Brotherhood seemed relaxed although he had given no indication that he wanted to sleep as he had on the trip out.

Choosing the most practical matter first, the colonel replied. “Their new engines that ‘fold’ space. You seemed to understand the theory.”

Deb grinned. “I should. It’s basic physics. At least, for the Brotherhood. We do not generally use them because of the energy requirements. And because even in a galaxy this size, someone will correlate how quickly you moved.”

He’s seen Tren’s analysis, thought the colonel. Not surprising. Whoever this spy is, he’s good.

Acknowledging the hit, he said. “And when you are in control of the situation, you don’t need to use them. Do you, sir?”

Deb’s face darkened and Colonel Murthoc grew more alert.

“True. We have not actually used them much in the past twenty years.” His green eyes were distant. “They are, as you will have deduced, how we left Zoran.”

He continued as the colonel accepted confirmation of his theory and wondered how the Brotherhood could possibly have had time to reach their ships.

“You want to know how many of us died.” Deb shrugged. “I have told Sartak and Fior; why not you?”

Startled, Colonel Murthoc looked at the Last of the Brotherhood. The two Masters were not company he had previously aspired to join.

“You will have realized that your death is at any given moment close at hand. I would not risk the Brotherhood for one offworlder’s life and I am quite certain you know that.” He paused. “One thousand, Colonel.”

Shocked by the precision of the number, Murthoc sat in silence. Why one thousand? Why did any of them die, if most could escape? Recalling their battle displays, he considered the possibility that they had seen the attack before the fleet arrived. That still did not explain exactly one thousand dead as a rear guard. But the Brotherhood never used a rear guard to cover their withdrawals; they simply didn’t think that way. Who had they been and what had they been doing?

He risked a reference to a Master.

“Fior said millions.”

“You could say it felt that way,” Deb’s voice was remote, detached. “Fior is a fool. In his arrogance, he forgot that he should not have felt us at all. The irony, of course, is that the Masters did not kill them. We did. Space does not ‘fold’ well near planet surfaces.”

There was silence as the colonel worked to absorb the information he had been given. He still didn’t know how the new engines worked. If the energy requirements were so high, the Confederation probably couldn’t afford to use them anyway. Then Deb moved abruptly.

“You will excuse me, Colonel. There is a message coming in.”

He waited until the Confederation officer had entered the passenger compartment before flipping the switch open.

“Yes?”

“There is a transmission from Sarr’a?”

Incredulous anger flashed across the Last of the Brotherhood’s face as he replied.

“She calls me against standing orders? Why?”

“I don’t know, sir. She would not say. Will you speak with her?”

“Of course,” he said with careful sarcasm. “I have nothing better to do and I am quite sure it is of supreme importance.”

“Deb.”

“Yes, Sarr’a?”

With an effort, he kept the anger from his voice. First, he would discover the reason for her call. Then…

“May I speak to Reth?”

It was so unexpected that he answered before he thought.

“He is not here.”

There was a pause.

“He is escorting someone to the Imperium. I will send a full report of our actions just as soon as I have a secure means of doing so.” Sarcasm was creeping into his tone. “And the reason you need to talk to me?”

“Deb, there has been an odd series of deaths. Senior military officers in the Confederation are being killed by someone we have not been able to identify.

Sarr’a paused. The communications was through Ganthos to his ship. Her screen was blank, the distance too great to risk a signal. She could not therefore gauge his reactions except by his voice and that was seriously annoyed.

“The oddity is that many of them are retired. We have been able to discover only one common factor: they all participated in the attack on Zoran. Or directly approved it.”

“That is curious,” said Deb, sounding mildly interested. “Maybe they’re saving on pensions. Are you certain none of your people are involved?”

Drawing herself up and glaring at the empty screen, Sarr’a snapped. “The people in my command follow my orders.”

“That must be very nice for you, clan commander.” Deb’s voice held a full measure of sarcasm and just a touch of triumph. “Not all of mine do.”

Amik reached from behind her to end the transmission.

“I don’t think we need any more of that conversation,” he observed quietly. “You achieved your objective.”

Sarr’a sat stiffly silent for a moment, then looked at her second gravely.

“He’s right,” she said. “I would not tolerate me.”

Amik smiled. “We did not choose you to lead us because you would follow the Last of the Brotherhood blindly, Sarr’a. And he knows that.”

She returned to their original discussion.

“Reth is no longer with him.”

“What will you do?”

She rose from the communications console.

“I am going to Ganthos.” Sarr’a paused. “When I return, I will review Laren’s new unit. And you may remind D’nal that ninety-one percent accuracy is not good enough.”

She looked sideways at Amik.

“Not when the rest of us are below her. And, excuse that it was, the question remains: who is killing them? We can eliminate Deb. That was unlikely anyway.

“Tell Kyrl to assign people to watch as many as she can find. They are to watch, not interfere. I think that we will look at Colonel Murthoc next although I would have suspected him more if it had begun before he knew we survived. And he is with Deb now anyway.”

Amik nodded his agreement. The colonel’s lifelong interest in the Brotherhood was a prominent feature of his file. It was possible that he had organized his own war against the Confederation officers involved in the attack on Zoran. He had both the ability and the resources. But he was with Deb and it was out of character for him to kill by proxy. His agents were not usually assassins.

“No.”

The clan commander had stopped at the door.

“I will tell Kyrl. I am going to see her first, then go to Ganthos. Deb raised an interesting question and I am going to discover the answer to that, at least. Clan discipline takes priority.”

* * *

Sitting alone in the passenger section, Colonel Murthoc tried to make sense of the Brotherhood’s escape from Zoran. The precise number of the dead argued a purpose and the impossibility of the escape, even with fold engines, argued a physics well beyond anything he had studied. That followed given the Last of the Brotherhood’s derisive attitude toward offworlder science and his comment that the engines were basic physics. What else was basic physics?

Looking up, he saw Deb, now in uniform and beardless, calling him back to the pilot’s compartment.

“I thought we were going back to Ganthos,” said the colonel as he sat down. “If my uniform got them upset, the reaction to yours should be really interesting.”

Deb ignored him as they came out of hyperspace. Below them, the orange planet was not Ganthos. It took Colonel Murthoc several moments to realize that it was Xackar.

How natural is xenophobia? Thought Deb as he observed the colonel’s attempt to mask his reaction. Blaming it on the Algolana hatred for non-humanoids begs the question after some fifteen thousand years. Of course, the Xackarn feel the same way and they give the identical reason although with a rather stronger justification.

“Don’t worry, Colonel. You need not accompany me outside. In fact, I doubt they would permit it.”

He answered the challenge from the ship that had moved to interdict their landing. Turning on the visual transmitter, he waited. The sibilant response confirmed his deductions by its lack of surprise.

“Why come you here, child of the green mountains?”

Curiosity was overcoming the colonel’s repugnance. He knew the Xackarn predated the Algolana. Suddenly, he wished he could ask them questions.

“If it is permitted, father of many, I would speak with the Oldest.”

“It is a polite child. We will confer.”

Colonel Murthoc sat in silence, contemplating the Last of the Brotherhood as diplomat. Somehow, it was not as amusing as it should have been.

“You may land, child. Follow us down.”

The Xackarn ship arced toward the surface of their home world with Deb following closely. After landing, the Last of the Brotherhood rose and, pausing, put his hand on the colonel’s shoulder.

“Do not permit your curiosity to take you outside this ship, Colonel Murthoc. Some of the stories you have heard about the Xackarn are true. They will certainly kill you in an extremely unpleasant fashion if you set foot on their world.”

He smiled briefly.

“I am in uniform as much to remind them of the fleet behind me as any other reason.”

Colonel Murthoc watched Deb exit the ship and heard the hatch seal behind him. It was irksome to be overcoming a prejudice that he was rather ashamed of and not be able to ask questions he was certain the Xackarn had the answers to. His view was limited; he could only settle back in his seat and wait.

Remembering his conversation with Reth on Ganthos, he grinned suddenly. So you don’t govern his actions, thought the colonel a little derisively. He sends you to the Imperium and then visits Xackar. Did he tell you he was coming here? That was a more amusing view of the Last of the Brotherhood, but it still didn’t tell him why they had come.

Landing fields are the same everywhere. This one was of baked orange clay and the air was hot. Fortunately, humans and Xackarn require almost the same air, thought Deb, although a little moisture in this would be nice.

In the moments between his other duties, he had been studying Brotherhood records of the Xackarn. His reaction to the one following Ylana and Nat on Darnath had been instinctive: they were pawns in the game he was playing with Fior. A human challenge would have evoked the same response.

Since then, his observations confirmed that the Xackarn were acting oddly. First their attempt to capture Fior, then the consolidation of their strategic position by occupying several uninhabited worlds and withdrawing colonies from isolated outposts. It seemed that they anticipated a fight. So far, no one was poised to move against them.

Only one force had ever attacked them on their home world.

Walking across the baked clay, corrosive dust biting at his eyes and nostrils, Deb realized suddenly where he was. This was the closest to a capital city that the Xackarn had, the central location of their culture. Their society was built around mating rituals and the ascendancy of the victors. He had asked to speak to the Oldest and they had brought him here. From where he stood, stretching to the horizon, there were uncountable irregularly spaced depressions filled with Xackarn eggs. It was a statement: we are many and we are strong. And we know who you are.

“Child of darkness,” hissed a voice behind him. “Thisss way. The Oldest waits.”

Turning, he followed the young Xackarn.

They were waiting for him under a translucent canopy. Possibly, this had been erected in deference to him as the cloaks they wore indicated that to the Xackarn the air was cool. Stepping into the shade, he waited. Xackarn etiquette required that the Oldest speak first.

“Why come you here, child of the green mountains?”

Reptilian eyes cannot be read by humans. The repetition of the question with its reference to the first Zoran might have indicated impatience. Or it might imply a limited vocabulary.

“I seek knowledge, father of the Xackarn.” Sibilant consonants were difficult, but he managed them correctly. “Why do your people prepare for war? Why do you shadow Fior and his pawns?”

Reptilian hissing always sounds angry to human ears, Deb reminded himself. The Oldest was regarding him with unblinking eyes. He wondered if they could read human expressions.

“We see darkness, child. Of the two you sheltered: one is the spawn of evil, the other a tool.”

“Not sheltered, great father.” Deb’s correction was quiet, but pointed. “Captured and toyed with. And Fior also.”

“That one plays with great evil, child.” This time the large eyes blinked slowly. “We watch. We prepare. We wonder.”

“Wonder?” asked Deb.

“Of you and the children of darkness who follow you, child of the green mountains. Do you honor the ancient pledge?”

“So long as I live,” replied the Last of the Brotherhood. “Those who follow me will honor that pledge.”

“We shall sssee…”

The Oldest turned away from him, indicating that he had no more to say.

Walking back to the ship, Deb considered the conversation. The Xackarn were afraid of Fior’s plan. He would need to discover more of it. And who was the spawn of evil and who the tool? Making a note to have Ylana recaptured, he entered the hatch and sealed it behind him.

Inside, the air felt cold and his eyes needed a moment to adjust.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel. Merely overheated.”

Moving to his seat, he prepared the ship for liftoff.

“Were you successful, sir?”

As they took off, Deb smiled briefly.

“Have you succeeded in infiltrating the Xackarn, Colonel?”

The Confederation officer looked taken aback. Non-human species had never seemed particularly relevant to his job.

“Neither have we. The only way to discover anything about them is to ask directly. And they don’t give very direct answers.”

As the ship entered hyperspace, he sat back.

“Our course is set for Ganthos. They are aware that we are coming and in this ship. If you would act as pilot, I need to flush the dust from my eyes. And, as you pointed out, change my clothes.”

* * *

The Oldest settled into the well-worn hollow within the circle of his elders.

“We should have told him what we know,” he said. “That one is a warrior and should be treated as such.”

“It is best that he discover for himself,” said a quiet voice from his left. “The young learn better that way.”

“We do not know very much,” observed another. “Not with certainty.”

“The only certainty is that the humans will attack us. They practice abominations. You say he is a warrior. I say that if he faced you in honorable combat, he would use those same abominations to survive.” Pausing, the fierce voice then delivered its final curse. “They kill hatchlings. Their own hatchlings as well as others. How can you trust any who do that?”

“Trust is a strong word,” said the Oldest slowly. “He gives his word to honor the oath. The children of darkness have always honored their word. The other humans do not like them in part because of that.

“We shall continue to gather information and to prepare. And we must watch them more closely. We have allowed our hatred to blind us for too long. We may die because of it.”

CHAPTER NINE

“He lives. It is not possible, but he lives. Master Sartak has been seen with the Rajkar Emperor and, more definitively, we have felt him in the Power. We are met to discuss how this is possible and what we must do.”

“How did he conceal himself from us?”

“That is indeed the central question. Especially as Master Fior is still hidden.”

“Are they working together against us? That both of them should have developed this new degree of Power at the same time seems too much to be coincidence.”

“Review the breeding program. Perhaps they begin to evolve faster than we anticipated.”

“When this new ability is combined with the strange feel of the Power we felt when Sartak died…ostensibly died… We must discover what is happening. We must.”

Save for two, the Council dispersed, each of its members struggling with their aspect of the problem. Watching carefully until they were certainly alone, the Moderator spoke with the Council’s chief of security.

“We have had twelfth order Masters before; we have never failed to control them. Both Sartak and Fior have been disciplined before this. Is it possible that they concealed their ability?”

“I can think of only two possible explanations; both require collusion by Councilors. First, that there was interference during the gestation period of these two Masters. It has been attempted before. Second, that there is direct manipulation by one or more Councilors, thereby shielding the actions of these two renegades from us.

“Both are renegades? You are right. We must cut our losses quickly. History teaches that when the games of our puppets reach into the Council, civil war and chaos are imminent.” Tightly controlled horror was apparent in the voice. “You will speak of this to no one.”

“Certainly not, Highest.” The security chief bowed deeply. “I will begin my investigation at once.”

“Fior’s recorder must be brought to confession. We can no longer wait for an optimally safe moment. It must be done now.”

“I shall leave immediately.”

“You personally?” It was unprecedented.

“Which of the Masters will you trust?” The question was harsh, its meaning harsher.

* * *

“Finally,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “You are here.”

Red Beard’s eyebrows went up.

“Not you, sir. Him.” He indicated Colonel Murthoc with a quick grin. “Sarr’a gave him her word that no one would look at these reports while she controlled them. I am therefore to hand them to no one but you, Colonel. She takes her word very seriously. And I am now two days late.” Handing the colonel a sealed package, he sprinted toward a nearby ship.

“Come along, Colonel.” said Red Beard dryly. “You may study those in my office. That is, if you’re not afraid that I will see them.”

He was walking rapidly along the concourse, largely ignoring the bazaar around them.

“Thank you, sir.” replied Colonel Murthoc, moving beside him. “I expect you’ve already seen anything important.”

Red Beard paused.

“Are you questioning Sarr’a’s word?”

“No, sir. Of course not.” Colonel Murthoc kept his voice bland. “I am admiring her agent’s fieldwork.”

Entering his office, Red Beard sat down in his chair and leaned back with almost a sigh.

“Shall I summarize for you then?” The colonel waited in silence. “Your Major Tren has done a nice job of tracing Starways, Colonel. He has a very well trained, analytic mind.” And he is obviously extremely lucky to be alive, thought the colonel darkly, knowing that he could do nothing to protect his aide. “The smuggling ties get more complicated, but he is essentially on the right track. We were a little careless about a year ago with the relief shipments to Rost. That seems to have aroused his suspicions.”

He saw the colonel’s question.

“You thought we only shipped slaves, weapons, and drugs? Emergency supplies can be very profitable. And they do upset the people causing the emergency, in this case, the Imperium mining interests. Their latest process for stripping minerals from a planet works so much more efficiently without a native population. Do you follow industrial techniques? You should. This one is making much of the slave trade obsolete and making some of your Confederation worlds much more attractive to the Imperium.

“Speaking of your government: it totters, but it does not fall. Your General Crant saved himself very nicely. He may get to fight a civil war next. Some of your worlds want to invade the Imperium and others, including your own Elthar, resent the taxes and the draft of soldiers for what they see as dangerous adventuring.” And how much of Elthar’s taxes are going to you for weapons instead, wondered the colonel. Would you tell me if I asked? Most probably yes, he continued in acknowledgement of Deb’s baffling openness. And would it matter?

“The Imperium has similar problems, albeit for different reasons. More than two dozen of their systems are in open revolt now that it has been shown that they can be defeated. I am certain that the major has given you all of the particulars.”

The unemotional voice paused, then continued in the same cataloguing tone. “And Lord Rys has sent you a present.” The colonel straightened. “Forty-three presents actually. He feels that makes you even.”

Murthoc’s fists clenched at his sides; carefully he forced himself to relax his fingers. Breaking open the seal of the package, he rifled through the contents until he found the list of names. He began to read. When he reached the end, his hands dropped and he drew a tired breath.

“There’s not much point to the charade of Confederation intelligence now, is there?”

“We will give you the information you need, Colonel.”

Colonel Murthoc’s eyes held bitter rage as he contemplated the man behind the desk. With deliberation, he picked up the nearest chair and sent it smashing into the wall.

“Those were men, my men. Some of them were friends. And, with all due respect, sir, I would as soon get my information from Lord Rys as you.”

“You seem less and less the offworlder, Cully Murthoc.” Green flashed above the beard. “This is war. Men die in wars.”

“And do you celebrate your casualties? Sir?”

“No, I do not.” The answer was quietly compelling. “I fight against each and every one of them while recognizing that there will be more.” His eyes met and held the colonel’s. “You have been Confederation intelligence for almost ten years, Colonel Murthoc. With some assistance from Major Tren. You will have the information you require. And my regret for the deaths of your men.” It helps to remember why you are fighting offworlder. But that thought is not going to comfort you much now because you question your reasons.

The colonel’s face was still full of his rage.

“You want to kill me,” said the Last of the Brotherhood quietly. “Perhaps, someday, you will have the chance. But not now.”

His gaze fell on the torn package and its contents which had spilled out at the colonel’s feet.

“What is that?”

“What?” Colonel Murthoc looked down, then bent to pick everything up.

“The book.”

“Your spy missed something? Sir?” There was still a definite edge to his voice. He examined it for a moment. “It’s about the Algolana, a Professor Mellor…” A reluctance to discuss his interest in the Algolana with Deb made his voice trail off.

“May I see it?” Deb kept his voice quietly interested, as though welcoming a diversion from their confrontation. Removing the attached papers, the colonel handed it to him.

“The professor wants to visit a planet named Lanour.” He looked at Deb, who shrugged. “It seems that when we took Kuarmian, we upset his plans for an expedition. He is asking for a safe conduct for himself and five of his students. I am asked to check it on security grounds.” He read through the documents. “The man has impressive credentials. Tren says he and his students have no known connections to Imperium intelligence.”

He held up the professor’s application and handed it to the Last of the Brotherhood when he put out his hand. Deb scanned it automatically, then sat up straight. Flipping a switch, he said crisply.

“I need Errel.”

There was no audible response, but a man came into the office a few minutes later. The colonel recognized one of Deb’s opponents from his earlier visit.

“Sir?”

Handing him the application, Deb waited. After a moment, Errel looked up.

“His sponsor, the Menteth Foundation. That’s Sartak’s.” Deb nodded. “I haven’t heard of Lanour. By its coordinates, there’s nothing much near it. This is a professor of archaeology?”

“Chaotic archaeology,” said the colonel who was getting tired of being ignored.

“Errel commands Ganthos, Colonel. Not by coincidence, he knows every planet of even the remotest interest to us. That has not previously included Lanour, obviously.”

The Last of the Brotherhood looked past Errel. Another man had entered while they were talking. Deb’s face darkened.

“Get me a survey of the planet, Lanour.”

Deb turned to the head of Brotherhood intelligence as the base commander left.

“Armh,” he said, in far from welcoming tones. Ignoring the continued presence of Colonel Murthoc, he went on. “You got my message. Did you check those codes you gave me for subroutines? We had a very odd reaction to them.”

“What kind of reaction?” To the colonel’s carefully concealed amusement, Armh sounded as annoyed as Deb. He had said before that he was busy. To Deb’s glower, he continued testily. “Of course, we screened them. There was nothing. What happened?”

“We were running passive scans of the planet when we triggered some sort of gravity gong. There must have been some sort of signal buried in those codes.”

“You are still alive and you have returned here, so I will deduce that you found something.” Armh was sounding patient. “Since this gong didn’t presumably signal an attack, it must have shown you where to go. Does it occur to you, that you were being scanned as well and that you fit the profile of a proper searcher?”

Deb, to the colonel’s amazement, looked chastened.

“You must be right,” he said thoughtfully. “I will have to watch for that in the future.” Armh was turning away as he continued. “You haven’t heard what we found.”

“I will read your report. I always do.” He turned back for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. “If you read mine, you would have heard of Lanour.”

“Why?” Deb’s question was sharp.

“During the interrogation of the boy, Nat Bahadur, he mentioned thant name in a context indicating that it was a place. Interestingly, if he had not already been in a medical facility, we would have lost him.”

“Death conditioning?” exclaimed the colonel incredulously. “For the name of a planet?”

He was ignored as Deb considered the puzzle aloud.

“Sartak’s Menteth Foundation is sending an archaeological expedition to a planet that Fior’s protégé will die, wittingly or not, to protect. Even its name is a secret.” Deb was almost humming with interest. “We shall send them their safe conduct, Colonel.” Correctly interpreting the annoyance that showed on Murthoc’s face, he added patiently. “You may sign it, if you insist. But I can get it there much more quickly than if we go through Major Tren.”

“Only if I may go with you.” As if I could stop him, thought the colonel, rather wearily.

Armh coughed.

“I gather that Reth is not here?” He inquired of Deb. “I see I shall need to read that report soon. It would be better to wait for him, sir.”

“When I shall have Colonel Murthoc to restrain my wilder impulses? Or will you come?” Deb knew the answer to that one.

“I’m much too busy. Especially after this interruption.” Armh was moving toward the door again. “I will have my staff send you anything we have on that planet, sir. It won’t be much.”

Deb settled into his chair for several moments before turning back to the colonel. The Confederation officer was standing near his desk looking rather tired and the Last of the Brotherhood remembered the extremely acid remarks he had received in the past from members of the Brotherhood who couldn’t maintain his pace. Offworlders didn’t seem to have enough sense to complain.

“Sit down, Colonel.” he said quietly. “This will take a few days to arrange. Shall we meet them at Renalth? It would be convenient for both sides.”

Murthoc nodded his agreement. Clones, the Brotherhood, the Xackarn, now chaotic archaeology…a life which had previously seemed full and often dangerous now looked almost pleasantly tedious by comparison. At least, he’d been more or less in charge of it. Not that he would go back. Right now he was hungry and tired. Looking up to say so, he met Deb’s eyes.

“So you will complain,” said the Last of the Brotherhood before he could speak. “Errel.” He spoke to the communicator on his desk. “Find Colonel Murthoc something to eat and somewhere quiet to sleep. And get me a courier.” His eyes came back to the colonel. “UI will catch up on my reports and I will try not to do anything exciting until you are feeling better.”

That last remark was almost free of sarcasm, thought the colonel as he went to find Errel. But I still don’t trust you.

* * *

Sultry air, cooled only slightly by the light breeze which had arrived with the sunset, combined with the fumes of the city to make even this small park unpleasant. The Confederation’s capital was not Sarr’a’s favorite city. Smiling inwardly, she acknowledged that she had no favorite city. Why offworlders chose to live this way had always puzzled and disgusted her. This park was relatively empty. It was too close to the port district to be inviting to most of the city’s inhabitants.

For two nights, she had watched the old man as he walked through the park to his home nearby and watched through the night as he slept. The cadence of his cane was becoming familiar as was his sour expression. Perhaps he was embittered by the poverty of retirement on a military pension. Certainly, this section of the city was not the best. Or perhaps, he had always disliked life and wore his opinion on his face.

Kyrl’s analysis of the killings to date indicated that he was the most likely next target. He had commanded the two previous victims and their killer seemed at this point to be working up the military chain of command. The section commander had been adamantly certain that no one in her command could be responsible. Sarr’a had listened silently to the echo of her own statement to Deb and resolved to solve the mystery. And now, she realized suddenly, she would.

From the shadows where she waited, she saw the hunter strike this time with a knife. He moved like a soldier, albeit not a young one, but he was very definitely not one of hers. The body dropped to the ground; Sarr’a waited until the other had moved far enough away to drop his guard, then moved to challenge him.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice a command. His reaction stunned her.

Halfway into a defensive crouch, he stopped and straightened to attention.

“Corporal Jarnes, ma’am.” Peering at her in the dusk, he continued. “Why are you dressed like that? You’re one of them. I know that.”

“Them?” Sarr’a asked warily. This was easily the oddest encounter with an offworlder she had ever experienced.

“I was on Kuarmian, ma’am. You can’t fool me by being female. And you,” His voice held triumph as he completed what seemed to be a very intense scrutiny of her. “You were the girl with the sword. You’re a…” He seemed to be reaching deep into his memory. “A commander. One of their commanders.”

“Corporal Jarnes.” Sarr’a repeated his name to be certain of it. “What are you doing, Corporal?”

“Well, ma’am. One of your men explained it to me. Made it clear. I don’t know his name, ma’am, but we served together on Keltarn. Before. He’s a good officer, ma’am and I don’t often say that. Always takes care of his men. Well, I was a little upset with the new boy dying, ma’am. So I asked him where you’d been.” He glanced at her; her face was impassive. “He got real angry and asked me where I’d been when they did it. Like it was important. And what I’d done to the ones who did it. Well, ma’am, it made sense suddenly. I talked it over with some of my friends after. We decided to do it. We can’t give them what they desrve, ma’am, but we can kill them.” Mistaking her stare for censure, he said, “God’s piss…begging your pardon, ma’am. It’s better than they deserve to go this quick.” He fell silent as her hand came up in a signal he recognized.

“Why not before?” Sarr’a asked very quietly.

“No point, ma’am. You were gone. We were walking dead. Now…there’s hope, ma’am.”

To the clan commander, he sounded very young, although his age was certainly almost twice her own. She had never before encountered the offworlders need for hope. It was a foreign concept to one who chose to fight for honor and duty. Reaching a decision, she said quietly.

“You have chosen, Corporal. I will not interfere with that choice except that we may need some of these men for a while longer.”

He was listening carefully, experience having taught him that these people repaid close attention. It did not seem to have occurred to him that she might stop him. Her sharp whistle brought a man to her side.

“Corporal Jarnes,” Sarr’a continued, command again in her tone. “You will coordinate your campaign with Dal. If he tells you to let one of them live, you will obey. Otherwise, we shall not interfere.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting smartly. Before she had quite turned away, he spoke again. “What’s your name, ma’am? Please?”

Turning to face him, her eyes met his.

“I am clan commander Sarnath Al Cador, Corporal.” She felt the surprise of the man behind her. Smiling slightly, she continued. “You will not repeat that.”

“Yes,ma’am.”

CHAPTER TEN

Sarr’a’s walk down the main concourse at Ganthos prompted the usual skittering withdrawals as men and the occasional woman remembered other business. They were perhaps a bit more unsettled than usual. Skal’s “examples” were overwhelming the air scrubbers with their stench. She had almost reached Red Beard’s office when a too familiar voice spoke from behind her.

“He ain’t here, love.”

Turning, she answered in a voice colder than space itself.

“Where is he? Assuming you know?”

“I remembers all the important stuff.”

His leer was wicked. Around them, the bazaar grew still as traders waited for the fight.

“How ‘bout a kiss and I’ll tell you.”

Sarr’a moved forward until they stood mere inches apart. Her eyes glared icy contempt, but her hands were empty at her sides as she replied.

“Touch me and I will gut you like Mirranthe. My word, Skally.”

He laughed, a delighted roar that invited others to join it.

“You may try, sweetheart. Anytime. ‘Cept now.” His voice held genuine regret. “I’m s’posed to be takin’ out some pirates for him. Shall I send you some bits to keep you company while I’m gone?”

She did not move.

“He went to the greenies’ base on Renalth, my lady.” Stepping back, he sketched her an exaggerated bow. “With that spying colonel you’re so fond of. And not even a kiss for me.”

This loudly in complaint to the crowd around them, none of whom quite dared show their approval of his manner.

Sarr’a watched him stride away before returning to her ship. It was becoming impossible to know when he was playing games and when he meant what he said. She found it very disturbing.

* * *

This battle would be recorded in Brotherhood annals as both classic and odd. Odd, certainly, in its objectives, which were totally achieved. And in its execution: classic.

Mercenary pilots arrived in ships from which Starways insignia had been, somewhat inexpertly, removed. They seemed a rough lot to the Masters who had hired them, but soldiering has never been the profession of choice for a Master. There was little mingling.

It was enough that these men would secure the defense of the system that they had decided to make their own. That sounded better than a refuge, which is what it was: a place of safety from Sartak’s Masters. These refugees had followed the directives of the Council and prepared for Master Fior’s ascendancy. But Master Fior had not come and Master Sartak had.

Fleeing the reprisals of his followers, these Masters had come to this system and made it their own. Or nearly. Its government was in revolt against the Imperium and welcomed their aid. They would consolidate political power later, after the defensive line was secured. Masters were trained to think in terms of centuries, a few weeks or months were as nothing. That lack of authority could, however, be irksome at times. It was now during the planning session for the battle.

“No sir.”

“Your men will come through here and attack the fleet of the Imperium at this point.” Master Amiel repeated the order.

That’s a direct, frontal assault, sir. I will lose all of my men if we do that.”

The mercenary commander sounded like he was speaking to a very small child and some of the local pilots hid their grins. The Masters were already not very popular, although dangerous to offend.

“You’re being paid,” said Master Amiel sharply.

“To fight, sir. And maybe to die. But not to commit suicide to no purpose.”

He gestured toward the display.

“We send in a few ships, a raid. We withdraw this way, bringing as many of theirs as will follow. When they get here, we have them.”

The locals were now listening with respect. Master Amiel gave up.

“Fine,” he said. “We will do it your way. But remember. If you don’t secure the line for us, you won’t be paid.”

“We’ll secure it, sir.”

There was an odd smile on the mercenary commander’s face.

“And where will your ships be, sir? To avoid any accidents.”

“We will form a line here. To protect the system,” he added somewhat quickly.

It was well back from the battle area.

“An excellent idea, sir.”

Master Amiel listened closely for sarcasm that wasn’t there.

It requires discipline of a high order for a military organization to respond to raiders without causing more chaos. The Imperium fleet for the sector, based at Kannet, had that discipline. This was, however, the fourth raid in three standard days: fatigue and anger were becoming factors.

This time, the raiders preferred to attack the smaller ships and those damaged by their previous incursions. When the medical tender went up in a flaming explosion which took both crew and cargo, a sense of resolution went through the fleet.

And this time, when the raiders withdrew, they had taken casualties of their own. Two of their ships went limping into hyperdrive, unable to travel beyond the detectors before they had to jump again. Almost two thirds of the fleet followed, each jump carefully timed to detect the next destination but also conceal the fact that they followed. Four jumps later, it appeared that they had lost their quarry until an alert junior array operator, working at an extreme range, found the traces.

Once more they jumped and emerged to find themselves caught between two wings of a fleet that could not exist. The crossfire was devastatingly accurate: there were no survivors.

Turning smartly away with a precision belied by the external appearance of his craft, the mercenary commander led his squadron to the coordinates of the Masters’ fleet. As they approached in battle formation, he contacted Master Amiel on board the flagship.

“We have destroyed the fleet as you ordered, sir. Or enough of it that there will be no difficulty containing the remaining ships. We are here to collect our fee.”

As he spoke, the odd smile on his face grew and Master Amiel’s expression went from satisfaction to concern to puzzlement and finally to incredulous fear. The mercenary ships tore through the Masters’ line, firing with extreme precision. Reversing with an exactitude that would have clearly illuminated their identity to a knowledgeable observer, they went back through the line, finishing off the remaining ships.

Completing her report, Tor waited for Reth’s reaction. As usual, it was unexpected.

“Your tactics tend to be repetitive, commander. And the level of skill implies the Brotherhood.”

She sat back, a cold light in her eyes.

“And when we leave survivors, I will worry about that.”

* * *

It’s odd, he was thinking as they walked. Almost as though they were… Major Tren realized that his sister was speaking.

“Yes, Mirrim?” He saw exasperation on her face. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop thinking about something that’s bothering me at work.”

“I said,” his sister spoke patiently. “Will Colonel Murthoc be coming back soon? I want to thank him for letting you go around with me. Even if you never stop thinking about your work,” she added with a grin. ““What’s this problem that a mere sister can’t compete with?”

Tren shook his head.

“I can’t talk about it. But I think you’d better go home soon and get everyone prepared for some bad times.”

He knew he shouldn’t even say that much, but even Zorantians had to have families.

“You’re not stupid, Mirrim. You can see that the war has been going strangely lately. I think it’s going to get even stranger.”

“How?”

He looked into the intelligent, candid eyes of his sister and tried to explain without upsetting the people he was certain were watching them.

“I think interstellar travel is going to be difficult soon and I’m not sure what the Imperium will do. Just tell everyone to stay home and be prepared for shortages. I can’t say more.”

“All right, Jon. I’ll tell them.”

There was an odd expression on her face and she seemed to catch herself before she spoke.

“But I would like to see your colonel before I leave.”

Something in her tone made him wonder why, then he realized that he was too caught up in his job if he was analyzing his conversations with Mirrim.

* * *

Caught from behind, he was slammed face first into the wall of the corridor. Off guard because he was in a Brotherhood secured area of Ganthos, Skal’s reaction was a fraction too slow. His feet swept from under him, he looked up into coldly furious eyes in a face twisted by old scars. The man behind them wore a shadowed blackness that had nothing to do with his clothing.

“What game do you play, Skal?”

A crumpled rag landed beside him.

“A Shareem! You are the filthy degenerate thing you think to emulate.”

Skal rose slowly and watchfully to his feet.

“I follow the orders I am given,” he said evenly, in a clipped tone none of his smuggler associates would have recognized as his. “We needed to terrify them. We did.”

“Terrify them? You should terrify yourself, pirate.”

The Algolana banner with symbolic double-headed ax, the bared fangs of a skull set within its blades, lay between them.

“When do you plan to set up the altars? Or is that going too far for even you, fool?”

Contemptuously he turned his back.

Skal’s eyes burned with a carefully controlled disdain as he watched the older man.

“I will use the means required to accomplish my mission, klerr’nadh. Assassin,” he said. “I can call names too.”

But he spoke to empty air.

* * *

Dust shimmered in the pleasantly warm air of the pavilion. There would be more hatchlings soon. The Oldest contemplated their possible futures while staring down at the cloth brought to him earlier in the day. Although is eyes did not register the red of the background as did human eyes; he saw the bared fangs and felt the warrior response building within himself. Fifteen thousand years had not lessened his people’s distrust of humans, but he was not an untutored female giving way to terror and unthinking hatred.

The child of the green mountain had said that the children of darkness who followed him would honor the oath. Long experience with this group of humans inclined him to accept that one’s worse. But… There was evil stirring and now it seemed that not all the children of darkness were of one mind.

He would send messages to the others, the so-called non-human races. It was odd to be part of a group simply because they were not of the humans, but war allies cannot always be chosen. Perhaps, if they stood together this time… If it was indeed necessary.

* * *

“He will be here.”

Anxious tones made it almost a plea for assurance. Plans which had seemed so bright only days before were rapidly becoming dust. Dangerous, treasonous dust.

The Shamshir controlled his disgust, at least its visible expression. Fior and the others had seemed to find this one necessary to their plans. Stonar claimed descent from the Rajkari and the Master had validated that claim. More to the point, he moved within Ant’n’s inner circle. They would achieve that greatest of goals: the unification of the civilized worlds within the Imperium. The Shamshir had his own goal. It did not include Rajkari.

“Fior is still missing. Have you heard anything?”

“Murthoc knows, but he won’t say. I don’t think he’s even told Ant’n, although the Vice Chancellor knows something important that he won’t discuss. Something about these smugglers.”

Aristocratic contempt warred with the anxiety.

“How could we win that battle, then have all our plans fall apart like that? It doesn’t make sense. I thought he controlled the smugglers.”

So did I, thought the Shamshir. When he arrives, we are going to discuss that. And if I have to sit listening to this fool for much longer, they will need a new claimant to the throne. Stonar chattered on obliviously as the Direwolf amused himself with ways to kill him. God’s balls, he thought at last. Even that stupid, arrogant old man can’t expect this to be Rajkari Emperor. The door opened just as the fool referred to Murthoc’s new lady friend.

“Made a fool of you, didn’t she?”

The dry comment reflecting his own thoughts back upon himself drove the Shamshir to his feet. Measuring eyes met his in direct challenge.

“What? You didn’t recognize her?”

“You said you controlled the smugglers.” Stonar didn’t like fights and he knew that he needed both of these men to achieve his ambition.

“Murthoc’s whore was at Kuarmian?” Ignoring the interruption, outrage shone on the Shamshir’s face. “Just what is your value to us? Smuggler?”

Joining them at the table, this latest conspirator was as tall and well muscled as the Direwolf commander. A gleam of mockery shone in his eyes. He had his own concerns over the course of recent events; keeping these two in line was only one.

“Red Beard is an occasionally brilliant, psychotic fool. Fior did not tell me of his plans to involve him. I would have warned him against it. And now… Now we are left with this disaster. You have lost your men. Fior is gone. Unlike Sartak, he will not return from this.”

He did not tell them just how recently he had learned that fact. Working through others sometimes had costs in time and accuracy of information.

“How do you know?”

The Shamshir was watching carefully. The deaths of his men, Fior’s fate… He had noted before this man’s ability to know things others did not.

“I know. You may plan with me how to proceed or we may separate. Probably to die.”

Certainly you two will die, he thought. I cannot afford two offworlder fools who can identify me.

“Your choice.”

His eyes were on Stonar or he would have seen the Shamshir stiffen. The Direwolf commander had remembered the girl standing beside the old man he had shot on Kuarmian. She had carried a sword on her back. When you have been compared to the dead for your entire life, you know them. And choice was their game. Who was this man?

No, he had no time for that now; he could give no sign that he knew. Death was already present.

Rising the Shamshir moved behind Stonar and, with a quick motion, slit his throat.

“Without Fior, he was useless,” he observed, wiping his blade. “Do you have a plan or do we wait to see how things develop?”

Across the table, the other man smiled his appreciation.

“The Confederation is irrelevant,” he replied. “And there are forces working to pull the Imperium apart. You will conserve your forces, as will I. We will wait for a better moment.”

Joining his men later, the Shamshir considered the future. His first encounter with the Brotherhood had not gone well. He did not excuse himself on the grounds of ignorance, but he would be better prepared in the future. But what game was this, that they were smugglers? And were they at war with each other?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Throwing him against the wall, Sarr’a caught the gun from his hand. Contemptuously, she threw it down the corridor and watched with narrowed eyes as the soldier drew a knife. He provided an outlet to the rage that was growing inside her: a black, boiling rage that compressed the world to the two of them as she moved forward, her own knife now in her hand.

He was not well trained with the weapon and she spoke with a vicious sarcasm as she parried his fumbling attack.

“I will give you a manual of arms.” A pause. “For children, offworlder.”

His eyes widened in panic as she spoke, seeing her clearly for the first time. She was in black, although not in uniform, and she attacked with a trained precision. Superstitious awe joined the fear of death on his face as he thrust forward blindly in the leaden slowness of nightmare. Sarr’a pulled the knife disdainfully from his grasp with her left hand.

“The eyes.”

Her blade left a thin scratch across his brow; he felt the blood run coldly down his face.

“The right ear. The left.”

She nicked each ear lobe as she spoke.

“The chest.”

Slashing through the green uniform, her knife left a line of glistening blood. He began to hope: this strange girl hadn’t done any real damage. Perhaps…

She saw his face change and her voice grew fiercer.

“The right hand.”

His hand came up defensively; he screamed in pain as her knife flashed.

“The left hand.”

Unbelieving, he saw both his hands on the floor before him. Fainting from the shock and loss of blood, he heard her continue in the gray distance.

“And for you,” her faces was inches from his as she spoke. “A special stroke.”

Doubling over in agony as her knife found his groin, he died in a rush of blood as it flashed up and across his throat.

Sarr’a leaned back against the wall, a depressed tiredness replacing the rage, and became aware that others were arriving. She looked up, past the soldiers in green, past Colonel Murthoc, to Deb and straightened.

“He attacked me.”

She spoke quietly and saw his eyebrows rise. A different fury started to erase the fatigue and she began to clean her knife, carefully. Around her, men backed away.

Beside Deb, Colonel Murthoc surveyed the scene. It seemed to confirm everything Major Tren had reported about the clan commander. Sometimes, she kills them quite spectacularly, he had said. Blood had flowed freely along the floor and was smeared across the wall. The corpse itself was in three pieces with its head almost a fourth.

Soldiers stood in small groups, muttering and pointing at Sarr’a who had, with some difficulty, finished cleaning her knife and sheathed it. The colonel realized that she was bleeding. Their escort was trying to decide what to do. Automatically, Colonel Murthoc took charge.

“Captain,” he said sharply. “Send one of these men for a medical officer and notify the C.O. of the base. And surely these men have something better to do than stand around here.”

The captain looked at him gratefully before turning to follow orders. Colonel Murthoc had turned to Deb.

“What is she doing here? Never mind. Take her in there until I get this sorted out.”

He indicated an empty room nearby. Realizing that both Zorantians were watching him closely and undoubtedly already had plans for fighting their way off the base, he spoke again even more quietly.

“You are both my responsibility on this base. I will deal with its commander.”

Deb sketched a solemn-faced Confederation salute straight from the regulations and moved with Sarr’a into the indicated room. Colonel Murthoc awaited the arrival of the base commander, Brigadier Wellyn. A medical team was examining the body.

Reminding himself somewhat grimly that, although security was part of his job, he was not a policeman; Murthoc knew that he was going to walk away from as vicious a killing as any he had ever seen. At least, he was going to try very hard to walk away. This alliance was too important. The Brotherhood was too powerful. And she had said it was self-defense. He repeated the last justification to Brigadier Wellyn when he arrived.

“You call that… that bloodbath, self-defense? He was cut to ribbons.”

His outraged tones contrasted sharply with the quiet voice of the colonel who had now turned his full attention to convincing the brigadier to let them leave.

“Nothing in the regulations requires that self-defense be weak or ineffective, sir. These people are with me; they are therefore my responsibility. Why wasn’t I told that she was here?”

The brigadier continued to glare at him.

“Preliminary reports are that she isn’t here, Colonel. Not officially. Do your people often sneak onto our bases?”

“Sir, I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with her yet. I am, however, certain that the matter must be of some importance or she would not be here.”

And it probably has nothing to do with me anyway, he thought.

The brigadier had moved to the door of the room where Sarr’a and Deb were waiting. He looked her up and down. She was considerably smaller than the dead man. Frankly, she didn’t look capable of killing him. He turned his attention back to the colonel who was still speaking.

“I will need a full report for General Crant, sir. The operation with these people is directly under his orders and those of Vice Chancellor Ant’n. When you have completed your investigation, I would appreciate a copy being sent to my office as well as to them. You will undoubtedly include the fact that she was injured in the attack.”

The brigadier eyed the intelligence officer. Weighing his options unhappily before replying. If the colonel said that the highest authority in the Confederation protected these two, he was undoubtedly speaking the truth.

“All right, Murthoc. I will investigate, but there will probably be no charges. But I want them off this base as soon as possible. Keep her in there until you’re ready to leave. I don’t need any more incidents like this.

Nor do I, thought Colonel Murthoc and that is going to be difficult to convey without insulting someone.

The brigadier turned away in dismissal and the colonel went over to the medical officer who had finished with the body and was directing its removal.

Sarr’a, hostility holding her stiffly erect, was watching Deb. He was dressed as a smuggler, although without the beard.

“You are growing more careless, Sarr’a”

Deb’s tone was quietly critical. Blood dripped from her left hand to the floor as he spoke.

She met his eyes, her own darkly contemptuous.

“Perhaps…” she bit her tongue. “Perhaps, son of your father, it is because I am finding it difficult to care.”

Deb had stiffened as she spoke, then he stepped back as the colonel spoke calmly from the door.

“If I may bandage that for you?”

His face remained impassive before her raking glare.

“I am certified competent with a field medical kit, commander.”

She sat down abruptly and extended her left arm with the hand held palm up. Blood welled slowly from two parallel slashes.

“It looks worse than it is, Colonel.” Indifferently, she moved her fingers. “He had a very weak grip. The damage is superficial.”

Wiping away the blood, he was reasonably certain that she was correct. Still, she had risked serious injury to her hand. With some care, he applied an anti-infectant ointment, then bandaged it.

Behind them, Deb watched through narrowed eyes. The colonel’s actions were meticulously correct and Sarr’a… was Sarr’a. Tor was tight. He was going to have to speak to Colonel Murthoc.

And he was going to have to consider what she had meant by ‘son of your father.” In all the years of argument, she had never used that one before. Sarr’a hadn’t known his father, but it had clearly been meant as an insult. That she had used it in reference to his leadership of the Brotherhood made it more so.

More immediately, why was she here?

“Perhaps, Colonel,” Deb spoke as the man completed bandaging her hand. “It would be a good idea to see it our passengers are ready to leave. I will stay with Sarr’a.”

Nodding, Murthoc repacked the medical kit. It was apparent to him that Deb wanted to talk to the clan commander alone. It was equally obvious that they needed to leave very quickly. He went to expedite their departure.

“Why are you here?”

Aware that the corridor outside was empty. Deb’s question was blunt. She replied in the same tone.

“You sent Reth to the Imperium. You are alone. Perhaps you wish to dream when you are alone with the offworlders?” Sarr’a saw the anger flash across his face as she spoke. “If you have not solved the problem, you require a guard when you sleep. You cannot remain awake forever. I am here.”

She did not mention her discussion of his dream with Tor. The Brotherhood chain of command did not, under normal circumstances, grant Deb’s heir any special authority. Sarr’a was growing less and less certain of the normality of the circumstances.

Her use of logic against him forced a half grin as he nodded reluctantly.

“Where are we going?”

Aware that she was asking only to defuse the tension between them, he took some pleasure in his reply.

“I am taking what the offworlders call a vacation, Sarr’a. We are escorting a group of students and their professor to a planet called Lanour.”

Watching as she attempted to work out why he would do something so bizarre, he continued after a pause.

“Professor Mellor is an authority on the Algolana. Apparently, he has located some ruins.”

“A strange vacation.”

Her comment was terse, her eyes narrowed.

“I need a few days to think. The Imperium has received several reports that the Brotherhood survived. Lord Rys has not yet accepted it as fact, but I believe it is only a matter of time before we must return openly. I must decide how and when.”

And after this incident is reported…you had to wear black, of course. He kept that observation to himself. Further argument would serve no purpose.

Both Zorantians were sitting quietly when Colonel Murthoc returned.

“The professor and his students are ready to load their equipment onto your ship,” he told Deb. “It will be easier if we leave together, sir.”

“Sarr’a is joining us, Colonel. I will send someone to collect her ship.”

Murthoc accepted the change without comment. At the door, he turned back to look down at the clan commander. His face was serious and his tone quiet.

“Although this is a military base, it does not meet your standards for discipline.”

From her expression, she agreed wholeheartedly and without irony.

“There is some feeling against your leaving. It would be helpful if you rolled up your sleeve a bit so the bandage is more prominent. And you might try projecting the street waif image that you’re so good at.”

Her right hand moved, changing its trajectory halfway to her knife, settling on the fastening of her left sleeve. Behind her, Deb couldn’t see her face, but she had allowed the implied insult to pass unchallenged. Colonel Murthoc’s expression did not change.

“Sir.” It was the captain who had been escorting them previously. “If I may speak to the lady for a few moments? Brigadier Wellyn would like her statement recorded before she leaves.”

“If the questions pertain directly to the attack, Captain.”

Colonel Murthoc leaned back against the doorframe, standing between Sarr’a and the other officer. Which of them he was protecting, he could not have said.

“Yes, sir.” He looked at Sarr’a “You were on the flight deck. Can you describe what happened, ma’am?”

“I was waiting for Colonel Murthoc and… him,” she nodded toward Deb. “The guard came up behind me. I let him catch me; under the circumstances, it seemed easier.”

The captain looked puzzled, but Sarr’a was continuing.

“I believe he thought I was a boy until he touched me. Then he decided that he would have some fun. I declined to cooperate.”

Her voice was quiet and even. If you didn’t look at her eyes, thought the colonel, you would think this a normal report.

“He had a handgun.”

“And what happened to that, ma’am?”

“It is somewhere in the corridor, Captain.”

“That confirms our witness’s report, sir. He didn’t see the rest. He says,” the captain’s voice was carefully devoid of skepticism. “That he left then to get some help for this lady. The brigadier sends his apologies that this happened on his base, ma’am. You are free to leave.”

Waiting until the captain was gone, the colonel looked at Sarr’a.

“And why didn’t you simply use the clearances that I am certain you have?”

She looked at Deb darkly.

“I was following my training, Colonel Smugglers never use the front door, do we?”

The Last of the Brotherhood moved through the door past the colonel and the clan commander. The set expression of his face gave Colonel Murthoc the answer. She hadn’t wanted to warn Deb of her arrival. Therefore, almost certainly, he would have sent her back without listening to her reasons for being there. Now that he had heard them, he accepted her presence. But he was still not happy about it. Who could have the authority to send her with Deb against his will? And why?

* * *

Following Lady Ylana without being seen by her Confederation shadow was not difficult. Understanding why he had not simply given the orders that would have had her traveling under guard to Armh for interrogation was. He had located the offworlder female yesterday, shortly after receiving his orders. And something had felt wrong.

Ylana had been speaking to an old woman in a café when a crowd of students including several of the younger woman’s friends had swept her away with them. There had been an uneasy feeling in the air and he had wondered why.

Now, Ylana was talking to the same old woman and this time they were leaving together. It was already dusk, but they were not difficult to trail. As they walked he felt a growing disbelieving certainty which was confirmed when the pair entered a residence he recognized. Master Tarrask had died there at his clan commander’s hands. No one not connected to the Masters of Darkness would dare enter. Pausing under cover outside, he spoke into a communicator.

“I need Kyrl.”

Long moments passed before the section commander replied and he explained his requirements. At last, having made the necessary arrangements, he entered. And tripped almost immediately over the corpse of Ylana’s Confederation watcher. His face indicated an intensely painful death.

Dal’s eyes narrowed and he became much more cautious as he moved toward the room where Tarrask had died. There were two figures within, by his count the sole occupants of the house. From the gray cloaked figure standing near the center of the room rasped a harsh whisper.

“Begin at the point where you met Master Fior, child.”

In reply, the girl kneeling on the floor spoke in a thin, emotionless voice.

“Nat Bahadur and I entered the clearing. There was a fire. Master Fior was there. He said: ‘Welcome, dear lady. Welcome, Nat. I am so glad that you have arrived safely.’ The smuggler came into the clearing carrying wood. Nat said: ‘That’s the one. He sold us to Sartak. You traitorous.’ He moved toward the man and stopped. The smuggler said: ‘Sold you? Of course, I sold you to him. You attract him like honeyed water attracts bugs. It was far easier to bring you through him than to evade him entirely. I was paid to bring you here. You are here. Or did you think that Lord Sartak’s personal ship programmed itself after the munitions lockers on his cruiser began, on their own of course, to explode?’ Master Fior moved between the smuggler and Nat. Master Fior said: ‘Quietly, Nat. Quietly, my boy. I have brought you here to meet someone important. Someone who…’”

The hilt of Dal’s knife struck the girl beside her right eye; she dropped to the floor.

“That’s quite enough, I think,” he said, stepping into the room.

“Who dares?”

The voice was still a harsh whisper, but he was not surprised when the hood of her cloak fell back exposing the face of the old woman he had seen earlier.

“I do,” he said and watched as she tried to reach him with the Power and found nothing. “That’s the next part of her story, crone. The Brotherhood survives.”

Almost close enough, he could see her rage and frustration growing. And just a hint of increasing fear as he did not stop. His fist caught her jaw just below the left ear; she fell beside Ylana.

“A bit showy, weren’t you?”

There was quiet criticism in his commander’s voice.

Dal looked around and grinned.

“A bit. But it took her off guard. She has to be one of their High Council. It’s unheard of for them to leave their citadel. They must be getting desperate for information.”

“Is the girl alive?”

He bent to check her pulse to be certain.

“Yes.”

“Then you will escort them both to Armh. I have a ship ready with a stasis chamber. He has been notified that you are coming and the required precautions when you arrive, although I did not tell him why. You may have that privilege.” Kyrl smiled at her second. “A good job.”

She looked down at Ylana.

“I have not heard of them using people in this fashion. It will be difficult to guard against.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

They were too frightened to react when the door opened. Blinking in the strong light that poured in around him, the slaves could barely see their worst nightmare. It was probably not surprising that no one noticed the absence of the whip. It had been an extension of his arm; its disappearance was an impossibility their minds refused to acknowledge.

“On your feet!” he roared in his usual tones and, as they staggered to obey, added: “You’re free.”

A few of them noticed the black uniform without recognizing it. The Brotherhood was not a part of their world. Those same few heard his words, almost without comprehension. One at last took his life in his hands and ventured to question.

“Free?”

“That’s what I said, boy. And if you want to stay free, there are weapons in the corridor.”

He was gone before any more of them could react. And later, watching the security monitors at the central control for the complex, he felt an overwhelming sense of hopeless defeat. It would be hours before any of them stuck their heads out the door. To expect them to fight was laughable.

“We’re leaving, Darce.”

A woman’s voice preceded her entrance. She stopped when she saw him.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s hopeless,” he said. “Most of them will starve before they move from here. They would not fight when they had homes and families. And they will not fight now that they have known the degradation of slavery. Nothing will make these offworlders fight. It is hopeless,” he repeated.

“How can you be certain?” she asked quietly. “They have had very little time to react.”

He laughed shortly.

“How can I be certain, Lis? I am still alive. I went down there unarmed, opened the doors, and told them about the weapons in the corridor. Not one of them has tried to kill me. After all that I have done to them, not one of them has even tried. And he expects that they will disrupt the Imperium.”

“It’s time to leave, Darce.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“What will you do? Terrorize them into an army?” Her tone was skeptical, not sarcastic.

“I don’t know. I only know that I can’t just leave. When I’m finished…” He let it trail off.

“Orders are to pull out.”

He met his commander’s eyes.

“Then I guess I’m missing in action.”

After a moment, she shook her head.

“I’d have to keep looking for you until I found you. You know that. Detached duty. At least until the clan commander hears about it. Just keep your head down. And don’t let anyone who’ll recognize it see the uniform.”

Still shaking her head, she left him once again staring at the monitors.

* * *

“But there are only two vials.”

“Piracy and rebellions have restricted access to our suppliers, Major. This is all I have.”

His tone conveyed a mild concern for his customer, in this instance a major on the procurement staff of the Imperium’s war council. The smuggler had used the same excuse and the same apologetic demeanor for each of the officers who were his regular clients. Their conversations had all followed the same pattern: protests, first against having to travel to this seedy bar to make their purchases instead of his usual deliveries; second, against the sparseness of his supply; then anger, threats, and finally anxious fear as they realized that he would give them no more.

This one moved rather quickly to threats. Sighing to himself, he recognized that he was tired. The orders were to make them unhappy and they certainly were.

“But you don’t understand. It’s not for me. The general has to have more. He can make it very unpleasant for you if he doesn’t get it.”

The major’s eyes flicked around the room satisfying himself that they were alone. There were others outside; it followed that there were other vials. This smuggler was older by some thirty years; his hand moved to his sidearm.

He was thrown against the wall so quickly that he never comprehended the danger. His heart stopped as the knife blade entered it and he died with a bewildered question on his face.

Opening the door, the smuggler summoned two from the general barroom outside.

“Drag him past them,” he said. “And dump him a couple of alleys over. Tell them we’re closed ‘til sometime tomorrow. They can thank his general.”

* * *

They had Professor Mellor, his equipment, and his students stowed on board reasonably quickly in the colonel’s opinion. Deb was tightlipped and Sarr’a was efficient.

After Colonel Murthoc had cleared their departure with the base’s flight control officer, he turned to find the Last of the Brotherhood regarding both him and the clan commander rather sourly.

“Sit with our passengers, Sarr’a. I’m not in the mood for conversation.” Deb was extraordinarily terse.

The look she gave him would have melted glass, but she turned, surprisingly obedient for Sarr’a, to the passenger compartment.

“Is that wise, sir?” ventured the colonel quietly. “If you want them dead, why are we bringing them?”

Behind him, Sarr’a smothered a startled grin. She had no intention of attracting friendly overtures from these people.

“Sit with her then, Colonel, as you are so concerned. I can fly this without assistance.”

Deb turned to the controls and the colonel hastened to a seat near two of the students. The hatch between the two compartments closed.

“I’m Davin.”

The boy seated closest to him held out his hand.

“And this is Ketha,” he indicated the girl beside him. “Welcome to the great Algolana hunt.”

His smile was infectious, his voice low, apparently so as to keep his words from the professor.

“To what do we owe the honor of your presence… Captain?” he ventured, uncertain of the insignia, but friendly.

“Colonel. Colonel Cully Murthoc. It’s just part of my job.” He saw some surprise on their faces, but no recognition of the name and continued. “Actually, I find the professor’s theories interesting. Are you all studying to be chaotic archaeologists?”

“Officially, at least.” Reading something in the colonel’s face that required an explanation of that, Davin continued. “The professor isn’t exactly mainstream in his ideas, you know. That’s why we have three girls with us. Except for Ketha, of course. She knows more about the Algolana than any of us.”

“More than you?”

Colonel Murthoc’s question was quietly polite, but he was interested in the answer. The boy appeared to be disingenuously open about this group, but he was certainly old enough to be a soldier. Or a spy.

“Oh, lots more than me.”

Ketha, who seemed to find him amusing, smiled at her friend. Davin looked a bit apologetically at the colonel.

“I’m a bit of a fraud, actually, sir. My mother is his cousin.” He nodded at the professor who was talking quietly to the other students. “In two more years, I’ll be too old to be drafted and I can go home and run my father’s business. My mother worked it out.”

That last was a bit defiant and rang true. If he is a spy, thought the colonel, he’s wasted on this expedition. He realized that Sarr’a was standing beside him.

“If you two will excuse me for a moment?”

The two students watched as he undid his straps and moved away from them.

Sarr’a spoke very quietly and directly to him.

“When did he last sleep, Colonel?”

She controlled her impatience as he decided whether or not to answer. After a moment, he shrugged.

“So far as I am aware, about three standard days ago. I have not been with him continuously.” He looked at her inquisitively. “Why?”

“Because he will sleep now.”

Surprisingly, she answered him. Moving to the seat nearest the pilot’s compartment, she sat down.

“Keep them away from me, Colonel. I am on watch.”

She settled back, as though she were going to sleep herself.

“You will not approve of what happens if I am startled.”

Turning back to the students, he wondered. On watch? Because Deb was asleep? Dismissing it as another as yet unknowable Zorantian riddle, he sat down next to Davin again. Perhaps, since the clan commander was presumably not paying attention to them, he could get some of his questions about the Algolana answered.

“What precisely are we trying to find?” he asked.

Ketha answered.

“We don’t know exactly, sir.” She had a rather breathless, chirpy voice. “The professor says there are Algolana artifacts on this planet. Apparently, a soldier sold him one: a bit of armor. It’s a remarkable find, if it’s authenticated. We need to find things in place, of course. There’s so much more to learn than just collecting bits and pieces.”

“I know more about later periods in history, I’m afraid,” said the colonel. “If you find things in different strata, that gives you clues to the development of the culture, doesn’t it?”

Ketha’s face lit up.

“That’s what’s so fascinating about the Algolana. No one has found any evidence of change. Estimates of how long they were present in the galaxy range from two or three hundred to thousands of years and there are several theories as to why their culture was static. As you know, Professor Mellor takes the extreme view that they evolved on one planet and for some as yet unknown reason set out to conquer the galaxy for their God. Most authorities consider that absurd and argue…”

“Yes, Ketha,” interrupted Davin in a slightly bored voice. “We know.”

She sat back in her seat, her face trying to look apologetic.

“Actually,” said Colonel Murthoc, smiling at the girl. “I don’t know and I’m finding this fascinating. What do most authorities argue?”

“That the Algolana were more than one people. They were simply a group of believers from different cultures who adopted the trappings of their religion over their previous patterns. This explains, for example, primitive nomadic artifacts mixed with starship technology.”

“And the professor’s counter to that?”

“He says that some of the artifacts from the subjugated peoples must have contaminated the sites.”

Watching them through half-closed eyes, Sarr’a examined the interrogation technique. It had the virtue of not upsetting the subject or the people around her, with the possible exception of Davin who was looking jealous. Colonel Murthoc was certainly skilled in its employment. She decided, however, that she preferred more direct methods. And to question people who had better information.

“I like the other end of the theory scale,” said Davin, just a shade too vehemently. To the colonel’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “The Algolana are a myth. They never existed except in the imaginations of our primitive ancestors who needed reasons for plagues and wars.”

“Why are there the same stories on so many different worlds then?” said Ketha, in the tone of voice of one who has argued this many times before. “And don’t tell me ‘convergence’ or some great unconscious mind that all sentient beings share. That’s nonsense and you know it.”

Davin looked sheepish.

“Then give me one bit of objective proof that they do exist. And I don’t mean bits of alleged armor either.”

‘The rock from the altars.”

Ketha’s hand went up to her locket.

Now her friend looked disgusted.

“That’s worse than anything I ever argued, Ketha. The Cult of the True Altar, no less.”

“Explain the rock that’s present on all these planets even though geologically there’s no way it could have formed. They’re not even sure how it formed. It isn’t igneous, sedimentary, or metamorphic.”

Sarr’a let her mind wander as the two children argued so-called academic theories. Her attention was caught again, later, when the colonel at last interjected a question.

“But how did they disappear?”

“If we knew that, sir, we would have something. Something indeed,” Professor Mellor spoke from the other side of the compartment. “And I hope…no, I will say nothing now. Except that this trip holds great promise.”

Glancing over at the clan commander, Colonel Murthoc caught the flash of a puzzled question on her face. Whatever she and Deb expected to find here, he would wager it had nothing to do with the end of the Algolana. That tended to confirm his opinion that the Brotherhood knew what had happened to them.

He was caught a little off guard by the next observation, which came from a young man seated next to the professor, and therefore missed the set expression on the clan commander’s face as he himself shook off the touch of illness that brushed lightly against him.

“That would be the Brotherhood, sir,” he smiled. “I’m Mycal Korint, Colonel, and that’s my area of expertise. Do you know: there are no other explanations given in the stories? Other than the purely mythological, of course. God taking them to His bosom and that sort of thing. All that says is that they disappeared. Most of the legends are quite clear that the Brotherhood was responsible.”

“If you count every reference to people wearing black as being the Brotherhood.”

Davin was still fighting.

“And most of those are to people showing up one day and announcing that the Algolana were gone. Then they destroyed the altar. That sounds to me more like the Brotherhood, or someone, trying to take credit for getting rid of the Algolana. How could a bunch of pirates defeat the Chosen of God?”

“Hardly pirates,” said Mycal. “They were a pretty powerful military force for a long time. Since the Darkness, at least. Or don’t you trust historical records either?”

“Not when it’s people trying to explain why they lost a war, I don’t.”

Davin was derisive.

“How powerful could the Brotherhood have been? Two days after they tell us where they are, they’re gone. Wiped out. Not so powerful after all. And pretty dumb, I’d say.”

The colonel risked a glance at Sarr’a who appeared to be asleep. He didn’t believe that, of course. Maybe she was too caught up in this “watch” to be paying attention? Somehow, he doubted that too.

“But how can you say that about the Brotherhood?” Ketha’s voice was chirpier than ever. “They were such heroes.”

Groans greeted that observation.

“You just want to meet a good looking clan commander.” Davin’s sarcasm was heavy. “Who flies down and saves you from some horrible monster… We know.”

The conversation degenerated into adolescent bickering. Colonel Murthoc refrained from looking at Sarr’a. He didn’t think he wanted to know her reaction to that one.

* * *

His heart rate slowed as the chase faded with the mountains. Greens and purples withdrew into a neutral gray. He was sitting in a corridor, near a door, watching as people he knew came out. Reth walked by, then Tor. Neither looked in his direction. Red Beard emerged and walked away. He was just beginning to be confused when Tar Abzoladan strode through the door, his eyes sweeping over him without recognition.

They were all gone. He looked down at himself. Dirty, filth-encrusted rags were all that remained of his uniform. His body beneath them was wasted with hunger and illness. And somewhere there was a voice, his voice, telling him that this was true, that this was…

Not. His eyes focused on the controls before him. Almost to this Lanour. He would not sleep again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Colonel, there is something I must tell you.”

The Last of the Brotherhood was sitting on a rock near the base camp which the professor and his students were busily establishing. He had sent Sarr’a out on a scouting patrol and had been scanning some sort of report when the colonel became gradually aware that Deb was now studying him.

“Yes, sir?”

“It is about Sarr’a. I would consider it none of your concern, but the probability that you are going to get yourself killed is growing.”

He saw the flash of annoyance in the colonel’s eyes.

“Colonel, your feelings toward her are readily apparent to anyone who has seen you together. Ordinarily, I would not care and I would certainly not intervene. You may, however, still be of some use to me and I would prefer that the clan commander remain functional.”

“And precisely what is it that I am going to do to change that?” Colonel Murthoc was very angry. “She doesn’t know how I feel or she doesn’t care. Probably both. I am not a rapist and I am not so stupid as to try anything with an unwilling Zorantian. So, other than my having the presumption to be in love with one of your clan commanders, what is the problem?”

“Sarr’a, Colonel. Sarr’a is the problem. Sit down.”

Watching Deb with a dislike now approaching hatred, Colonel Murthoc stalked to a nearby rock and sat as directed.

“Sarr’a wasn’t with us when your fleet attacked Zoran. She may have told you that her parents died then.”

The colonel nodded.

“Her father died on Zoran. Sarr’a and her mother were on Graneth. As you are probably aware, the Masters used local mobs to help them hunt down members of the Brotherhood who were offworld during the attack. Sarr’a was hidden by her mother who then tried to lead them away from her child. Sarr’a watched from that hiding place as her mother was attacked, beaten and raped repeatedly while she was dying and after.”

Murthoc saw again the pain and the demons that had concerned him in Sarr’a’s eyes. Deb’s voice continued, the even, quiet tones making a child’s horror more vivid.

“She was under orders to hide, to remain safe. She did. It took us six weeks to find her. You will understand that the Brotherhood was in some turmoil and there were other worlds to search for other survivors. Amik found her. The Masters had hung her mother’s naked body upside down where she died. After six weeks…you can, I am sure, imagine. There had been rats and birds and maggots. Sarr’a saw all of it.

“In his report, Amik said that he had seen traces of her, but he hadn’t been able to get close enough to talk. Finally, he decided that he had to risk being discovered, which incidentally was completely in violation of his orders. He cut the body down in the middle of the night and wrapped it in a blanket. When he looked up, Sarr’a was there. He called her by name and ordered her to assist him in giving their clan commander a proper memorial. Her funeral pyre consisted of several dozen city blocks. Fortunately, it was taken as a natural disaster.”

Taking refuge in anger, Colonel Murthoc spoke harshly.

“And what has your Brotherhood done for her?”

“Done for her, Colonel? She is herself. She feels and thinks and acts for herself. We help her in whatever ways we can. But we do not help her by sedating or imprisoning her, by convincing her that everything she knows and feels is wrong. Sarr’a has been thinking very clearly for herself since her mother was killed.”

“She was only five years old.”

“You are right. Five is too young to be alone. But each of my people at, say fifteen, is the Brotherhood. Together we are stronger, but alone each will work to reconstitute the Brotherhood. Amik was fifteen when he found her. Together they destroyed a large section of a city. Together, if they had not returned to us, they would have rebuilt the Brotherhood. And I do not mean, offworlder,” Deb’s head twisted to one side as he spoke sarcastically. “I do not mean that they would have mated. The two of them would have searched and taught until the Brotherhood was reborn.

“And Sarr’a,” Deb sat in silence for a moment then continued more quietly. “Most make their formal choice at thirteen. Sarr’a made hers as her mother died. For six weeks she stood watch over her mother’s body, planning and preparing for her revenge, for her survival, and for the rebirth of the Brotherhood. She assesses us all through that lens, Colonel, even me. Will we assist her in that goal: to rebuild the Brotherhood.”

“But you are a member of the Brotherhood.”

“I, Colonel? No, I am not. I am the Last of the Brotherhood. It is hereditary and not by choice. The only alternative is death. Have you never noticed that, while my uniform is black, it bears no insignia? No rank, no clan. I stand outside.”

Deb’s voice held a bitter edge.

“To return to Sarr’a…”

He looked up at Colonel Murthoc who was looking a little lost.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. It is not personal and, ordinarily, it would not matter that you are not Brotherhood if she shared your feelings. Sarr’a has killed every offworlder who has so much as looked at her suggestively. She appears to like you and to respect you as a professional. If it occurs to her that you desire her physically, I don’t know what will happen. It is probable that you will be dead and, because she likes you, she will be in even more pain.”

Colonel Murthoc was thinking hard, but his mind seemed to skirt the real issues. It occurred to him that the only way that the Last of the Brotherhood could have some of that information was if Sarr’a herself had reported it. Deb would have been seven and enduring his own grief.

Unusually fragmented thoughts coalesced as he stared at Deb.

“You’re wrong, sir. She does know.”

He was remembering the dance above the waterfall and the connection between them. She had known he was there; Tor was certain of it. And Tor had wanted to tell him something, presumably this.

“Perhaps she just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

No more do I, he thought heavily. And now, I am afraid for her.

He stood up.

“My work is with the Brotherhood. You can change that, of course, sir. Please don’t. I will be careful.”

If she knew and hadn’t killed him, then there was hope. Very sternly, he set that aside. He needed to think about that very cautiously for both their sakes. Looking past Deb, he saw Sarr’a returning from her patrol.

The Last of the Brotherhood saw his awareness of her shining in his eyes and grimaced. Not an emotion that he had had to deal with fortunately. He had tried.

“Your choice, Colonel. As always, your choice.”

He went back to reviewing the survey of the planet that he had ordered done after reading the professor’s application for a safe conduct. It was not an attractive world and there appeared to be no inhabitants. Weathered volcanic rock covered the surface and the winds, at least here, seemed to blow constantly. Volcanic fissures led deep into the crust. There were anomalous energy readings, but nothing clearly indicating a technological civilization’s presence. If there was an indigenous population, the people lived underground and the rock somehow shielded them from detection. Whatever Nat Bahadur had been conditioned to die before revealing was not at all obvious.

Sarr’a sat down next to them, in the shelter of a large boulder.

“There are signs of landing nearby,” she said quietly.

Her hands gave Deb precise signs for the direction and distance. The colonel noticed that she had removed his bandage.

“Ranging in age from very recent to almost weathered away, which means there are almost certainly some which are no longer visible. And there is a large opening near where they usually land. The tunnel appears to lead down and it has been widened.”

Deb looked over toward the professor and his group of students who were now busily and happily engaged in cooking food.

“Bringing them may have been a mistake,” he said. “I do occasionally make them, Colonel.”

His green eyes were bland as they met Murthoc’s still guarded gaze.

“They will expect to rest tonight before exploring in the morning. We could leave you here to guard them.”

That got the expected reaction.

“We three will divide the watch then. Sarr’a first, me second, and you last, Colonel. I want to talk to the professor about his discoveries.”

Colonel Murthoc watched as Sarr’a moved to begin a circuit of the camp. She pulled what appeared to be an emergency ration bar from her pack as she went, which meant that she didn't plan on joining them for dinner. That was probably a good idea. Students on field trips can be a bit boisterous and this group was already happy. His thoughts were echoed unexpectedly by Professor Mellor who had arrived to invite them over to the fire for some food.

“She’s not very friendly, is she?” he said, looking out at the small figure as she moved in and out of the rocks.

“No,” said the colonel repressively. “She’s not.”

They moved to the fire where Deb sat next to the professor as they ate.

* * *

Through the streets of the city of Darnath moved a small person, nearly invisible in the shadows. Lightning strokes revealed a boy, almost a young man who, moving without fear or disgust through the filth-strewn alleys, came at last to the smugglers bar.

Inside, the scene was similar to that which had greeted Nat and Ylana, but Red Beard was not there. Another man sat in his place and the boy walked without hesitation to the table. There was an almost palpable lack of interest on the part of the other patrons.

Standing quite still, the boy looked down at the smuggler who at last broke the silence between them.

“What do you want, boy?”

His tone was not unfriendly, simply disinterested.

“I need a ship and a pilot to take me to a planet called Lanour. I have been told that I may contract with you for this service.”

The voice was quietly and calmly direct.

Eyes narrowed, the smuggler studied the person in front of him. Clean, neat, and unremarkable clothing gave no hint of the boy’s home planet. The voice was educated and unaccented. He wore a hat and carried no visible weaponry. Detecting no trace of fear in the posture or the eyes, the smuggler found himself thinking of his own son and named a price. Before he finished speaking, there was a pouch on the table and the boy’s hand was stretched out toward him.

“We have a contract.”

The voice was solemn; the proffered hand very soft for one who showed no sign of fear. Perhaps it was ignorance that kept the eyes so devastatingly clear. Signaling to the man behind him, the smuggler shook his head.

“Take him to Lanour. Wherever that is.”

“I’ll find it.”

The pilot looked a little surprised. This was not a normal smuggling transaction, but he waved the boy toward the exit. A contract was after all a contract.

* * *

The colonel slipped away from the fire. As fascinating as the academic discussion of the Algolana was, he needed to speak to Sarr’a. Moving away from the camp, he paused a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Walking was difficult because of the rocks; beyond a certain point he was probably better off waiting for her to find him. Assuming that she would want to find him, of course. It had occurred to him as he ate that Sarr’a might have misunderstood his reaction to her dance.

Lanour did not have a moon and the stars seemed very cold and distant in the black sky, shimmering as the wind blew. The clan commander was now about six feet behind him and he knew it. She did not speak. He turned to find her sitting on a rock, watching him.

“I came to apologize, commander.”

He spoke quietly, but his voice seemed loud.

“For what?”

“For implying…” He stopped, searching for a way to say precisely what he meant without offending her.

“For implying that I am a psychopathic killer.”

She finished his sentence accurately, if not diplomatically. The colonel could not see her face clearly.

“Perhaps you are right, Cully Murthoc. Certainly, by the standards of your people, I am. At least,” There was a definite trace of amusement in her voice. “By the standards of Major Tren. He has been telling you what the smugglers say about me. Your major is a good second.”

“I wish that you did not find it necessary to spy on me and my staff, commander.”

The conversation was over a week old, but it had been private.

“I wish that also, Colonel. I do not like spies,” she stopped. “I did not mean…”

“You did not mean that I am a sneak thief whose profession is barely honorable because it is in the service of his people.”

His voice was expressionless.

“Actually,” she said quietly. “I would have said that the honor is in the man, not his people.”

After a pause, she added, “You should get some rest, Colonel. He will call you for your watch.”

She was gone in the darkness and he turned back toward the fire.

Watching them settle for the night, Sarr’a permitted a part of her mind to consider the odd fact that this one’s opinion mattered to her. He was himself quick enough to kill when he found it necessary. She had seen him.

* * *

“I am on watch, Sarr’a.”

Deb spoke from the darkness.

“It is your watch,” she agreed and moved away toward the banked fire.

The Last of the Brotherhood made a circuit of the camp. Everyone except Sarr’a was asleep and it was quiet, except for the wind. Something he could not name felt odd. There was no name for how it felt, but it was constant. He could not, however, sense any immediate danger. Moving farther from the group around the fire and still maintaining a careful vigilance, Deb began to think.

Very shortly, the survival of the Brotherhood would be general knowledge. He could see no way to avoid that. And what then? Should they go back to the old pattern of mercenary contracts? Most, if not all, of the Brotherhood rejected that; he was very certain. The future was a black abyss at his feet.

Fifteen thousand years to this, he thought with acrid bitterness. To me standing alone and unaided. How can I chart a course for the Brotherhood when I cannot see the dangers clearly?

And why am I so certain that the danger is more than the offworlders finding us? Certain, he thought, mocking himself. I am certain of nothing.

“You should be here. Evil looms before us and I cannot see. You should be here.”

His voice held despair as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

“It will take us generations to rebuild the Thousand. And I do not have generations. I have now and I am half-blind and half-deaf.”

Whirling suddenly, he continued.

“And yes, clan commander, even in this condition I know that you are there.”

She did not apologize, but continued to watch him from the rock where she was sitting.

“Are you here to observe as I go insane?” he demanded angrily.

“You are not insane, Deb.”

Sarr’a rose from the rock and walked to face him. Her expression was troubled.

“There is something here…”

“You feel it also.” He interrupted her. “You feel it and you will not help me.”

Her eyes, opaque in the darkness, answered him.

“Then go away, clan commander. Leave me to my thoughts. You have chosen to reject the Teacher within you. That is your right. Someday, if there is time, you may understand the difference between the Power and the Way.”

She had not moved.

“Go away,” he repeated harshly. “I am most certainly not going to sleep tonight and therefore I do not need a guard.”

He turned his back to her as she stalked away.

Of course she knew the difference. Any child did. The Way is understanding. The Power is control.

It was becoming more difficult to see the rocks. Sarr’a sat down with her back to one large boulder and rode the currents of her rage.

Behind her, Deb came alert. Several moments later, Colonel Murthoc awoke.

* * *

Carrion birds screamed above. Rotting flesh surrounded her; the smell made her choke. Maggots crawled through her eyes and ears; she could feel them wiggling in her tongue. She could not scream; she would not. They would hear her if she moved.

“Sarr’a.” A voice said her name sharply. “Sarr’a!”

With a great effort, she opened her eyes, the stench still filling her nose and mouth. Clenching her teeth hard against the nausea, she replied.

“Yes?”

Deb was crouched in front of her; his face lined with intensity.

“You did not tell me that my guard needed a guard,” he said. Sarcasm tinged his concern.

“It is not the same,” she replied and registered the colonel’s presence with tightened lips.

“No?” Deb said in a tone that promised later questions.

Rising to his feet, he waited until she had done the same.

“Sleeping on watch is serious.”

“This is your watch,” she observed evenly.

“That is fortunate,” he agreed. “There is a ship. It had landed near your tunnel entrance.”

The colonel was listening closely while studying the clan commander with a frown.

“A lower level Master has gone into that tunnel.”

Sarr’a closed her eyes for a moment before replying.

“And your orders?”

“You and I will investigate. The colonel will remain on watch.” To Murthoc, he added. “Professor Mellor will be going into the tunnel in the morning as soon as he possibly can. Short of force, I doubt you will be able to dissuade him. We will join you when we can.”

Colonel Murthoc moved away to walk a sentry round. Professor Mellor and his students were still sleeping. How they had remained asleep through the screams of the ship’s descent was a mystery probably solved by the beer most of them had consumed the evening before. He reminded himself that they did not consider themselves to be in any danger. Why the clan commander had not heard it was deeply troubling and he chewed on the phrase “my guard needs a guard” as he walked.

Sarr’a was following Deb away from the campsite, toward the ship, when he turned abruptly back toward her. She could feel the sharpness of his gaze even in the darkness. Cursing mentally, she stopped and waited.

“If it’s not the same, tell me what it is,” he said coldly. “You might also explain why I haven’t seen a medical report.”

“It’s not medical,” she said. “They call it a flashback. I have had them since I was a child.” Not precisely true, but close enough. “My clan is aware.”

“And how often do you have these flashbacks? Of which your clan is aware.”

The emphasis was pointed.

“This is not the time,” Sarr’a said quietly.

“The Master has not returned and we will both know when he does. And it is precisely the time, clan commander. I have a personal interest. Are you likely to have another soon? While we face the Master, for example.”

He was moving toward her, his eyes intent and very cold.

She could feel the coiled tension growing tighter within her.

“I don’t know. Normally, I…” She looked at him squarely. “It is a matter of tension. Normally, I take care of it.”

Comprehension crossed his face.

“I believe I understand. Five the night after Mirranthe. Seven that time on Ganthos. I have wondered.” He considered the matter then grinned nastily. “If you need to kill someone, I believe I have a candidate. But you will wait for my orders. I need to know precisely why he is here. We must be extremely careful.”

Master Vennet saw the first rays of dawn shining on the rock face above his ship as he returned from completing his task. His confessor would be pleased: there had been no difficulties on this very important mission which would surely facilitate his rise within the Order. Hurrying to his ship, he did not notice two black figures within the still dark shadows around the rocks.

Having ascertained that the Master was alone, Deb signaled Sarr’a to cut off his retreat then stepped forward.

“A pleasant morning for a walk.”

“Who?”

There had been no indication of a human near him. He had seen the ship as he landed, of course, and dismissed it as irrelevant. There were no Masters in the group. There was an odd feeling about this one; turning he found another behind him.

“Who are you?”

Deb’s smile was mocking.

“A pleasant morning to ask a Master questions. Why are you here, for example? Or perhaps, what is on this planet that merits a visit from one of your Order?”

“How dare you challenge me I am a Master of the ninth order.”

Behind him, Sarr’a was almost bored. Masters were so predictably stupid. She braced herself for the inevitable next phase. He reached for Deb with the Power. The Last of the Brotherhood’s eyes flashed, but he laughed. Sarr’a gritted her teeth. She was under orders not to react.

“This is not possible. How…?”

Master Vennet’s body began to shake in what was very clearly a seizure. Sarr’a caught him as he fell stiffly backward, bloody froth bubbling from his nose. He was dead before she had him laid out on the ground.

“Death conditioning one of their own?” Deb’s face showed a loathing which was reflected on Sarr’a’s. “Even for the Masters…”

“So much for being careful,” said Sarr’a as she searched the body. As she had expected, there was nothing to show his purpose.

“We will have to go down the tunnel.”

Deb spoke slowly. Sarr’a did not raise any objection.

“Go back to the ship and send this message first. ‘Attend.’”

“To whom do I send it?”

“The frequency is already set, clan commander. It is to my staff and is my code.”

He turned away without further explanation. Sarr’a went to obey his order.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Sarr’a.”

She had been standing with her back to them, her eyes and other senses uneasily scanning the dimly lit recesses of the cavern. It was difficult, in this place, to know what was there and she was not certain why. At his low, urgent call, she turned and froze motionless when she saw him lift his hand from the altar, fingers spread wide.

Colonel Murthoc, standing next to the professor and Deb, looked quickly as the Last of the Brotherhood carefully wiped his hand. A dark red, sticky liquid. By the smell, it was human blood and recent. His own went chill. The professor looked excited, then sick.

“We will leave now,” said Deb quietly, then his voice changed slightly to one of direct command. “Do not move.”

Most remained still, whether in obedience or in fear, as they were surrounded by a mass of humanoid figures, each wearing a demonic mask. The two who broke, both students, were dead in seconds although the butchery continued until the bodies were unrecognizable masses of bloody waste.

They were herded to one side of the cavern, which was now lit by hundreds of torches. Their guards, obscenely frightening in the flickering light, neither touched nor threatened them; they were simply contained and moved.

“We are now the food of God,” said Deb in a detached, observational tone. “To touch us is to profane us and it is blasphemy for the one who does. Until we are called to the altar.”

“As I said last night, you are extremely knowledgeable,” said the professor who was trying for the sake of his remaining students to maintain his calm. “How is it that you know so much about them?”

“I have my own sources,” said Deb, his green eyes watchful as he waited.

Sarr’a had moved to stand beside him, her eyes dark as the cavern beyond the torchlight, her face a mask. Neither Zorantian had so much as glanced at the altar now fully revealed in the light. It rose above the cavern floor, the stains of blood: red, brown, and black flowing down from the sacrificial platform. Behind it, a panel of the same stone rose up into the darkness high above them. A figure, sculpted in relief, was of a very large humanoid wearing armor. By straining his eyes, Colonel Murthoc could see about two thirds of it.

“God,” he said, for the first time in his life not using the word as an obscenity, his voice filled with awe and wonder.

Deb looked at him quickly and followed his eyes.

“A representation of Him, certainly,” he said, the calm in his voice belying the inner turmoil. Of all the possible trials of his life, he had not anticipated this horror.

”If they cannot touch us, why can’t we just leave?”

Colonel Murthoc was exploring options and distracting himself from his own thoughts.

“Do you see the line on the floor, Colonel? If we step over it, except as we go to the altar, they will try to convince us to return. If we do not, they will try to kill us. Traditionally, at least, those who succeed will take our place on the altar.” Deb smiled thinly. “Not much consolation if you are dead. Sarr’a and I might make it to the ship. You, perhaps. Are you willing to leave them behind?”

He nodded in the direction of the professor and his students.

“From what I recall of the Algolana, it would be better for them to die trying to leave.”

Colonel Murthoc was stating his own preference.

“Choose your moment, Colonel. Wait and we will see what can be done.”

“Actually,” said the professor, who had come over to continue his discussion with Deb. “I believe these people to be rather degenerate in their observances. There should be two castes: military and priest. We should have been captured and stripped by the soldiers, then given robes by the priests who could not touch us.”

“That is what the legends say,” said Deb carefully. “You will have noted that the ones who…touched your students,” Professor Mellor looked ill. “Did not join us. It has been of course a long time. Even a lost tribe of the Algolana might have degenerated this far.”

Sarr’a looked grim.

“There were imitators after the Algolana were gone, of course, worlds which attempted to reap the benefits of worshipping God. None of them had a true altar, however.”

Deb made this last observation after the professor had moved back toward his students.

Colonel Murthoc was listening to Deb with extreme care. It helped to have some connection to rational thought. He was a sensible man and a brave one, but thousands of years of superstitious fear weighed heavily upon him. It didn’t help at all to find truth behind the horror that had terrified him as a child.

“How do you know that it is a true altar?” he asked.

“The rock is living, Colonel. It has to have been fed constantly and continuously for millennia in order for it to have survived.”

Deb’s tone was absent, his attention elsewhere.

“But how do you know?”

Fear, which he could not totally control, added insistence to his voice.

Sarr’a stepped between them, pushing Murthoc back several paces. Their guards moved uncertainly, but did not intervene.

“He can feel it, Colonel. Can’t you? Let him be.” Her ferocity held him. “It is feeding your fear. You are afraid, Cully Murthoc. Accept it. There is no shame in fearing this. Choose your response.”

Her hand on his shoulder was steadying him. She allowed him to see something of her own disturbance. It was not fear he read in her eyes, but something fundamentally challenging her world.

“The first time is always difficult,” she said very quietly. “We will get through this.”

Her echo of his words brought a half smile in involuntary response. They stood together for a moment, almost as close as when she danced, then she was back at her post beside Deb.

Sarr’a was right: he could feel a pulsing blackness in that rock. The air above it seemed to vibrate.

Around them, the crowd stirred and an armored figure, a smaller version of the Divine, appeared; apparently a male human although his face was as completely covered by an ornate mask as his body was by armor. Beside the colonel, Deb gathered himself.

Sarr’a stood as though on guard between him and the altar, her concentration an intense trance. The archaeology students moved behind them, scholastic interest beginning to overcome their terror although they resolutely kept their eyes within the group. Professor Mellor was gazing avidly at everything, seeing confirmation of his theories on every side from the mural painted on the wall behind them to the murmured chants of some of the worshippers.

“That’s the high priest,” he said in his lecture voice. His students turned toward him by conditioned reflex. “He climbs the altar to begin the sacrificial ritual.”

They were engrossed and almost forgot their fear as they listened.

Raising his arms high above his head, the priest spoke. There was rustling silence around them as his people knelt/

“It is an invocation to God,” said the professor quietly. “Much of the language has been lost, but I can decipher that much. The cults were primarily concerned with the rituals, after all. He asks for the blessings of God for themselves and for their children.”

Colonel Murthoc watched the priest, every horror story, every night terror that he had ever heard about the Algolana running as an undercurrent in his mind. There were, unfortunately, a lot of very graphic descriptions of what happened next. Although details varied, they all involved pain and fear and horror and bloody death and, somehow, facing anonymous death in a dark alley was easier. Sarr’a was right: it was better to look at it.

Turning toward them, the priest spoke again: an order.

“Bring forth the first sacrifice,” translated the professor, scholarly zeal in his eyes.

The colonel felt himself resolutely pushed to one side as the Last of the Brotherhood took several steps toward the altar.

“I am first,” he said firmly and deliberately stepped over the line.

“No!” Sarr’a, coiled to spring forward, absolute denial in her voice, stopped as Deb spoke again.

“It is my right, Sarr’a. And it is what I must do. You know that.” He continued speaking quietly as he moved forward, the guards now flowing around him. “There is something missing, Sarr’a. Verify that.”

Colonel Murthoc watched the clan commander watching Deb climb the altar, moving up the steps calmly, almost regally, as if by right. A part of his mind questioned: his by what right? Sarr’a managed to look murderous and thoughtful at the same time. Without taking her eyes from Deb, she spoke to him.

“How do you feel, Colonel?”

The massive irrelevancy of the question startled him. He considered the source and answered honestly.

“Other than terrified, I’m fine, commander.”

It seemed to him that there was a very slight lessening of the tension in her body as she continued to watch Deb.

“Then he is right and they are not Algolana. I was not certain. Tor is going to kill me,” she continued, almost conversationally. “Be ready, Colonel.”

“For what?”

Behind him, incredibly, the professor was still lecturing to his students. Deb was being placed on the altar. He didn’t like the man, but it was a difficult scene to watch. Torchlight threw fantastic shadows. It seemed that the figure of God leaned forward above the altar. Stories spoke of God eating the souls and sometimes the bodies as they screamed. He was having trouble maintaining his calm again.

“Whatever he does next,” said Sarr’a.

Her eyes flicked over to his for a moment. The torches were behind her, but there was a fire within those eyes that he had never seen. He had the fantastic impression that she was smiling.

“You are responsible for them, if possible. Do not let them get you killed.” She was watching Deb again. “You will know when.”

On the altar, the armored priest was chanting now. Colonel Murthoc marveled at Zorantians who could make plans in the face of anything. Or was she simply still encouraging him? No. Her concerns were greater than that. Helping him had simply been the act of a good commander conserving resources: he had now been given his orders. Having orders to follow did help.

The professor was translating bits of ritual prayers. These people were not Algolana presumably because they were not using the Power. Her question could have no other logical purpose. He set aside as unknowable why a Zorantian would need him to sense the Power. None of his research had included the use of the Power by the demon Chosen although it did help to explain the stories of their conquests: entire worlds within a few hours.

But if they weren’t using the Power, what was happening now? A rising of tension in the cavern was becoming physically painful. Murthoc noticed that their guards were stirring uneasily. Something seemed abnormal. Although the crowd itself still watched worshipfully, terror was moving through the ranks of the guards around them. He had seen it before in combat troops, uncertainty coalescing into unreasoning fear. Murthoc could discover no source; a detached portion of his mind wondered at his objectivity.

The priest raised his blade to begin the ritual of sacrifice.

“He will make small cuts at first,” explained the professor to his students, who began to look queasy as they remembered that this was not simply another lecture. “To increase the pain and fear of his victim, he will… Who is that?”

A voice had joined the priest’s, a voice also speaking the tongue of the Algolana. Together they were reciting the ritual words almost in unison. The accent was different, even to the colonel each word seemed somehow clearer although he could not understand. It built to a crescendo, Deb’s voice, and the priest’s voice stopped in an abrupt gasp as the Last of the Brotherhood reached up from the altar and tore his throat open. Through the wave of nausea, the colonel saw, or thought he saw, Deb’s hand go through the armor at the priest’s throat and tear it open. He could see Sarr’a’s set face beside him and remembered the Brotherhood when Sartak died. They had looked the same.

High above them, on the altar, the armored body swayed for a moment. Then, Deb stood, holding the body of the priest impossibly high above his head. With spurting blood drenching both him and the altar in a foul baptism, the Last of the Brotherhood spoke again, still in the language of the Algolana.

The professor had fallen silent, but Sarr’a was speaking directly into the colonel’s ear now, drawing his attention completely to her and he was grateful because his terror was still there, under everything. It did not occur to him then to wonder how she knew the words.

“He says: ‘I am the wrath of God sent to destroy you. Cower now in your homes for death comes. I bring it to you.”

Her voice was clipped and carried a conviction that must have been in the original. Guards around them moaned in fear and several in the crowd had fainted.

Tar Abzoladan threw the body from the top of the altar. It struck the steps and bounced, once, twice, before rolling down to splay loosely on the floor. There was a blinding flash and every torch in the cavern went out. Screams filled the darkness, then stilled to whimpers of pain and fear. Knocked to the ground by what felt like an earthquake and dazed, the colonel looked up into a sudden brightness. Sarr’a was beside him, pushing a light into his hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Now, Colonel. Get them out of here and to the ship as quickly as you can make them go.”

She turned away before he could move, before he was quite certain of the strain of fear in her voice.

Rising as rapidly as the sickness in his head and the weakness in his knees would permit, he shone the light back toward the cavern wall where the professor and his students had been. They were sprawled across the ground where they had been thrown.

“Up. Quickly. We have to get out of here now,” he said urgently.

They were staggering to their feet and beginning to move toward the mouth of the tunnel to the surface. Colonel Murthoc shone his light to help guide them and encouraged the group to move more rapidly although no one tried to stop them. Indeed, their captors were terror-stricken and ran from them

Gaining the entrance to the tunnel which was now empty, the colonel paused and looked back across the cavern. Sarr’a had thrown flares to light the altar which looked to be completely demolished. God had crashed down upon it. He turned to Professor Mellor.

“Take this,” giving him the portable light. “Get up to the ship as fast as you can.”

The professor looked across the cavern to Sarr’a and nodded his understanding. He and his students began the climb. After watching their light move up the tunnel for a moment, the colonel turned back into the cavern toward the clan commander.

He found her lighting another flare near where the altar stood. The figure of God had fallen in several large pieces directly upon the altar, which was completely destroyed. Looking around quickly and carefully, he couldn’t see how Deb could have survived. Sarr’a had climbed up into the broken fragments and was searching. He waited for her for a few moments, then picked up one of her flares and hunted methodically around the base of the altar, in the corners and spaces where a body might have fallen. There was nothing.

Colonel Murthoc climbed up to where Sarr’a was still looking and called to her, quietly.

“We need to leave, commander.”

She stopped and turned toward him

“I cannot find him,” Sarr’a said.

Her voice was bleakly certain and it carried a rising note of panic as she continued through her teeth.

“You do not understand, offworlder. He is not here.”

Dead or alive, she thought, dismayed by her inability to discipline herself, I should be able to find him. Even in the middle of this.

“He is dead. Under the rock somewhere.”

Saying that, he knew it was not the answer she needed. Murthoc could feel the clan commander’s denial and it was somehow more than a rejection of Deb’s death.

“Tor will need you report.”

He took her hand, trying to help her through what seemed a devastating loss.

“Commander, if he isn’t here, there’s no point in searching.”

After a moment, she accepted that. He released her hand just before she turned toward the tunnel, unhappily aware that she had ignored the gesture.

Climbing back up through the tunnel, Sarr’a focused precisely on the tasks before her: getting the group off this planet, sending messages to Tor and Reth. In the chaotic turmoil beneath the disciplined surface thoughts, terror was held at bay at least in part by the warmth remaining in her right hand.

On the surface, just outside the tunnel entrance, the professor and his students had stopped. A cold, damp wind blew around the rocks. Davin had twisted his ankle. It had been too much for them to cope with after the shocks below. Murthoc watched Sarr’a deal with the ankle and get the group moving again.

They were close to the ship when the two of them sensed a movement behind them and turned, almost in unison, to find Deb. Covered in a congealed, sticky, filthy mass that had been the priest’s blood, he appeared unhurt.

“Why are you still here?” he asked in his customary tones and moved past them.

Bloody minded bastard, thought the colonel.

Sarr’a sprinted to join him, fear still present but driven deeper by familiar duty. Murthoc moved tiredly to herd the rest along more rapidly. When they reached the ship, Deb was conferring with a man and a woman; smugglers, who were, the colonel presumed, Brotherhood.

Colonel Murthoc sat down on a rock and awaited his fate. The Last of the Brotherhood was alive and how he had managed that, not to mention the rest of it, was beginning to become clear even at the colonel’s present level of fatigue. Deb was a master of the Power, with a small “m” and a very large “P.” Colonel Murthoc now knew the Power when he felt it. And he had never heard of any of the Masters displaying that level of ability, thank whatever fortune looked out for people. Someone who could do that, could rule the galaxy. Especially with the Brotherhood behind him. So why didn’t he? And why did the Power-hating Brotherhood have a master of the Power as their leader.

“Deb wants you with me, Colonel.”

Sarr’a was standing in front of him, looking if possible more tired than he felt. He looked up at her, wondering if she was going to kill him and then decided that he probably didn’t care. After some sleep and some food, maybe he would. He rose slowly.

“Whatever you say, commander.”

He shivered as the cold wind bit through his jacket. Sarr’a turned without a word and he followed her to Deb’s ship. Nearby, the smuggler’s ship with the professor and his students aboard took off.

“Take this, Colonel.”

She handed him a blanket, then settled him in the seat with it wrapped around him after he stood there just holding it.

“Drink this.”

The tea was hot and he almost burned his tongue. It helped. His shivering stopped. He realized that he had been staring blindly across the cabin and that the ship had taken off. Outside, he could see the black of space and the planet receding below them. They were approaching a larger ship.

* * *

It began with a distant rolling thunder that became an earthquake that did not end. Terrified and whimpering children huddled with their mothers in the caves beneath the surface as their fathers prayed for a divine protection that did not come. Caverns collapsed, burying screaming people beneath tons of rock which at the last became molten again and flowed as it had when the planet formed. Millions died in terror and in pain and the bodies burned and joined with the rock. The bombardment continued until the planet was a seething mass of glowing molten lava and nothing lived upon it.

Ships, hanging in the blackness of space, fired salvo after salvo; their black uniformed crews grimly obeying the order of the man they had chosen to follow. On the bridge of his ship, he stood, watching the result of his command. Standing at once in two times, he saw the deaths of two worlds.

Reth stood behind the Last of the Brotherhood on the bridge and watched each salvo strike and a corresponding flinch run through Deb until the shudders ran continuously through him. When the planet was left a glowing cinder and the bombardment had ceased, Reth put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and when he did not respond, turned him away from the view.

Tears were cascading down his face. Ravaged eyes at last perceived Reth and he spoke with a black bitterness.

“Would you like to hear my dreams now, old friend? Would you like to hear my dreams?”

Reth held him as he had held the grief-stricken seven year old. It didn’t seem to help this time either.

Finally, Deb straightened.

“I cannot. I. Can. Not.”

Reth waited.

“The orphanage on Thune, where the Masters trained Nat Bahadur. I cannot do it. And I cannot leave them to the Masters. We will have to move them and teach them.”

“I will give the orders, Deb.”

* * *

Behind her, he could see the ships of a Brotherhood fleet above Lanour. As they watched, the bombardment began, a rolling barrage pulverizing the surface of the planet.

Horrified, he exclaimed: “How could he do this? How could you let him?”

“Let him?”

Her question held stunned amazement.

“I was wrong. You do not understand the most basic facts about us. Deb cannot order us to do anything except when we have chosen to follow.”

In front of her, the planet was beginning to glow as molten rock flowed to the surface.

“Every man and woman on these ships has chosen to obey this order. Once we had left the surface and were no longer in any danger, he lost all right to require obedience in this.”

“Then why?” he asked.

In his mind, he could see the people running in terror from the light he held. He could also see the mutilated bodies of the two students who had been killed.

“Why does it horrify you that we destroy evil? That planet held the living rock of an Algolana altar that had been fed sacrificial victims for millennia. When they had no outsiders to sacrifice, they used their own people. Including children. Did you not see the murals on the walls? Do you know why they did it, Colonel?”

Her face austere, she did not wait for his reply.

“They wanted the blessings of God. Who do you think they are praying to now?”

Feeling sick, he watched the surface below continue to disintegrate. Amoral and arrogant as they were, how could the Brotherhood do this?

“After what happened to Zoran, how can you do this? It is what the Masters wanted for you.”

Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador tried again to help him understand.

“We are on watch, Colonel. Do you recall that I spoke of an ancient promise that none of your people remember?”

He nodded, his eyes still on the planet.

“A very, very long time ago, we said that your people were our brothers. We have stood on watch ever since.”

“On watch against what?”

“God.”

She was looking at him directly now. The bombardment was over.

“The altar on that planet was a direct link to God. Those people chose to maintain that beacon and to send Him sustenance. They chose to worship God. They chose to worship evil. They chose to make their existence richer through the slaughter of innocents. They chose not to be our brothers.”

“How is the Last of the Brotherhood?”

He risked a question that had nearly gotten him killed when he asked it before. His tone was sarcastic. He did not like Deb and he loathed the bombardment he had watched.

Sarr’a looked at him measuringly before replying.

“You still hold him responsible. You do not even know who and what he is. This is the action of the Brotherhood and each individual here. The Last of the Brotherhood is our moral compass. We each must choose whether or not to follow.”

She was continuing very quietly as the ship turned away.

“And why, Colonel, do you suppose that the Masters were interested in this planet? Only after the passing of the Algolana came the Chaos that the Masters despise. They derive their Power from forces left behind by the God of the Algolana and now, after thousands of years, the Masters come to the logical conclusion of their choices. There is order in mass murder, Cully Murthoc. The dead are not anarchists.”

Heat from the molten surface radiated out into the black coldness of space. The last ship hung above the dead world, then turned slowly and left the system.

AFTERMATH

The smuggler’s ship came out of hyperspace to find Lanour surrounded by heavy cruisers without markings. His passenger’s eyes closed for a moment, as the pilot, recognizing the ships, requested instructions. The eyes opened to find a handgun pointed directly at them. They did not blink.

The boy spoke quietly.

“Please. Let me speak to the Last of the Brotherhood. He does not have to…” and stopped.

The bombardment had begun. The eyes closed again, but their closing did not in any way imply either a refusal to look or a denial of what was happening. Stillness radiated from the small figure in the passenger’s chair, a profound stillness which the pilot felt almost physically. He holstered the gun: somehow it felt ridiculous. His orders were to take this boy to Deb after they were finished here.

* * *

Professor Mellor was working diligently on his new book when the secretary entered. She looked flustered which was odd because she was ordinarily very calm. He preferred calm secretaries.

“I know you said not to disturb you, Professor,” she said. “But…there is a man to see you.”

She was interrupted by a deep voice.

“Forgive me for so unceremonious an entrance, Professor Mellor. I have such a very short time here at the University and I must speak with you.”

The professor was already rising as he recognized Professor Emeritus Ronnel Latten, a member, no, the former president of the Rajkar Academy of History. To be sought out by him was an unanticipated honor. And his book was not even finished.

“May I offer you some refreshment?”

Behind his guest, the departmental secretary looked more flustered, and then proved her worth. She smiled and nodded as she hurried out. The chairman of the department was known to keep brandy against the possibility of an important alumnus visiting.

“Thank you, Professor.”

Professor Latten was being gracious. He sat down and, after a pause, Professor Mellor did likewise.

“As I said, I have no time so I must be blunt.” He smiled to indicate camaraderie between them. “I wanted to tell you personally because I knew you would be delighted.”

Professor Mellor was beginning to feel confused. What could this great man have to tell him that would be so delightful? For just a moment, he allowed himself to dream and, unbelieving, heard the confirmation of that dream from his guest.

“Your election to the Academy will be formally approved next week. We are, of course, honored that such a distinguished scholar is joining us.”

The hooded eyes were watching Professor Mellor’s reaction. This man was probably intelligent enough that the flattery should not be too heavy handed. He looked stunned. It was time for the important part.

“You will understand, Professor, that at this delicate stage, it is important that there be no questioning of your academic reputation. And, of course, after your election, you will uphold the high standards of the Academy.”

Professor Mellor glanced down at the papers on his desk. His work was controversial. Vindication of his theories was at hand.

No, it was not. Understanding of Professor Latten’s meaning came through slowly. This was the first volley in the fight to silence him. Why did not really matter. He should be grateful that they had started with a bribe. Proof would not be there when he needed it, nor would support from recognized historians. Deep within himself, he wanted to fight. He also wanted academic honors and respect within his field. Truth lost the battle.

Professor Latten saw his victory and rose to take his farewell. He had undertaken this project at the request of an old friend. His distaste for this victory for censorship was tempered only by the knowledge that had Professor Mellor’s choice gone the other way; he would have met the man now waiting in the corridor. As would have the surviving students of his trip to Lanour.

* * *

The Moderator of the High Council of the Order of the Masters of the Chaos out of the Darkness sat in her chair, alone in the Council chamber. Her confederate, the Order’s chief of security was no longer present in the Power, although she was still alive. Like Fior. Fior’s recorder was also gone. It reminded her of stories from her childhood where, one by one, everyone surrounding the protagonist disappeared. At the last, she would face the monster alone.

There was a monster. She had felt him, a tremendous rush of Power as he appeared and then was gone. Shivering, she knew that he was not gone and that she could trust no one.

* * *

Colonel Cully Murthoc was almost asleep. It was difficult to sleep while remembering Lanour: the bombardment, the dead students, the terrified people, and above it all the exultant figure of the God of the Algolana leaning hungrily over the Last of the Brotherhood. His thoughts moved through the chaotic jumble of fevered nightmare until he realized suddenly that she had given him the key

Lying in bed, staring into the darkness, he remembered Sarr’a’s words. We said that you were our brothers. The personal implications he pushed aside in order to consider the main point. The Brotherhood stood on watch to protect the other peoples of this galaxy from God. By implication, they had destroyed the Algolana.

They destroyed evil when they found it and those people chose not to be our brothers, she said. But treachery, betrayal, and the destruction of their home world had not been enough for the Brotherhood to walk away from their watch. Or to declare that the peoples who had attacked them were no longer their brothers. Why not? They do not expect us to grow to join them. They do expect us to continue our attempts to destroy them. And yet, they remain to protect us.

His last thought before he slept was perhaps even more significant. If they defeated the Algolana and the demons were gone, why did the Brotherhood still know their language?

BOOK THREE

Foreword

In a section of the galaxy empty except for dust, a vortex was forming. Tiny at first, it grew perceptibly larger; as an observer, standing on a planet that had once a very long time ago been nearby, would have seen. That planet with its intensely green mountains and crystalline perfect air had been destroyed in an act of rage millennia before.

A door was opening again, a very ancient door. It emitted vibrations across the EMF spectrum. In human terms, it screeched on rusty hinges. It was heard, but not immediately understood.

Chapter One

“It is necessary to kill him. He is too intelligent and he saw too much on that wretched planet.” Deb’s voice was very somber. “When he has the opportunity to stop and think, he will know far too much about us.”

Sarr’a stood at the window, staring across the great valley. Since Lanour, the physical world had seemed to lack a solid foundation. Now, her own internal structures were threatened. Turning, she looked at Deb, Last of the Brotherhood, and saw a stranger.

“We… the Brotherhood should not be killing people for being intelligent and wanting to know the truth. That is what we are. Or what we have always been. Can offworlders no longer be permitted to seek the truth? And, if that is so, how can they be our brothers?”

“We have to survive to be the Brotherhood, Sarr’a.” Deb’s voice was very tired and very sad. “When their fleet came to Zoran…”

Her interruption was savage.

“When their fleet came to Zoran, I was not there. And when that mob came for my mother, there was no ‘we.’ My father was not on Graneth. Your father was not on Graneth. My mother chose to die so that I might have a small chance to survive. She might have chosen to escape. She might have chosen to kill herself, leaving that mob frustrated and enraged while it searched for me. She chose to feel every moment of a degrading and agonizing death, entertaining them until the animals began to lose interest.

“Do not speak to me of survival, Last of the Brotherhood. Survival isn’t everything. Honor is more. The Brotherhood is more. It must be. Even your father who led us to death and destruction knew that.”

Her eyes glowering, she continued.

“I think you’ve been a smuggler too long. You forget who you are, Tar Abzoladan. You are a coward.”

It was an old argument and not the one tearing at her from the inside. She could not face that one. Not yet.

“If it is cowardice to protect those I am sworn to protect, then I am guilty. But it is not. It is an evaluation of risk and the risk is too great that he knows too much about us.”

He spoke very quietly and very vehemently, controlling his own angry reaction to her words.

“Would you have them succeed this time? We have spoken before of their ‘holy war.’ Would you have him precipitate it? The truth is not for hero-worshipping fools who will destroy us all when they are disillusioned.”

“Colonel Murthoc is hardly a hero-worshipping fool. He makes choices and he lives with the result.”

“Then he will die because of his own choice.”

“No,” she contradicted him sharply. “Colonel Murthoc will die because of my choice as well as his. I have answered his questions and tried to help him to understand. Even on Lanour. If he is to die for seeking the truth…”

Sarr’a stopped. Deb remained silent as, within herself, she heard her own voice saying, “It is not my responsibility to tell them that one of the choices is death.”

Fighting the grief that welled up inside her, Sarnath Al Cador turned away. Her actions had brought him to this death. She had lured this one with the Brotherhood, not herself, and the irony that he could have had her was bitter.

Cully Murthoc was going to die. The Last of the Brotherhood ordered it. It was going to happen. That was clear. It was not clear why he had to die; it was a perversion of everything she believed. But she was certain that Deb wasn’t going to listen to her: he never had.

The sun moved toward what would be a very spectacular sunset. Inside her, there was a great agony of guilt and pain rising intertwined with a black rage that all she believed was false including herself. Her mind, trained to tactical analysis, moved through that pain and rage to assess her possible course of action.

By her own choice, she was Brotherhood. As clan commander, she had chosen to follow the Last of the Brotherhood in time of war. But if this travesty was the Brotherhood, she could not remain. To leave now would be desertion. And the empty question remained: where would she go?

Straightening her shoulders, Sarr’a chose. She was tired. Perhaps she was the coward, but she couldn’t fight Deb anymore.

She was Sarnath Al Cador. Honor required that she face Colonel Murthoc as he died. Her clan however did not deserve the dishonor. Either for his death or her desertion. She would do what little she could to spare them that. Hands moving across the breast of her uniform blouse, Sarnath Al Cador turned to face Tar Abzoladan and met his eyes squarely.

“Since you order it done, Last of the Brotherhood, I will kill Cully Murthoc. He deserves honorable treatment. He will get an assassination. At last, I can kill him quickly. The offworlders are right: they did destroy the Brotherhood.”

Deb felt her words as sword thrusts; he did not flinch. Sarr’a continued more quietly.

“Give these to Amik for me. He will do what must be done.”

She placed the insignia of her rank as clan commander on his desk. And the insignia of her clan.

“Without guidance and with very little example, Cully Murthoc has started on the Way. And we…I will kill him.”

With difficulty, she held her voice steady as she finished.

Deb closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone.

Sarr’a walked slowly along the corridor that led to the clan command center and the practice room where she kept her sword. Given to her on the day she made her formal choice, the sword was hers. It was fitting that it be there at the end, even this end, and it felt important. Several members of her clan passed; she was too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice. One, stopping abruptly with an arrested expression on her face, looked toward Deb’s office then moved immediately down the ramp to the level where the clan second had his quarters.

Entering the practice room, Sarr’a took down her sword and strapped it to her back in combat mode. Pausing in the door to the clan command center, she watched them at work for a few moments, then left without speaking. There was nothing there for her now, only further pain. Colonel Murthoc’s quarters were nearby. She requested admittance and entered.

He was seated at a desk, staring unseeing at some reports that Major Tren had forwarded. His mind was grappling with what he had seen on Lanour and after: confirmation of the legends of the Algolana. It seemed that the Brotherhood had indeed fought and defeated them. That their God was still present in the universe, that the legends, which predicted His return, could also be true, was bonechillingly terrifying.

Placed beside that, his life’s work fighting the Imperium felt empty and pointless. But the image of Lanour as he had last seen it, a glowing burned-out cinder of a planet, haunted his sleep. What made them so certain?

Sarr’a’s entrance brought him back to the present. Rising to greet her, he could not help the welcoming smile which faded as he observed the set expression of her face and the sword on her back.

“Is there a problem, Sarr’a?”

He was certain he knew the answer to that. Deb had finally decided. The wonder was that it had taken so long. For a moment, he regretted all the answers he did not yet have.

“Yes, Colonel. There is. I would like you to take a walk with me.”

Her eyes met his and he was shaken by their renewed intensity.

“Please. We will talk outside.”

Extraordinary pain filled her voice. Even convinced that this was his death, he would not add to it.

“Certainly, commander.”

Halfway through the word, he realized that she was no longer wearing her rank insignia and his concern, now for her, grew.

“Sarr’a?”

She was no longer wearing clan insignia either. Afraid of what that meant, he didn’t know what to do. What was Deb doing to push her to this after warning him?

“Then let us go, Colonel. The sun will be setting soon.”

It was important to get outside the base. She felt an aching physical need to see the stars and to touch the world around her for just a few moments.

They walked together down the long ramps. She knew the rhythm of the life of this base as well as she knew her own pulse. Both felt odd, as though the world had tilted.

They had almost reached the airlock when the sound of running feet came from behind them.

“Sarr’a!”

Clan second Merik Nataen called in what was for a Zorantian a frantic tone. Reaching her, he stood for a moment waiting for her response.

She had halted automatically at his call, now she spoke courteously to Colonel Murthoc.

“You will excuse me for a few moments, Colonel.”

A reprieve of a few minutes, he thought, his heart beating a little fast in spite of his outward calm. He watched as she walked back a bit with Amik. Sarr’a stood facing her second and appeared to listen patiently as he spoke very urgently. The colonel could not hear what he was saying, but it didn’t seem to be affecting Sarr’a at all. Her set expression did not change. She spoke a few words quietly. Amik replied more vehemently.

Colonel Murthoc then became aware that there were a lot of people in the motor pool area. A rapidly growing, large number of people who were all watching Sarr’a and Amik. Sarr’a seemed suddenly to realize this and projected her voice to fill the room.

“This is not a clan matter. It is personal choice. I have chosen.”

I have chosen to no longer be one of you. I have chosen not to fight anymore. Pain closed over her in a black wave and she moved through it as she had been taught to do when it was necessary to finish her task. A little while longer and it wouldn’t matter.

Clan second Merik Nataen continued what he knew could only be a losing argument in the face of the essential truth of the Brotherhood.

“It is a clan matter who will lead us. We have chosen. You accepted that choice.”

She closed her eyes, and then she opened them full of tears. He had never seen her weep, not for her mother or her father. Shaken, he heard her reply.

“Then I will lead you for a short while longer.”

She saw the flash of grief cross his face and spoke again, more gently. Twenty years of friendship stretched between them.

“I cannot in honor continue to be Brotherhood, Amik. I cannot be anything else. I cannot see any other choice.”

Her second stepped back from her and bowed his head. There was a desolate certainty in her voice that defeated him and he was very angry. Discipline and respect for her held him silent, for now.

She turned away toward the colonel. Again, she was stopped by a voice calling her name.

“Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador.”

The Last of the Brotherhood stood above them on the ramp. He walked down through the ranks of her silent clan until they were face to face. As he came, clan second Merik Nataen moved to stand behind her, his face rigid.

Deb spoke, his voice easily reaching every ear present.

“You are right, clan commander. I was wrong.” He leaned forward and met her eyes. “You are not an assassin. I am not a coward.”

Continuing to speak, but for her alone; his voice was now soft, his eyes more insistent.

“You may give up on me Sarr’a, but you may not give up on the Brotherhood. You may not give up on yourself. You chose the Brotherhood. You cannot do this now, whatever your pain, without causing a greater injury than you know. The Brotherhood survives and, I give you my word, will continue to survive with honor. You must continue to fight for that honor.”

Staring first at him, then at her insignia which he held in his open palm, Sarr’a nodded slowly. Deb replaced them on her uniform, then looked at her second whose face reflected the anger still present in the room.

“Do you think we might get some work done?

Deb spoke quietly, his voice containing only the faintest trace of acid.

Slowly, people left. No one looked happy. Sarr’a seemed dazed.

Deb walked over to stand near Colonel Murthoc.

“The two of you should take that walk, I think. She’ll need time to recover. She’s never won an argument with me before.”

He answered the question in the colonel’s eyes with a dismissive shrug.

“Yes, I did order your death. And I did not change my mind because she resigned as clan commander or because she was only going to survive you by a few minutes. That’s her choice. I changed my mind because Sarr’a is right. We can’t kill you for the reasons I gave and be the Brotherhood. Which doesn’t mean there may not be other reasons to come. You have been granted more time, offworlder. Choose wisely.”

Colonel Murthoc, relief turning to fury, moved dangerously close to Deb.

“Is this some kind of game to you? My life or death is not the issue here. You would have permitted her to die over killing me? What kind of threat can I possibly be to you to warrant that? I may only be an offworlder, Last of the Brotherhood, but even I can see that something is seriously wrong.”

She told me that this man was their moral compass, he thought in outrage. How can he be so wrong?

Deb’s face closed as he carefully controlled the almost automatic reflexes that would have killed or maimed the other man. Behind the colonel, he caught the expression of startled respect on Amik’s face as he stood beside his clan commander.

Murthoc’s right, thought Deb. There is something seriously wrong and it is with me. There has been since Sartak and that planet with its altar made it worse. I need to talk to Tor.

The colonel had taken an aggressive stance only inches away. Deb felt a sudden urge to laugh, but suppressed it sternly. Sarr’a had been prepared to kill him and this man still felt a need to protect her. They could be very funny, these offworlders, if you allowed them to distract you. Or perhaps it wasn’t funny.

“I will concede the point, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Now go away. Go to your quarters or walk with the clan commander. I don’t care. I have work to do.”

He turned to move up the ramp.

“Amik, Tor is on Eblarem. I need her here now. When Sarr’a has recovered, you may inform her that the Brotherhood’s second will be arriving.”

Amik’s eyes were narrowed as he acknowledged the order.

Sarr’a stared up at Deb as he climbed. It didn’t feel like she’d won an argument. It still felt like the entire world was coming apart around her. The Brotherhood had no second to the Last of the Brotherhood except in times of dire emergency. Desperately needing time to think, she lowered her eyes and met those of Colonel Murthoc who was still very angry.

“You said that if we asked for your help, you would give it. I need to understand, commander. Help me to understand.”

It was too much and she began to laugh, stopping only when Amik put his hand on her shoulder. Her second moved to face her, his expression now very serious.

“Listen to him, Sarnath Al Cador. Listen to what he asks of you.”

His eyes held questioning concern.

Colonel Murthoc watched her straighten as she turned to look at him, now studying him intently.

“Go,” she said to Amik. “Get Tor here. I will be all right.”

Her eyes were still considering the colonel.

“Am I correct that you asked me for help in understanding?” she asked quietly.

He nodded.

“Yes, commander.”

She closed her eyes and thought: this is the Brotherhood, with a certainty that pushed aside the weariness, the confusion, and the pain. Looking at him again, she spoke formally.

“We have a contract, Cully Murthoc. I will help you. You will understand.”

His anger giving way to confusion, he said, “If it was this easy, why did he want you to kill me?”

Sarr’a shook her head.

“I don’t know, Colonel. We will find out.”

* * *

It was almost six hours later that clan commander Kalibarrna entered the office of the Last of the Brotherhood to find her brother alone in a darkened room illuminated only by the displays on his desk. Blast doors covered the windows. He sat hunched over his desk and spoke sarcastically as she entered.

“I’m happy to see that you have time in your busy schedule for me, clan commander. Catching up on the gossip?”

“I heard most of it before I left, Deb. Sarr’a is my friend. I don’t like to see my friends on the point of suicide and I question the military wisdom of pushing an entire clan to the point of mutiny.”

He became aware that she was angry although her voice was quiet and switched on the light so he could see her face. Her eyes widened when she saw his.

“Deb! When did you last sleep? You look hagridden.”

“Touched by God, perhaps,” he said, watching for her reaction.

Tor looked at him steadily, then sat down near his desk.

“You mean that literally,” she said, trying to remain sensible. “On that altar, I presume. Yes, I suppose your presence would have called Him.”

“My presence? I butchered His priest on His altar. I was washed in the blood of the priest as it flowed over me to that altar. I pulled down His image and destroyed the living stone that had fed him for millennia.”

Deb’s voice was rising in intensity.

“I am riding black winds that scorch my soul, Tor. I am the black winds.”

He stood on the edge of insanity. And stepped back. He continued quite reasonably.

“I need you here as my second. I believe we are both questioning my judgment. You will need to leave your clan to your second. It may be that this is the end of time.”

“Deb! The end of time is legend. Why should it be now? We have no proof that it will even come, that there is such a thing. You’re tired. We both know where your black winds come from and you have been riding them for a long time.”

His eyes blazed with green fire.

“And have you never wondered, sister, why the offworlders chose this time to destroy Zoran? Not a century ago, not two millennia, but this time? It is not I who am insane, but the offworlders: the Masters with their Dark Council plotting to reinstate the God of the Algolana so that they may have order in their galaxy. I see the future, Tor, and it is black and full of evil. I say it is the end of time.”

When the Last of the Brotherhood speaks the truth, all men know it. Even younger sisters.

“We will need to call the clans together then. The Brotherhood must make the final choice.”

Her voice was somber.

“Why do you think I called you here?” he said, with a return of his normal impatience.

* * *

Moving quietly, the small figure was walking down the side corridor toward the experimental laboratories when Reth saw him and recognized their wandering prisoner. Annoyance with offworlders who felt that they could roam at will on a Brotherhood base flared. This one had been doing it for almost a week. Sarr’a was upset, but that was no excuse for this level of sloppiness.

Soundlessly, he came up behind the boy and, preparatory to spinning the offworlder around, placed a hand on his shoulder. As his grip tightened, Reth felt the boy move. His hand was caught in a lock that he did not recognize and which drove him to his knees. Amazingly, it did not hurt. Experience told him however that a struggle against that sort of hold would cause excruciating pain without effecting a release and he was still.

Above him, the face held very clear, blue eyes regarding him with an open and thorough assessment. He was released, but remained where he was as the boy sank to the floor in front of him and sat looking up at him.

“Is it your practice to physically assault unknown persons?”

The uplifted face expected an answer.

“Truthfully, yes.”

Reth was amused by the question. This was after all the Brotherhood.

“You have no business in this area. It is restricted.” The boy’s response was quiet.

“I have business everywhere.”

“This is a Brotherhood base. We have the right to restrict where offworlders may go.”

The incongruity of his discussion with this child was giving Reth an almost irresistible urge to laugh. The boy appeared to be considering the matter seriously.

Rising, he spoke calmly.

“I cannot accept that restriction, supreme commander. I have no interest in military secrets.”

“Who are you?”

Reth’s question was sharp. This was no longer quite so funny. No offworlder should know him by that title. He rose to his feet.

“I am here to see the Last of the Brotherhood. We will meet when he is ready.”

The calm certainty in his voice held Reth motionless as the boy continued his interrupted walk along the corridor. Reth was remembering the reports about this prisoner. He had been seen eating, walking around, and talking to people. One supply clerk had admitted to giving him a blanket. The only explanation offered was that it had not occurred to anyone at the time that he was a threat, a justification which had left Sarr’a speechless.

Watching the boy disappear around a corner, Reth could understand the confusion. There was something very odd there, but he couldn’t quite see it. Shaking his head, he turned away. He would not tell Sarr’a about the encounter.

Teachings

“You have asked to be taught. Listen. Learn.”

“But…”

“Hush. Listen. You will understand in time.”

The voice paused as though gathering the strands of history together.

“Long ago, very, very long ago, a people lived on a world they called home. They were a fiercely proud people, intelligent and independent. Their population was not large: a few millions scattered in family groups across the continents of that world. Some lived simply as hunters and herdsmen; others were farmers.

“It came to pass that for months the dreams of many were troubled and dark. Their leaders sought answers from the wise, but none knew the origin of these dreams or their meaning.

“On a night when the people’s moon turned its dark face to their world, a great cloud of fire and boiling black cloud spread across their sky eating the very stars. Atop their verdant peaks fire and smoke settled and became one with the people’s land.

“As the night was spent, a looming enormous form seemed to emerge from the cloud. The people looked upon the towering thing that was revealed. It stood upon two enormous legs such as legend said supported the very vault of the sky. Slowly as the clouds parted further, the form that continued to emerge became clear. Its form was like the people’s: two arms, a single head, but covered in titanic and barbaric armor.

“He, who was leader of those camped closest to this monstrous sight, gave orders to his tribes: the women and children would seek a place that could be defended; his herdsmen warriors would accompany him to the peaks where this apparition had descended from the sky. He would know if this was enemy or friend. He would know if it sought to harm the people.

“As he ascended to the high peaks, other tribes’ warriors and even the ploughmen of the farming peoples hurried to the aid of those in greatest danger. As the first rays of dawn limned the peaks, an army was assembling in the valleys.

“He whose tribe was first in danger was first to reach the feet of the colossus that filled the sky above the mountains. Fire and dark clouds welled and were dispersed time and again by mountain winds.

“He was the leader of his people; neither he nor his people knew fear. He was driven only by his courage. Nearly breathless by the hard climb he stood, a living pebble before a living mountain, as his sweat rolled down his brow. He did not wait to compose a speech. Once his breath had returned, he called out to the thing above.

“‘Who are you? Why have you come?’

“So steady and firm was his speech that the colossus heard it and knew it for what it was: both demand and command. Through all its long ages and long journeys, never had the titan been so challenged. That one so small and puny would stand ground before it, no not just stand, but carry the battle to it, was beyond the thing’s belief. As the thing considered this lone warrior and pondered these impossibilities, it became aware of the others boiling up from the valleys below. Not just a single beserker, but a planet, a world of them. A race.

“As the herdsman, hunters, and ploughmen, armed as they were, reached the peak, he who had stood there first halted their advance with his upraised hand. And they gathered in ranks behind him. They waited. The thing spoke.

“‘I have come to protect you from the swarming multitudes of evil dwelling among the glittering stars above. I have come to give you those great gifts that are mine to bestow so that you might help me punish those same evil ones who pollute the stars. I have come because I am God and you are my Chosen Ones.’”

Chapter Two

“The end of time?”

Incredulous outrage held the phrase before them in almost visible tones. Surprisingly, at least to some present, it was not Sarr’a’s voice that rang through the chamber.

“Have you been using the stuff instead of selling it?”

Echoes of that blunt sentiment appeared on the faces of many of the clan commanders as they looked to Deb for his response.

“I said, after Kuarmian, that when I knew what was happening, I would tell you.” The Last of the Brotherhood’s voice was coldly controlled. “The Masters seek to become the Chosen of God.”

“Then let us kill the Masters.” This was interjected quietly by a woman sitting near the front. “That should solve the problem.”

“God is returning,” said Deb just as quietly as nods indicating agreement with her solution spread through the room. “The Masters are not really important.”

“Since when?” Her voice was now angry and no longer quiet. “They destroyed Zoran. We have been fighting them and their allies for a generation. Now, they are not important? If they want to be the Chosen, and I do not see how that is possible, then kill them. All of them.”

“I repeat,” said Deb, his voice rising over theirs and demanding their silence. “The Masters, whatever their actions, are not the point. God returns. This is the end of time.”

Frustration usually expressed this openly only by Sarr’a boiled over.

“Killing Masters is not the point?” said one clan commander with bitter sarcasm. “For millennia we have died fighting them and now they are not the point?”

“Logically then,” another continued. “The Imperium, the Confederation, none of the wars, the destruction, the deaths, theirs or ours, have been of any importance. Is that your argument?”

Pained eyes challenged Deb. Tumultuous voices filled the room as two alone sat in silence.

Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador watched the Brotherhood, her Brotherhood at last, and felt no triumph. The Last of the Brotherhood appeared always to her now as he had on the altar in the flash just before the torches died. Cold fear sat heavily within her chest as she began to comprehend why Deb had wanted the colonel dead and why he was insane. Our moral compass, she thought, no longer hearing the voices around her. It was a great speech and I almost got him killed with it. Now, I am supposed to help him understand. What will he understand when I have finished?

The second silent figure rose at last, striding through the angrily divided ranks of Brotherhood clan commanders to stand before Deb. Reth watched his oldest friend expectantly; this clan commander did not speak often and never lightly. No longer young, his face held the scars of battles fought before many in the room had been born. He had always dismissed reconstructive surgery. Unlike any of the other clan commanders, he retained the tradition of wearing his sword when summoned by the Last of the Brotherhood. Silence fell as he drew that sword and began to speak.

“Is this a gathering of the Brotherhood or of offworlder children? Have you forgotten the oath you took? I took that oath. It was a long time ago, but I have not forgotten. The Last of the Brotherhood has told you that God returns. He speaks the truth: you know that. What proof do you require beyond the truth?

“We have stood this watch for thousands of years. This is who we are. Emperors, Masters, offworlders do not matter and never have. I have fought the same battles you have fought against the same enemies. I have been doing it for longer than any of you. And I tell you truthfully: they did not and do not matter.

“We are the Brotherhood, bound by oath for this moment alone. There is only one response.”

He laid his sword at the feet of the Last of the Brotherhood.

“My clan follows you.”

Picking up the sword, Tar Abzoladan held it for a moment, feeling its weight, then extended the hilt to its owner.

“I accept you and your clan,” he said formally. “I will lead you.”

Sheathing his sword, the clan commander strode out of the room. Behind him, the starkness of the choice was now apparent on almost all the faces. Follow the Last of the Brotherhood. Or leave.

“How is it that you are so certain?”

This question came quietly from a back row.

Deb, his eyes hooded, glanced up.

“There is a vortex forming,” he said. “Coordinates: Alpha. Alpha. Prime. Prime. Prime. Alpha.”

“But…that was our home. The first Zoran.”

“That we lost to the God of the Algolana,” said Tul.

“And that is two homes that we have lost to Him,” said Deb. To the questioning murmur that began, he continued. “Do you not understand even yet that the High Council of the Masters moved against Zoran because the Brotherhood had to be destroyed before He could or would return?”

“But surely they have no records that old?”

Some were still fighting.

Anger flared briefly on Deb’s face.

“Then the God of the Algolana must have a long memory,” he said. “He returns and we turn to fight Him.”

He glanced around at their faces, giving no indication that he wondered how many would follow.

“The Brotherhood will immediately, or as quickly as can be accomplished with reasonable safety, withdraw from the Imperium, the Confederation. And the smugglers. We will create what diversions we can to keep them distracted. We will stop all other operations. You will be given your orders. We will meet again in three days.”

Exhaustion rapidly overtaking him, he left the conclave for the quiet of his office. And found the senior clan commander waiting for him. Extremely sharp eyes assessed him, then the man nodded.

“You’ll do, boy.”

Deb moved behind his desk.

“Just now, I’d rather not,” he said evenly. “I can think of any number of my predecessors who were better prepared to face this. Even my father.”

His eyes narrowed, the clan commander studied Deb for a moment.

“You’re doing as well as your father, boy. And he set a high standard whatever your opinion. He needs sleep.”

Reth had followed Deb and was the recipient of the last comment and the next.

“Working until he falls over in exhaustion…you must have taught him some way to relax.”

“Dancing girls,” said Deb as he settled back in his chair. “Why do you think I took up smuggling?”

He was fully aware of the eyes meeting in silent agreement behind him.

“How deeply are they divided do you think?”

“More than I would have expected,” came the reply. “In part, it is because they are young. But it is also more. Someone is stirring up doubts about you and playing to their fears.”

“Who?” asked Reth.

“I don’t know. And that is more troubling than the fact that it is happening. Why should they hide?”

Deb rose abruptly.

“You will excuse me. I am going out.”

He walked through his outer office and down the ramps of the base. Around him, every eye turned to watch as he passed, but he did not notice. It was as though he walked through shadows, caught up as he was in the enormity of events.

They consider me insane, he thought as he left the base behind. That somehow, God returning is some game I have invented for my own amusement. Some of them undoubtedly think that I went to the smugglers to avoid boredom. I would take a boring life. They are the ones who are insane, not I. I…

He became aware suddenly that another occupied the only place where he could be certain to be left alone. She was sitting near the waterfall almost exactly where he sat when he needed to think. Anger flashed briefly to be replaced by a question: who was she? He knew of no one in the Brotherhood with hair like that.

She was combing it as it fell in a soft, brown mantle around her. The only offworlder currently unaccounted for on this base was a boy. They consider me insane, he thought sarcastically. They are blind offworlder infants to see this as male and a child.

Reflexively, he stopped that line of thought and stepped around to see her face. She looked up as he moved forward.

“They told me this place was safe,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

“They lied,” he responded in what felt like the beginning of a game.

Standing above her, he watched her fingers as they moved expertly to bind her hair again and clip it to her head. Completing her task and replacing the hat carefully, she stretched her arms up toward him and waited.

Without conscious thought, his hands enclosed hers and she was on her feet. Their eyes were almost level as they stood assessing each other. Hers were clear and direct as they searched his face, as if looking for someone she knew. His held a puzzled frown. He did not release her hands.

Abruptly, Deb broke the silence.

“Why did you go to Lanour?”

For just a moment, she looked at him sadly, then replied.

“I am a student of the early years of your Brotherhood. I have studied our archives, now I wander, looking for more answers.”

His eyes narrowed.

“They did indeed lie if they told you that was a safe pastime.”

She shrugged.

“Was it necessary to kill all of them?”

Her question was curiously gentle, not judgmental.

He dropped her hands, but stood looking at her as though trying to decide what to say. At last, he spoke without emphasis.

“There was a living Algolana altar on that planet. It had been fed with the blood of who knows how many for millennia. Through it, the God of the Algolana was sustained as they died in agony.”

Her eyes did not leave his face. He had expected her to flinch away.

“It was my decision. I made it. And now they are one with the rock of their planet.”

“But could they not have been taught?”

Her voice was gently and quietly insistent. Deliberately, he changed the subject.

“You wish to study the Brotherhood. By the reports, you have already been doing so. I cannot see any threat to us so long as you remain here.”

He gestured for her to precede him back to the base.

“What archives have you studied that speak of the beginnings of the Brotherhood?”

He realized that he did not know her name.

“Your people were not the only ones present at the beginning, Last of the Brotherhood.”

There was a distinct sharpening in her tone and her eyes pierced his as she looked back at him over her shoulder. Her voice as she continued was that of a parent chiding a child.

“My name is Nali.”

They walked back to the base, she moving with a fluid grace that proclaimed her femininity. He escorted her to the clan command center where Amik was on duty. There was a perceptible pause as they entered.

“This is clan second Merik Nataen, Nali.” Deb looked from her to Amik, his eyes sardonic. “I believe you have been looking for her.”

His emphasis on the pronoun was pointed.

“She says she is a student of the Brotherhood. I have agreed that she may continue her studies.”

“I will tell Sarr’a, Deb.”

Nali was wandering around the room, observing but not interrupting as people worked.

“Do you want her movements restricted?”

Deb looked amused.

“She was outside the base as a prisoner, Amik. What more will you do now that she is my guest? Besides, I hardly think that it will matter what she does. Not now.”

Turning away, he walked the length of the corridor to his own office.

It was not empty.

“Is this a common meeting room now?” Deb asked in loud frustration as he turned toward the man seated in the corner.

Then he paused as that man rose.

“You,” said the Last of the Brotherhood in quite different tones. His eyes saw, not the figure before him, but rather one facet of a fragmented gem and thus the identification held no note of the personal.

Scars that were deeper than the senior clan commander’s disfigured this man’s face to the bone and a deep shadow seemed to surround him even in the light. He was holding a red piece of cloth which he set down on Deb’s desk before he spoke. His voice sounded rusty.

“You have me watching the wrong one.”

Caustic eyes observed the Last of the Brotherhood smooth out the rag, then recoil as if it had burned him.

“Who and where?” Deb asked tightly, looking down at the Shareem of the Algolana. Inside, he felt another weight added to those already threatening to crush him.

“You call him Skal.” It was almost a whisper, that cracked voice. “He used it against pirates.”

“Bring him to me.”

The Last of the Brotherhood sat alone at last, staring at a torn red banner lying across his desk as the black winds howled around him.

Teachings

“Though they mistrusted the being that had ‘chosen’ them, the people tolerated its presence. As their generations passed, it bestowed gifts upon them. It taught them great powers and that which they thought to be magic. Finally, the day came when the people no longer mistrusted, when they came to look upon the thing as ‘truly a god.’ This was what the colossus had waited for; this was what the waiting was about. He called them to a council; the fruit of his plan was all but ripe.

“‘Long ago I came to your ancestors and proclaimed myself to them.’ He said to the throng assembled at the base of his mountain home. ‘Now the people have seen me for the benefactor that I am. I have given you gifts and wonders such as no other people have had bestowed upon them. I have given these freely and you, my Chosen, have prospered and grown ever stronger. Now is the time for the greatest gift of all.’ He paused and waited for a sense of disquiet to flow through the people. ‘But this greatest of gifts is one that you must accept before its granting. You must know and understand it before it is bestowed. Great responsibility comes with this gift and once accepted, it cannot be set aside.” A murmur moved like a cold wind through the people. Troubled glances passed between the leaders.

“‘Between the pure glowing stars is the black veil of night. Within that black veil are other worlds. But those other worlds are not like this world. Their peoples are not strong and pure of heart as you are. The very darkness between the stars themselves is a vomit of evil sent forth by these impure others to hide themselves from the sight and righteousness of the good, from you.’ Shock welled within the people. Horror twisted their faces as they contemplated the universe that was being brought to them. ‘I stand here with you as a guard against the abominations of that darkness. You are my Chosen. I will ever protect you; I will never abandon you.

“‘But you must prepare for the day that their evil will seek you out. You must arm your hearts, your souls, your very beings against that day, for it will surely come. I have given you much that will allow you to resist them. I would give you more still to assure your triumph against those from the blackness. For when evil ones come from the void, their purpose will be to destroy the righteous, to destroy you.’

“He who was of the line of the first to question God stepped forward. ‘Would it not be better to seek the foes before they find us? Is it not better to begin the fight far from our homes? Then, even if defeated at the first, we have the hope of fighting again. Even if there is no hope of victory, we might fight the long defeat and so do some good in our passing.’

“The Titan smiled to himself: the second key to the trap was sprung as the people heard those words and found that they agreed with them.

“In the days that followed, their training began. Even greater gifts were given: the means to travel to the enemy world, abilities in understanding the very universe itself, and powers akin to that of God. The people were in awe of these things and called them magic, but they were not.

“More generations passed and finally the long preparations and training were at an end. Standing above the ranks of His people as they arrayed themselves, the God was pleased. He paused once more before He spoke. ‘I have nurtured you. Guided you. Taught you. Bestowed upon you powers like unto my own. And you have proven yourselves worthy of my gifts.’ The people were at once grim in their multitude prepared for war and proud in the great honor that God had made theirs.

“‘On this eve of your first conquest of the evil ones, I give you one last protection against your enemies: so that none might gain dark powers over any of your numbers I grant you, my Chosen Ones, a name bearing my fullest protection. No being or race shall be able to harm or control any one of you through the power of secret knowledge of you. I name you as mine. I name you ALGOLANA, MY CHOSEN ONES.’

And with that act did the name of the people pass from all knowledge and so did the history of the people pass from all knowledge. And they donned armor that was like unto that of their God and their visage passed from all knowledge.”

Chapter Three

“You look shocked, Jyn. Have you never considered that, except for the accident of the children’s survival, the leadership of the Brotherhood was destroyed on Zoran? Except for the military. There are no Teachers. Deb and Tor are the last remnants of an enfeebled leadership that cried out for replacement.”

Her head resting on his shoulder, the clan second said, “Replacement by you, you mean.”

“Who else? He is insane: his every action confirms it.”

Skal’s smile invited her agreement, which came without reluctance.

“It is past time that the Brotherhood ordered matters in this galaxy to suit us. Why should the Masters run the Imperium? Why should the offworlders be able to kill us whenever they choose? We have the power and the ability to make them obey our will.”

“And our child will rule them.”

Her fingers were tracing a pattern on his chest.

“Yes.”

“It was a direct lie, but she did not hear it. Kissing her, he said chidingly.

“You are jealous of Sarr’a. I told you the strategy. They will follow her, at least some of them.” He kissed her again. “How could you think that I would want her when I have you?”

Convincing her was almost too easy, but she was, after all, his hand-picked choice for clan second. Jyn was useful and occasionally, as now, pleasant. For a moment, Skal saw enraged dark eyes flashing, but he dismissed the image. He had always been able to concentrate on the task at hand.

* * *

Her scream held almost everyone in the outer office frozen; everyone except the young analyst whose quick movement to the door of Murthoc’s office was punctuated by the sound of a shot from within. Opening the door, he saw Major Tren cradling the body of his sister as her blood flowed down over the front of his blouse.

“Get out!”

There was no trace of the prissy aide in that command. The door closed.

“Keep them here,” he said grimly to a clerk, indicating the two others. “And no one goes in there until I come back with Lieutenant Karel.”

Inside, his hand still clutching the gun in a hard grip, Tren held his sister close as the last of her blood ebbed out on to him. She was already dead; he had aimed directly up through the medulla into the center of her brain. There had been no pain; he knew that with an awful clarity. None for Mirrim, after he had pulled the trigger.

He was just beginning to consider his next action when the door opened again and closed behind her. This time he was too tired for anger and he reacted automatically to the command in her voice.

“Tell me what happened, Major.”

Without pausing to wonder what had become of the quiet, middle-aged researcher he thought he knew, Tren began.

“When I came in to make up the reports, Mirrim wanted to wait for me. I didn’t see why not since I was only going to be a minute. I was at my desk and I thought she’d wandered away. When I looked in here, she was going through the boxes. And when I told her to stop, she looked very strange and asked me why the colonel was studying the Brotherhood. I was a little sharp and I said it was none of her business. And then,” he looked up at the woman standing across the room. “Then she moaned as if something was hurting her and she said: yes, it was her business, that they were making her. She was in so much pain. She said…she said they were inside her head, telling her to find out what the colonel was doing. She was supposed to be with him, they said. Mirrim.”

His voice did not quite break.

“Who, Major?”

Her voice retained its command.

“The Masters.”

He looked bewildered, distracted for a moment as he tried to analyze what had occurred.

“I didn’t know they could do that.”

Shuddering, he shut his eyes and his arms closed around the body of his sister.

“She begged me to kill her, said she couldn’t do it herself. They wouldn’t let her. Mirrim screamed. And then, it wasn’t her looking out her eyes. The colonel was right: it was like a spider. I shot her. I did it so it wouldn’t hurt.”

Tren was looking up at the lieutenant again and this time his eyes focused as a new idea formed.

“You’re Sarr’a’s spy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Major.”

She spoke quietly as she considered him.

“I need to talk to her. I need to talk to the clan commander.”

Major Jonath Tren had reached a decision that pulling him back from the shock and grief. Very gently, he set his sister down and rose to face the woman still standing by the door.

“I will need help to do this properly, but I will do it without you if I have to.”

Kyrl examined him for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. Most of the decision had been made as he spoke; this last was a surprise, which she realized it really should not have been. What precisely did he have in mind, she wondered?

“All right, Major.”

Speaking rapidly into a communicator, she began the process that would take him and his sister to her clan’s primary base. And two offworlders to a Brotherhood safe house until the matter was resolved: she was under orders not to upset Colonel Murthoc more than was necessary. Killing two of his staff would upset him.

* * *

Sarr’a’s eyes swept around the room and registered the fact that the offworlder, Nali, was not there. She had been reported with Deb and Sarr’a had come to see this troublesome guest for herself. The girl must now be wandering again, an extremely irritating habit. The clan commander moved to leave, automatically scanning Deb’s quarters as she passed the open door.

Stopping with an exclamation, Sarr’a stared inside for a moment and then began to swear quietly and emphatically. Most of it was directed at Deb as she turned blazingly angry eyes in his direction.

“Look,” she said.

Moving to the door, he looked inside. Nali was stretched across his bed, asleep with the complete abandon of the secure child. Deb looked questioningly to Sarr’a who was still muttering, now under her breath. Her reaction seemed disproportionate.

Look at her, Last of the Brotherhood. Look at her.”

She bit off the words in exasperation.

“Have we descended so far from being the Brotherhood that we must imprison a Teacher of the Way? Again? Can you not see?”

“Try to imprison, surely,” he said quietly.

She glared at him.

“I’m tired, clan commander. May we debate this tomorrow?”

“As you wish, Last of the Brotherhood. But do not expect my clan to restrict her movements in the future.”

“Of course not,” he said, sweetly sarcastic. “Why should you start now?”

It had the desired effect; she left his office. He was tired. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he lay down beside Nali on the bed. It had been after all her choice to sleep there. His sleep was profound and dreamless.

Deb awakened at dawn to find her once again combing her hair. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed facing him. In the light of early morning, the mantle of her hair looked darker and heavier. For a brief moment, he permitted himself to feel his fingers running through it.

He broke the silence when she began to braid it.

“I ask your pardon for not recognizing you.”

“You have been preoccupied, Last of the Brotherhood. It is hard to see others when you cannot see yourself clearly.”

His eyes hardened.

“And it is easy to criticize from the outside. We face the end of time, Teacher. What are your teachings as I prepare the Brotherhood to face God?”

“The last time your Brotherhood faced God, you chose the Way. Is it so hard to continue that choice?”

She was watching him through the hair that still veiled her face.

“According to some of your brethren, Nali, we never truly chose the Way. We are a violent people who kill when we deem it correct. Your people are non-violent to the point of accepting death before self-defense. I do not believe that the God of the Algolana will be defeated by our combined virtuous thoughts. And if He is not defeated, He will choose another people.”

He swung up to sit facing her.

“Are you aware that the Masters aspire to that honor?”

This time she did flinch as she considered the enormity of what he was saying, but her voice did not waver.

“I am not here to teach non-violence. I am here to learn. Your choice is your own, Tar Abzoladan.”

“No, Teacher. Each member of the Brotherhood has choice I am the Last of the Brotherhood. I have no choice. I am the only slave in a free people.” He enunciated each word precisely. “When I stood on the altar on Lanour and felt their priest’s blood flow down over me to the living stone of that altar, I knew deeply and profoundly that I had no choice. It is bred in me. Each of the Brotherhood may choose not to stand with me to fight God. I alone have no choice.”

“Don’t you?” she said, her voice quiet. Her head was bowed so that her face was shadowed. “You may die. You may walk away from the Brotherhood. You may follow God. You may be the Last of the Brotherhood. Perhaps your choice has been not to consider the choices.”

He sank back against the bed, his eyes focusing on the ceiling.

“I am the Last of the Brotherhood until I die. That was settled millennia ago. I am not coward enough to die now and leave this to Tor. And I am not stupid enough to think that I can walk away. God will find me. That leaves following Him.”

He turned glittering eyes toward her still figure.

“That one does have an appeal as I fight their stupidities. But, I will not. Do you have any other choices, Teacher?”

“What choices do you want?”

He closed his eyes in a wave of tired sadness. I want to be seven years old again, he thought, and my Zoran still home. I want to become Last of the Brotherhood when I am thirty-four as my father did. For a moment there was silence then he spoke.

“I want to know you.”

She lifted her head to look at him and he could see that there had been tears on her cheeks.

“Do you, beloved?”

The air in the room seemed almost to change, as he became aware of her. She was no longer the philosopher debating choices; she was a fully mature woman sitting willingly on his bed. Her scent, the look in her eyes as they met his with that challenge cut swiftly through him.

Almost as swiftly, his reaction followed and he was standing beside the bed.

“Sarr’a will have assigned you suitable quarters by now. You may of course go anywhere you wish and speak to anyone who will speak to you. When you are ready to leave, we will take you wherever you wish to go.”

She rose to her feet and bowed her acceptance in the tradition of her people. He had not told her to leave the base.

“When you wish to speak again, Last of the Brotherhood, I will come. Until then, I will pursue my studies.”

Her face was as calm as her voice as she turned to leave.

* * *

Skal was waiting for her in her quarters and for the first time on a Brotherhood base, Sarr’a considered a lock. Anger was clear in her voice.

“Trespassing now. We have benefited so much from our association with smugglers.”

Admittedly, he didn’t look much like the smuggler Skally at that moment. Standing straight, with the black of his uniform emphasizing his size and strength, he was an impressive man. She waited.

Characteristically, he did not apologize.

“I needed to see you alone, Sarr’a. Lately, you’ve been surrounded by most of your clan.”

“I am busy. Why are you here?”

He moved closer, towering above her. She stood fast, looking up at him, not giving ground.

“I have a personal question. And unlike your greenie colonel, I will ask it.”

“My greenie colonel…?”

In the middle of the question, he lifted her straight up and kissed her. There was almost no reaction.

Setting her down carefully, he said regretfully but without apology.

“I am answered. I had hoped at least that you would knock me down.”

She wasn’t looking at him, nor listening.

“What did you mean: my greenie colonel?” she repeated, annoyance clear in her voice. “He doesn’t want me, Skal. Cully Murthoc wants the Brotherhood.”

“I should let you believe that, love. A man’s eyes do not warm up the way his do when the Brotherhood enters the room.” He looked at her seriously. “And you want him.”

Her eyes were beginning to darken. Skal continued.

“It may work, if we all die in this end of time conflagration. But I do not believe that the Brotherhood is quite what Colonel Murthoc expected. And neither are you, love.”

He smiled down at her, enjoying her rising irritation.

“He loves you in spite of the smuggler. I am rather fond of old Sorry.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“If I am wrong, and he says no, or if you kill him.” There was a hopeful note in his voice. “Remember me. Sometimes it helps to have someone hold you. Even if you don’t like him very much.”

He was gone.

Sarr’a sat down, frowning. Barring perhaps Deb, Skal was the coldest analyst she knew. He specialized in icy calculations of terror, playing directly to his subjects’ worst fears. He said Cully Murthoc loved her. Why did he want her to believe that? Swearing under her breath about games and the idiots who played them, she got ready for bed.

Outside, as he walked away down the corridor, Skal could not quite suppress a grin. It had been extremely unlikely that she would accept him. He had expected bruises and perhaps a knife. That was a disappointment. Contemplating the enemy he faced, he was within a few confident steps of his ship when the man appeared behind him.

“Skal.”

His name was a death rattle on the lips of a living dead man.

Turning, he froze as the shadowed figure came closer.

“The Last of the Brotherhood will see you.”

Twisted lips formed the word “traitor,” but did not speak it. Enigmatically gleaming eyes watched as Skal broke against the knowledge of his own guilt. His ship took off without clearance or permission as he desperately considered how to salvage his plans.

Teachings

“They were a people of great learning and accomplishment. Their merchants traded among the far-flung stars, returning with undreamed of wonders and impossible tales of other races and species. Their world was a place of diverse nations and tongues, sometimes of conflicts and wars. They were a people of great pride and keenly sought all manner of new learning and understanding. They set as goals for themselves compassion and justice for their people and frequently they failed in these goals, but still they tried.

“As they spread across the stars, they taught others of their hopes for the future and so brought other races to their ideals. In time, they became the center of a vast alliance of peoples driven by hope and dreams and even by greed, but they continued to strive for those earlier gems of their race’s childhood. They never forgot the quest that had sent them so far.

“One day a howling, screaming darkness appeared above their capital world. A midnight at noon spread across the reddish-tinged sky. A screech, a wailing ear-shattering shriek rent the air. All who heard were smote to the ground by the force of it. They lay weeping in terror where it had felled them. The darkness thickened as it encircled their world; it blinded them; it choked them and scorched the depths of their lungs. But it was only the beginning.

“They strode from their ships, brazen and dour, clad in their frightening armor. Their every motion bespoke their grim purpose and the hard-bitten pride in the task that had been set before them. Dark boiling clouds did not dim their steely gaze, their eyes the only thing visible that betrayed their living countenances. Nor did the endless dark hide any of the peoples struck down and awaiting their fate. As they had been trained, so did they begin. They herded up and drove the sound and the lame, the righteous and the evil, the scholars and the unlettered, the mighty and the meek. They drove them to the place chosen by their Lord and began the building of the Altar. Fear cowed them, terror silenced them, and in its turn, exhaustion bowed them to the will of their conquerors. And the Altar rose toward heaven.

“When the Altar was complete, the crushed, defeated people waited in silence, waited for they knew not what. Their wait was not long. Suddenly, through the all-pervading darkness a sound and a movement came, as a great and powerful thing parted the clouds with its presence. To the horror of the conquered and the exaltation of the Conquerors, God alighted atop His sacred Altar. He looked down upon the scene with an inward smile: His people, His Chosen had served Him well.

“‘Now My Chosen,’ He proclaimed. ‘Bring that which is my due as your God. Bring those who are evil that I may proclaim my sovereignty and begin the purging of the evil among the stars.’ And the conquered were brought forth to feed the vile hunger and to slake the horrid lust for death and pain that were God’s want.

“By the millions they died that at that place and again and again at the Altars that spread across their world and on to the other worlds of their alliance. And over the passage of a few short years, the vast alliance of civilizations that had struggled up from the darkness and superstition for millennia; that had sought compassion and justice for all its people, was hurled back into a frightening abyss of loss, of pain, of virtual nothingness by God’s Chosen. And when they had finished with the worlds thus allied, God’s Chosen were sent to those other worlds God decreed.”

Chapter Four

Sarr’a looked up as Deb strode through the door into her office. The room shrank around him.

“Reth will join us later, clan commander.” He spoke with evident impatience as he sat down. “Tell me about this new unit you are forming.”

Rising, she began.

“Laren formed it after Kuarmian. Clan fourth…”

“The short version, Sarr’a.”

I don’t have time for this, he thought. I can no longer attend to so much of the military side of the Brotherhood. Reth must understand. He worked with my father.

He wasn’t really listening. She could see that as she outlined the purpose of the unit and the training program Laren had designed. It didn’t annoy her as much as it might have: his attention wasn’t focused on her.

Making a mental note to speak to the base engineer about the increasing stuffiness of the air, Sarr’a swallowed the tightness in her throat and turned to the exercise conducted the day before.

“Why?” Deb interjected brusquely. “Why do we need this? Especially now?”

She flinched when he moved forward. Surprised, Deb began to concentrate, not on her response to the question, but her movements and expressions. It occurred to him that she was afraid. Sarr’a and fear were antithetical, not possible together.

“I am aware that traditionally we have trained offworlders for this type of engagement. However, should the Brotherhood survive, we may need more flexibility…”

“You’re afraid of me.”

It was the only possible conclusion: a glance at her face confirmed it. Disgust and anger flared through him.

“I hadn’t thought you a coward, clan commander.”

She straightened, her eyes burning darkly as she regarded him. It had not been the most politic remark, he realized. Not when he needed her to follow.

“When the commander of the clans wishes to discuss clan business, Last of the Brotherhood, I will talk to him.”

Her emphasis was pointedly sharp.

It would have to wait, the explanation of her fear. She was already back at her desk, ignoring him.

* * *

Returning to his office, this time he saw the man waiting in the shadows. He was alone.

“I told you to bring Skal,” Deb’s impatience was sharp. “Where…?”

“He failed the test.”

“Test? What test? I…”

To his amazement, the dryly-rasping voice interrupted him again.

“He fled when I called his name. He is not yours.”

Staring at the scarred face before him, Deb’s mind registered two important facts. Skal was a traitor to the Brotherhood. That first thought was almost cold, as were the automatic assessments of possible damage and response. Simultaneously came a second thought: klerr’nadh did not contradict the Last of the Brotherhood.

“If you can see that,” he said slowly. “Can you help me?”

“I follow,” came the harsh response. “You will teach yourself.”

Turning away, Deb felt the fury building within and deliberately and coldly continued to calculate the probable impact of Skal’s treason.

* * *

Colonel Murthoc was trying not to stare at the young woman walking toward him. He had seen and heard her in conversation with members of the Brotherhood, but this was the first time she had seemed to notice him.

She was as far removed from a priest or religious teacher as he could imagine. Although the God of the Algolana was an obscenity, there were still small religions, native to different worlds. He had never found their teachings appealing. Their priests seemed always to be old men or women, generally rather somber in expression. And there was certainly no resemblance to the high priest on Lanour.

Nali no longer wore her hat; her hair was in a long, complicated braid down her back. Her face had a gentle femininity, which matched the way she walked. Her eyes, a brilliant blue, had the assessing directness of the Brotherhood but held a clarity that seemed liquid.

She stopped in front of him and bowed.

“Colonel Murthoc,” she said. “I am Nali.”

“You are the one they call the Teacher,” he replied.

She smiled directly up at him.

“And you want to know why. I am a Teacher of the Way, Colonel. My people have been following the Way for longer than the Brotherhood has existed. But we are very quiet, so you haven’t heard of us.”

Her eyes invited him to share the joke.

“You and I study the same subject, Colonel: the Brotherhood.” She glanced around. “Ordinarily, I would settle here and continue this conversation, but I suspect you are not fond of the floor. Would you object if we went to your quarters?”

“If that would not inconvenience you,” he responded politely, uncertain of the etiquette of the situation.

“The slightest squeak from me would get you torn apart, Colonel, which would be a terrible burden on my soul. I will risk it.”

Her voice was solemn, but he could see that her eyes were dancing. What sort of religion was the Way that this was a respected teacher? Were all their teachers comedians?

She was continuing.

“I am accustomed to going anywhere I choose. We may discuss the odd way that your people see women, if you wish.”

They walked beside each other, he wondering about a human culture that claimed continuity for that long a period. She was right: he hadn’t heard of them.

Entering his quarters, she sat cross-legged on a chair.

“I would prefer to discuss your view of the Brotherhood. Or perhaps the clan commander who dances death.”

It was not quite a question and it wasn’t funny.

“Sarnath Al Cador also dances with joy and life.” He emphasized her name. “Why do you address them by their titles?”

It had seemed odd when he overheard parts of her conversations.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I had not even noticed that I was doing it again. It is a bad habit which I have had for a long time.”

“A long time?” he asked, puzzled. She was at most twenty, perhaps younger. “I thought this was your first visit to the Brotherhood.”

“I have studied the Brotherhood for more lifetimes than I can easily enumerate, Colonel Murthoc, although it has been a long interval this time. I use their titles because I can read their insignia, not their minds.” She grinned ruefully. “Asking for their names detracts from the omniscient aura of the Teacher. I thought I had outgrown that vanity.”

“You believe that you have lived many times?”

“I do not believe. I know.” She spoke with quiet certainty as her eyes gauged his reaction. “Like you, the Brotherhood rejects the teachings that we return many times to this life. They never remember. It makes knowing them at once frustrating and provocative.”

“You have taught them before?”

“We have taught each other.”

She shook her head in sorrow.

“There is so much pain this time. To return to your clan commander, Sarnath Al Cador. You will find, Cully Murthoc,” she said as she watched his jaw set. “I am difficult to deflect. And I talk about everything with everyone. So you need not feel particularly persecuted.”

The smile was quick, but her eyes remained serious.

“I am fascinated because she has always been a living embodiment of the Brotherhood. I was wondering if it was another perversity caused by the pain of this life that led to her attraction to you.”

She noted the control his lack of reaction showed: this man was not easily overset. Or perhaps it had occurred to him.

“Having talked to you, I can see that I was mistaken. She has not moved far from the Brotherhood.”

She saw that observation upset him, although it was not visible on his face.

Indulging his own perversity as well as curiosity, he asked abruptly.

“But what is the Way, Nali? Religion, God, the Masters: are they not all one great evil that oppresses people? What is different about the Way?”

Nali contemplated him for a few moments before answering.

“A great sage has said that religion is the search after truth. The God of the Algolana and the Masters of Darkness are therefore not involved in religion. They do not seek illumination of the mind, to attain right judgment and thus, right action which springs there from.”

To gauge the level of his interest, she gave him the direct, rather opaque translation and was repaid by his vehemence.

“And that is what the Brotherhood follows? That is what makes them so certain that they are right when they kill entire planets?” He could still see Lanour sometimes when he closed his eyes; that vision was reflected in his voice. “How can death on that scale be ‘right action?’?”

Nali was very quiet as she answered him.

“They believe that, as diseased parts of a body must sometimes be cut away to save the whole, sometimes people who commit evil acts must die.”

“Sometimes?”

The question was more caustic than he had intended.

“You are correct, Colonel. They would say: always.”

“And what do you believe, Teacher?”

Deb’s voice came from behind her; she had been aware of his presence for several minutes before he spoke. His attention caught by their discussion, the colonel looked startled.

“I am a Teacher, not a judge, Last of the Brotherhood. I will leave that to you.”

“Then you take no actions, Teacher?”

“I am here.”

“Why are you here?”

Deb’s voice was insistent. Her eyes gravely serious, she turned from Colonel Murthoc to consider him as she replied.

“I was born this time nine months after your Zoran was destroyed and your Teachers died. I have spent the years remembering what I have learned of the Brotherhood and seeking new knowledge in the archives. I am and always have been a Teacher, Last of the Brotherhood.” She added gently. “You do not accept that I have known your people before, Tar Abzoladan. Accept then that I have chosen to be here with you. Permit me to help you rebuild.”

He stood looking down at her, his face closed. When he spoke, his tone was biting.

“We have no time for rebuilding, Teacher. How are you on techniques for killing God?”

Deb was already turning away.

“A society most needs to know itself when it faces its greatest enemy.”

Nali’s voice was still quiet. The colonel could not see her face. He understood neither the point of their conversation nor Deb’s hostility.

“You sound like my father.”

It was not a compliment, Murthoc realized, already shocked by the Last of the Brotherhood’s tone. Sarr’a hadn’t answered his question yet about why Deb had ordered his death; she had been preoccupied and withdrawn when he had last seen her. Obviously something was happening that they were not discussing with him. It seemed to involve God. But the Brotherhood had already destroyed God’s altar. Searching relentlessly for the truth as he was, Murthoc’s mind shied away from the implications. And Deb’s animosity toward Nali held a personal note.

“He is a great Teacher.” Her reply held a note of reproof.

“And how would you know?”

The savagery in his voice hung in the air after he was gone.

Nali turned back to the colonel, a slight smile playing across her lips, and resumed her conversation with him.

“How was their action explained to you, Cully Murthoc? Lanour,” she added kindly when he looked confused and, after a moment he replied.

“Sarr’a said they were destroying evil. That the people of Lanour were willing to sacrifice anyone including their own children in exchange for the blessings of God. And she said that they had therefore chosen not to be the brothers of the Brotherhood.”

He stopped as the awkward construction reminded him that everyone else was, by the clan commander’s statements, “their brothers.”

“How is it, Teacher, that they are the Brotherhood and we are their brothers? Should we not all be the Brotherhood?”

“Being Brotherhood is an individual’s choice.”

He had the impression that she was choosing her response with great care.

“They make a clear distinction between those they consider their brothers and those who are Brotherhood. And that explanation is theirs to make.” Nali paused as though to underline the change of subject. “You are an odd sort of soldier, Colonel, if death horrifies you to this degree.”

“I became a soldier following both family tradition and my own inclinations. At least, I thought it was my own. Hero worship had some influence, I think. I have always fought for my people’s freedom and I have killed in that cause. Now, Sarr’a informs me,” he smiled thinly. “And everything I have learned from the Brotherhood confirms, that I have been a fool. What does that make the people I have killed, I wonder?”

They sat together in silence for a while then he asked her.

“Would you have killed them? On Lanour, I mean.”

Nali looked at him and he was surprised to see that his question had disturbed her.

“If you had asked me that before, Colonel, I would have said ‘no’ without thought. I am a Teacher. Through entire lifetimes spent with the Brotherhood, I have always chosen non-violence. I believe I would have chosen to teach them. At least, to try. But I was not given that choice. I cannot answer your question.”

Rising to her feet, she smiled at him.

“We will speak again, Cully Murthoc. It is often the first step toward understanding, to discover yourself a fool. Let us hope that we both continue the process. That is the Way, Colonel.”

After she was gone, he sat thinking for a long time.

* * *

Walking slowly along the corridor, caught up in her own meditations, Nali failed to register the man’s presence until he stepped directly in front of her.

“Jherret’tret’nali,” he said sardonically. “I should have expected you. Have you made him a pacifist yet?”

Eyes wide with amazement, Nali bowed deeply in respect.

“I had believed all their Teachers dead, but you survive.”

She saw the deep, twisted scars on his face and on his hands as they moved dismissively.

“All the Teachers are dead. Teacher. I have left that path.”

He shook his head when she would have spoken and turned on his heel. Nali watched, her eyes puzzled, as he strode away, black uniformed people moving carefully, respectfully, and quickly out of his path.

Sarr’a spoke from behind her.

“He is klerr’nadh, Teacher.”

As Nali turned in question to the clan commander, Sarr’a continued.

“On Zoran, there were predators that lived and hunted together in family groups. Sometimes, rarely, one would leave to live on his own. Klerr’nadh. By legend, they were viciously insane and brutally murderous.

“He no longer has a name or clan. He is alone. Usually he does not speak. He is just klerr’nadh. They appear among us sometimes, still Brotherhood, but…outside. They fight for the Last of the Brotherhood, obeying only his orders and following those orders unto death.”

“How?”

Her eyes closed for a moment, Nali remembered the wisdom and gentleness of the man, the Teacher she had known in generations past. Sarr’a’s reply was grimly pained.

“When Zoran died, Teacher, there were forces unleashed no one yet understands. The Teachers stopped time; our ships folded space and the planet was torn open. He was there. On Zoran. But they found him, almost a standard year later, on a planet light years from Zoran. Naked, bloody, skin twisted and torn, he was killing offworlders wherever he found them. Killing and killing. He knew those who found him for Brotherhood although he had no memory of his own life. He knew Deb and the Last of the Brotherhood recognized him as klerr’nadh.

“He is here now because Colonel Murthoc is here.”

In spite of her long familiarity with the essentially barbarian nature of the Brotherhood, Nali was shocked.

“To kill him?”

“As Deb decides, Teacher.” The clan commander’s eyes were dark.” If he becomes a threat to the Brotherhood, yes. They will meet and Cully Murthoc will die. He is the colonel’s shadow until Deb gives him other orders.”

* * *

Ketha, on her knees in the starkly unfurnished room, did not look at all like the slightly giggly young scholar Colonel Murthoc would have recognized. It was her mention of his name that had brought first Lord Rys, then Lord Sartak hurrying to this chamber.

They had dismissed the junior Master assigned to her confession and listened as she recited, in the dull monotone of the recorder, a verbatim account of the conversation held enroute to Lanour. Then Sartak directed her to skip lightly over the setup of their camp and the evening, to the following morning.

“It would seem that my interest in Lanour has attracted the colonel’s notice. And that of his lady friend.”

Sartak had naturally been briefed on the events in the Confederation leading up to Kuarmian, at least, as Rys was aware of them. Something was, however, teasing uneasily at his memory as she described the man with Murthoc.

“It is a peculiar mistress though who stands guard while her lover speaks at length to a pilot. I am sorry that this one was aimed at the professor and therefore not closer to Murthoc.”

“Indeed,” said Rys. “An understandable oversight, however. He has not previously shown an interest in the Algolana. His instincts are good, but…”

“Colonel Murthoc does not know of the High Council, but it is possible that he has begun to correlate a plan behind the actions of their agents. I do not grasp it fully. Not yet.”

Sartak was not revealing anything new to Rys. The two of them had worked together in their need to understand the plans of Fior and the Council. Lanour was at its center; of that they were certain. There had been a careful level of courtesy between them since Sartak’s “return.” Trust was after all everything and the appearance of trust therefore a necessity.

Ketha continued her recital.

“After breakfast, the professor said, ‘Let’s go now. We can clean up later.’ Colonel Murthoc said, ‘We should wait…’ The man who flew the ship and the woman came into the camp and the colonel stopped talking. We walked to the tunnel. Professor Mellor had two lights; he gave one to Colonel Murthoc. The woman had one too, but she walked behind us.

“The tunnel went down into the ground; then it opened up into a room. It was very dark even with the lights. The professor said, ‘We’ll have to set up the generator down here.’ We walked out into the room.”

Sartak and Rys listened intently as the girl described the room filling with masked people, their capture by those people, and the arrival of the high priest. At this point, Sartak stopped her.

“You will note again, my friend, the triumvirate apart from the scholars. Murthoc speaks to the pilot; the woman stands guard. And from the description of her actions, it is the pilot she is guarding. Even from the colonel.” Sartak turned back to the girl. “Go on.”

“The high priest said…” Ketha repeated the Algolana words carefully but without inflection. “Professor Mellor said that meant, ‘Bring forth the first sacrifice.’ The man pushed Colonel Murthoc away and said, ‘I am first.’”

“What!?!”

Rys and Sartak were both startled into that exclamation. Ketha continued unheeding.

“The woman jumped forward and said ‘No!’ The man said, ‘It is my right, Sarr’a. And it is what I must do. You know that.’ He walked away with the guards. Then he said, ‘There is something missing, Sarr’a. Verify that.’

“The guards took him up to the top of the altar….”

Rys was now watching Sartak as closely as he was listening to the girl. From the intensity of the Master’s expression, he was working something out and the conclusion was not pleasant.

“Professor Mellor said, ‘He will make small cuts at first. To increase the pain and fear of his victim, he will…Who is that?’”

Ketha stopped in confusion.

“What is wrong?” Sartak asked sharply.

Her eyes seemed to try to focus.

“There are two voices speaking now, Lord. They both speak what the professor called Algolana, although not precisely the same way. I cannot…”

“I don’t need a linguistics lesson, girl. Just tell me what happened.”

Confusion lingered in her face.

“They spoke the words together. Then the man, the sacrifice, reached up and tore out the high priest’s throat. His hand came out covered in blood. He stood up and held the body above his head and spoke.”

She repeated the Algolana words. Sartak stood in frozen shock, stark comprehension written on his face. Rys, not understanding the ancient words, could only wait for the explanation of this horror.

“Then he threw the body down the steps into the crowd. The lights all went out and the ground moved. People screamed. I fell down and I could not see. Colonel Murthoc shone a light on us and said, ‘Up. Quickly. We have to get out of here now.’ We went through the people to the tunnel. Professor Mellor took us up to the surface.”

“Where were Murthoc and the other two?” asked Sartak.

“Colonel Murthoc went back to the woman who was searching around the pieces of the altar and the statue. I did not see the man again until later.”

“Move ahead to seeing the three of them together,” said Sartak quietly, his face grim.

“I looked behind when we were walking back to the camp. The colonel and the woman were walking together. The pilot pushed past them. He said, ‘Why are you still here?’ The woman ran after him. The colonel made us move faster to follow. When we came into the camp, the man was speaking to another man and woman. I could not hear…”

“Stop.”

Sartak drew Rys away.

“I felt him, Rys. I felt him in the Power and did not know what I felt.”

His hand was hard on Rys’s arm. Looking into the other man’s face, Sartak said hoarsely.

“You do not comprehend, do you? We have records of this, but I never believed them. I am as much a fool as Fior and I have been as arrogant.”

Inside him, far within, a separation continued, deepened. No, he thought very privately. Not I, but Sartak. The one before me.

“He is the Last of the Brotherhood, Rys. Not for several hundred generations have we felt one like this.”

“But the Brotherhood detests the Power. Everyone knows that. And the Brotherhood is dead. You know that. You…were there.”

In his eyes, there was a question. Was this a sign of mental breakdown by the clone?

“A remnant survival of the Algolana and an altar. It fits what I know of the Council’s plans. He tore them down, Rys. It proves all the old records. You haven’t seen the Order’s records, Rys, you don’t realize.” He could see the doubts and tried to explain, carefully. “Fior and I are the only twelfth order Masters in this generation. There are none more powerful. And I could not have done that.”

Nor could I have killed an Algolana high priest; he kept that observation strictly to himself. The Council itself, bred to control us, could not do that. Our records are very clear.

“Perhaps the Brotherhood has their own breeding program…?”

“No,” said Rys, shaking his head with vehemence. “If you tell me they survive, I will believe you. There are previously anomalous data in support of that. Kuarmian, for one. But the Brotherhood engaged in some sort of forced program to produce a Master of Darkness? No.”

He stepped back to follow his own thoughts.

“Two people, a man and a woman. You say he is the Last of the Brotherhood. Who is she, this ‘Sarr’a?’ You seem certain that the Brotherhood survives, not merely their leader, so she is presumably Brotherhood. She acts like a female Zorantian. And that would fit my colleague’s interests.” Lord Rys smiled wryly. “I should have suspected the Brotherhood once he began acting oddly: he has always favored them. Which means…”

“Which means that I have met this man myself,” Sartak interrupted. “The smuggler who awakened me. An older man, not a woman, with him but it explains the impertinent swagger. He is Red Beard the smuggler, Rys. I stood next to him, spoke to him at length and I did not sense the nothingness that the Brotherhood is to us. That means they can project an image: hide among us.”

Even the imperturbable head of Imperium intelligence was disturbed by that thought. The Brotherhood had always spoiled the careful plans of the Imperium leadership. Although unknown agents promoting anarchy and chaos explained much of the current crisis.

“But why?” he said. “Why send you back?”

Rys stood with Sartak at the edge of a cold abyss, contemplating a man who rode chaos like a ship sailing a stormy sea. And who liked it. The Master recovered first.

“So, Rys, an old player returns to the game in a new guise. He will have upset the Council, which is a victory for us if we exploit it. I wonder if he stumbles in darkness,” Sartak enjoyed the rather feeble jest. “Or does he know their plans?”

Then his eyes closed, visibly shaken as another thought struck him.

“It was he who killed me on Kuarmian. Not Fior, nor any of his puppets. And Fior has disappeared…” His sudden laugh was harsh. “Arrogant old fool. He went to the smugglers for help. Perhaps he thought only a few survived. Arrogance!” he repeated. “And stupidity. Did he think they would willingly follow the Master who had plotted their destruction? The Brotherhood?”

Unknowingly, Sartak echoed Colonel Murthoc.

“This man has Fior, Rys. It explains how he can be both alive and not present in the Power. I have searched. This one…” Sartak let the thought drop. “Such Power… He will have killed the rest of my clones, of course.”

That thought was a curious relief. This body was, after all, whole.

Turning away from Lord Rys, Sartak regarded the girl, still on her knees, her face slack.

“Did the altar call you, my child?”

Animation brought a blush to her cheeks and she smiled.

“I felt a warmth here, Lord.” Her hand went to her locket. “He said I was welcome, but first I must finish my duty to those who serve.” Her wide happy eyes found Sartak’s. “May I go to Him now, Lord?”

Rys watched her in sick loathing, but even caught in that horror his mind wondered at the phrase “those who serve.” Serve God? Why would He think this girl the servant of His servants?

Sartak’s hand moved; Ketha fell back, her eyes now staring blindly at the ceiling.

“No, my child,” he said with a gentle sadness Rys had never heard before in the Master’s voice. Or any Master’s voice. “You may not.”

Sartak waited a moment for Rys to recover control of himself.

“Have her body returned to her family.”

The head of Imperium intelligence looked surprised, then considered the matter.

“You are right. That will tell us something of what he knows. And it will tell him that we are aware of the Brotherhood and Lanour. He should understand that we want him to know that.”

Rys considered for a moment, then spoke again. Trust was all.

“What did she mean? Those who serve?”

Sartak met his eyes, hesitated visibly, and then shrugged.

“How many times can the Council kill me?”

It struck Rys as an odd rhetorical question for a clone.

“You may smile, my friend, but they will kill you as well and so many as they must to obliterate the memory of your existence. This is the central secret of my Order. It is how we came to be and why we have the Power.”

“Tell me,” Rys’s response was sharp. “Unless we defeat them, what possible use is my life?”

“Before the Darkness, there existed the Algolana. You know that story. You do not know that there were those who helped them: reformed sinners, converted to God’s work. In exchange for life and the spoils of their defeated worlds…” Now Sartak looked ill. “After the disappearance of the Algolana, remnants of those servants of God formed the Order. The Power, or a weaker version of it, was a gift from God somehow.”

He saw the question on Rys’s face.

“No. They do not say what happened; they only state the clear determination of the early Councils to restore order.”

“Can there be no order without God?”

Rys did not enjoy the conclusion he was drawing. After all, his lifework was the support of the Rajkar Imperium and the imposition of order on the unruly civilized worlds.

“I begin to wonder,” said Sartak slowly. “She said God spoke to her and recognized the Order’s…my signature on her. I begin to fear…”

He was not yet prepared to say it aloud, but he could read his deductions in the eyes of his ally.

Chapter Five

“What do we do with our children, Deb?” Tul’s question cut through the silence that greeted the Last of the Brotherhood’s entry. “Kill them ourselves or risk leaving them to God?”

Hard eyes waited for his answer. Clan commanders rarely flinched from the harsh questions. Or their answers. The tone of this one seemed to reflect the rumors about his competence. On the other hand, they were all carrying swords this time. An irreverent corner of his mind wondered how twenty-six swords would feel. Twenty-five, he corrected himself. One was already pledged to him.

“This God thrives on pain and death,” replied Tar Abzoladan calmly. “Killing the children would be sending Him a sacrifice, would it not?”

His tone hardened as some of them visibly relaxed.

“The Brotherhood faces God. We face God.”

The statement was not redundant.

“Losing this battle opens this galaxy to Him again. All members of the Brotherhood will be present.”

It was a defining statement. He saw their acceptance of it.

“You have transports. Bring them with you.”

His tone dismissed the matter.

“When?”

This clan commander looked a little apologetic for the sharpness of the question.

“We are all consuming energy reserves at a prodigious rate, moving this quickly, Deb. My staff projections give me thirty-four days.”

Deb nodded to a man seated near him, a member of his own staff.

“Harll, physicist,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Based on our calculations and energy readings taken on site, we estimate that the vortex will be fully formed in sixteen standard days. Presumably, it will open then.”

“Some of the basis for that is archival,” Deb spoke dryly as clan commanders began their questions. “And some of it is rather speculative. We will assemble around it in eleven days. He will not slip by me.”

“And if this is a deception maneuver?” Sarr’a’s question was quiet.

“It is not.”

Deb’s gaze found her eyes and held them.

“He is there, clan commander. I know it. When He comes, it will be through there. He cannot hide any more than we can.”

* * *

Sarr’a leaned back against the tree, enjoying the coolness of the evening air and a needed break from planning for the end of time. The colonel, unaware of the Brotherhood’s new focus but requiring a respite from his own preoccupation was sitting near her, his back against a similar tree. Their conversation had ranged widely over military tactics and history, politics and art, and was now about music.

“It is not the same,” she said. “Recordings never show you the artist.”

“Do you attend many concerts, commander?”

Sarr’a sitting quietly in an audience was a new image for him.

“You mean, outside the Brotherhood?” She nodded, caught up in her subject. “I heard Setsarri two years ago on Graneth.”

She caught his reaction without immediately understanding it.

“What’s wrong?”

“You have been back to Graneth.”

For a moment, she was still.

“Who told you about Graneth?”

It was said in a neutral tone, but he heard “offworlder.”

“Deb told me, commander.”

She looked surprised.

“All of it?”

“That’s hard for me to assess.”

Murthoc was keeping his tone even and watching for her reactions. She did not seem upset.

“He told me about you and your mother. And about Amik finding you.”

“Amik did not find me,” she said, her tone affectionately derisive. “I was on watch. If he had not been Brotherhood, I would have killed him.”

From her expression, she believed that.

“He touched her, Colonel,” she continued in explanation. “And I had decided that was not going to happen again. I was too small to cut her down myself. I tried.”

Silence stretched between them as she remembered, then she smiled slightly.

“It was a good day when Amik came. I had almost decided to carry out my plan by myself. But I was too small. It would never have worked.”

“Your plan?” The colonel prompted her quietly, intrigued by this version.

“My plan. The one that took out most of the commercial district of the city.”

She grinned at him happily.

“Amik told me once, I think I was sixteen, that was when he knew I would be clan commander.”

“And that I would be your second.” Amik had arrived as she spoke. “You doubt the story, Colonel. I assure you; it is true. She had every detail planned except that she was not large enough or strong enough to have executed it safely.”

His tone changed.

“You are needed clan commander. A…shipment has arrived for you.”

His hands told her that it involved the colonel and that it was urgent.

“You will excuse me, Colonel. We will talk again later.”

She left him contemplating a five-year-old and her revenge.

* * *

“So,” Deb’s voice was tight with annoyance. “Tell me why I need to speak to this Major Tren personally.”

“Courtesy.”

Armh’s tone was deceptively mild as he lectured the Last of the Brotherhood. Behind Deb, he could see the amused grin on Reth’s face and his irritation with the pair of them grew.

“You have used the man often enough certainly that he merits some of your time. And he has brought a pattern to our attention, an important pattern.”

“Two makes a pattern?” Deb was almost sneering. “I don’t have time to hold the offworlder’s hand and make it better.”

“Then perhaps you have time to consider that this pattern,” Armh’s emphasis was pointed. “Leaves us vulnerable and potentially exposed to the Masters. Major Tren is an intelligent man. He wants to talk to you. I do not know why. We are, however, reasonably certain that no one is controlling his actions.”

The older man’s tone made that an insult. Deb’s eyes narrowed as he sat back in his chair.

“Five minutes, “ he said abruptly. “Bring him in.”

Major Tren had spent the several days since the death of his sister thinking as clearly and as coldly as he had ever thought. There was an awareness in the eyes that moved directly to Deb, a focused awareness that this man could help him. Within him, the emptiness had been replaced by a burning need for vengeance. His training and his knowledge of the Masters and the Brotherhood had given him the hope of an answer.

“Sir.”

His voice sounded crisply controlled as he came to attention before the Last of the Brotherhood. Deb’s expression of polite interest did not change. Tren went directly to the point.

“You know what they did to my sister. They are vermin that need to be exterminated. The Brotherhood knows the Masters better than anyone. There must be some central location where they can be hurt. All I am asking is that you tell me where and give me a ship. And one of the packs the members of the Brotherhood you commemorate with the salute of the dead used.

“I mean no disrespect,” he added as the silence in the room grew.

Deb had risen to his feet, his eyes examining the major intently.

“I will not ask how you learned of that, Major. I am familiar with your ability. I will not stand between a man and his rightful vengeance. I do not believe anyone in the Brotherhood would. You are certain of this choice?”

Tren nodded.

Deb sat down, turning his chair toward the window. For several long moments, he stared down into the valley below, but he did not see it. Finally, he spoke and as he did, Armh could see the rigidity leave Tren’s face.

“Then we will help you. You are correct, Major. The Masters have a citadel which is at their heart. We will see what you can do. Get some rest and we will talk again.”

He watched the man leave, then turned to Armh.

“You were right. I was wrong.” Deb closed his eyes as though in pain. “How many…a dozen?…every generation. And we must help one of them to a hopeless death.”

“You don’t rate our chance of success very high then?”

Armh’s voice was very dry. Deb’s eyes snapped open.

“Our?”

“Fear of death is for the very young or the very old, Deb. I am neither.”

He had moved around the desk and his fingers were entering commands. Abruptly, a holographic projection appeared. He enlarged it to cover the top of the desk. It showed in some detail sixteen levels of a complex Deb did not recognize. Glancing down, he read the name of the file.

“The Master’s citadel! When did we get this? I’ve never seen it.”

“If you read my reports…” Armh began dyspeptically; Reth interrupted.

“He was six when you filed that one. He didn’t read many reports that year.”

Armh continued without apology.

“Your father wanted a schematic of the place, in case we decided to attack them. I went…”

This time it was Deb who interrupted.

“You went? There?”

The note of surprised respect in his voice made Reth want to kick him.

“I thought you never did field work.”

“I was younger and the place intrigued me. It was an interesting puzzle getting that far. I couldn’t get past that door though.”

He pointed to the lowest level shown.

“Why not?”

“It may have escaped your notice, Deb, that while the Masters cannot sense us with the Power, we are still visible to them.” The dyspepsia had returned. “That door seems to be always guarded by several Masters. I needed to file my report. I did promise myself that I would go back. Then our focus changed.”

He was looking at Reth now.

“This seems to be the appropriate moment.”

“This is the end of time.” Deb spoke very quietly.

Armh smiled somewhat thinly.

“I have spent my life fighting the Masters. Demon gods are your problem, not mine. And I do not believe that you want the Masters behind you when you face Him. If I go with Tren, we will go through that door.”

“That leaves the matter of this pattern.” Deb had accepted that the choice had been made; characteristically, he moved on. “Do they always use young women or is every offworlder suspect?”

“Our interrogation of the Councilor proceeds slowly, but I suspect that they use women only. They are a perverse group.”

“Shall I…assist you with the interrogation?”

“No.”

The flat denial came from a corner of the room. Tor was remaining outside the normal course of her brother’s business; she would not permit this to pass.

“It is too dangerous.”

Deb continued almost as if she had not spoken.

“I understand that the autopsy of Tren’s sister yielded nothing of interest.” He looked at Reth. “Have someone determine the burial rites favored by his people. He’ll want that done before he leaves.”

Turning back to Armh, he asked, “And the Lady Ylana?”

“We have accomplished everything that a normal interrogation and medical examination can do, Deb. It is difficult to see how we can detect them.” He paused, then continued quietly. “Mirrim Tren’s brain was destroyed by her brother’s shot. I am told by my chief medical examiner that a complete vivisection of Ylana’s brain would probably show how the Masters accomplish this.”

Deb had turned to the window again as Armh spoke. There was complete silence, then the three behind him heard one very softly spoken word: “Lanour.”

Looking at the valley below, Deb continued firmly.

“No. We will not do that to her.”

* * *

“Why is my aide here?”

Colonel Murthoc kept the question courteous despite the anger he felt. He was extremely tired of the Brotherhood’s highhandedness. Or should he say: the absolute disregard of the Last of the Brotherhood for anyone’s opinion but his own?

Sarr’a, seated behind her desk, looked up at him.

“Sit down, Colonel.”

He did not. Conscious of the severity of the blow she was about to deliver, she rose and moved around the desk.

“Please sit down.”

Now, with a definite question in his eyes, he complied.

“You were acquainted with Jonath Tren’s sister…Mirrim.”

She saw the past tense register and her use of his aide’s name instead of his rank. He waited for her to continue, his eyes on her face.

“We have recently discovered a new trick of the Masters. They are able to control a person, for some reason they seem to prefer young females, and to use that person as a recording device. We have so far found two.”

“Mirrim,” he said quietly, remembering a bright, pretty girl. “But why her? And what happened to her?”

His voice hardened as he considered the possibilities.

“No, Colonel. We did not kill her. Nor have we killed Ylana who was the first we discovered.”

She didn’t resent the suspicion; she would have killed either or both if necessary. So also would he.

“Mirrim Tren was shot by her brother. He says that he did it at her request.” She continued as he straightened. “It is probable that she was aimed at you; although since we could not interrogate her, we do not know for certain.”

The professional intelligence officer was in complete command of himself now.

“If she was aimed at me, they either have a large number of them or they are seriously suspicious of my actions. Since she arrived in town unexpectedly and, if I understand you correctly, was not terribly well controlled by them, it would follow that they are suspicious. What do we do now? And who is running my office?”

“I believe the ranking officer is a lieutenant.”

He looked puzzled, then nodded.

“You will have to go back, I think. Jonath Tren will not be returning.”

“Why not?”

Hostility had returned to his voice; Sarr’a recalled that he and his second were also friends.

“He has asked for our help, Cully Murthoc, and the Last of the Brotherhood has agreed. And no, it is not for me to tell you what he has chosen to do. You may speak with him before you leave, if he permits.”

He rose.

“If you would ask him then, please. And commander,” as she was turning away. Sarr’a paused and looked up at him again. “What happened with Ylana?”

“We found her as she was being questioned, Colonel. It was a fortunate circumstance that Deb wanted to talk to her again. Wait here please.”

He paced around her office, finding nothing to distract his mind. She was obviously telling him very little and the enormity of the loss of Tren, both professionally and personally, was oppressive.

Recalling his words to Deb about the charade of Confederation intelligence, he wondered for a moment quite coldly if Deb had somehow engineered this. Dismissing that as grand scale paranoia, nevertheless some pieces began to shift in the back of his mind. Sarr’a’s return sent them below the surface.

“He has agreed to see you, Colonel.”

Tren was seated on the bed when the colonel entered his quarters. He rose and stood formally.

“Jon.”

Somewhat awkwardly, Murthoc began, to be interrupted by the younger man.

“I am resigning my commission, sir. The letter is over there, if you would deliver it. I no longer have any close family. Nor friends, really.” He saw the colonel’s expression and amended that. “Except for you, sir. Too much time with my work, I suppose.”

He seemed to try to smile.

“It’s their fault, sir, not yours or mine. And I am going to pay them back.”

“How?”

This didn’t look like a suicidal depression to the colonel, but Sarr’a had implied that Tren’s action would be final.

There was a genuine smile now, that of a man who has almost reached his goal.

“I asked him to point me at the most important place the Masters have. He said that they have a citadel and the Brotherhood will help me get inside. I am going to kill as many Masters as I can. He says that we will tear out their heart.”

Murthoc had never told Tren about Sartak’s heart. At the moment, he found the memory encouraging.

“Sir…Cully. I know they brought her body here. For examination. I asked the clan commander if they could take her home. She said they would. Could you make certain that everything is…”

His voice trailed off.

“Of course. Do you want your name there as well?” Training kept his voice even.

“Thank you, yes.” Tren smiled again suddenly. “There isn’t going to be enough left of me to ship home, I’m afraid.”

Later, after the colonel had left, it occurred to Tren that he hadn’t told him about Lieutenant Karel. Somehow, it didn’t seem very important.

* * *

“Sir, before I leave,” Colonel Murthoc was more quietly self-contained than Deb had previously seen. “There are two matters. First, Jonath Tren. As Sarr’a said once, he is mine and my responsibility. You can help him where I cannot. Recognizing that the assistance is to him, not me, I thank you.”

“And the second matter, Colonel?”

Deb was not being drawn into an exchange of courtesies.

“Have you found a way to identify these…recorders?” He glanced at the others in the room and saw no indication that they had. “As a matter of security then it is apparently necessary to suspect all young women. My aide is a trained observer and analyst. He did not notice significant changes in his sister although he spent several days with her. In so far as recent encounters, there is the surviving student, Ketha.” He hesitated. “And there is Nali.”

Murthoc had expected anger; the Last of the Brotherhood’s fury was cold.

“You do not know what you are talking about, offworlder. She is a Teacher of the Way.” His eyes were green glacial ice. “As am I.”

“As you say, sir. I don’t know. And it is your problem. I will go home and take care of mine.”

Sarr’a had a pilot waiting for him; he risked a glance at the clan commander. Her face looked troubled as she rose to her feet.

From her corner, after they had left, Tor spoke very quietly.

“The girl, Ketha. I am told that her body was sent home by the Imperium. An apparent stroke.”

“At twenty-three?” Deb’s derision sounded tired. “She was Sartak’s, I suppose. To send her body that openly though. A message perhaps.”

“No perhaps, Deb. If she told him what she saw and heard on Lanour, he cannot have failed to recognize you both as smuggler and Last of the Brotherhood. We should discover why he wants you to know that.”

Tor kept her concern for his lack of interest out of her voice.

“I can arrange a contact with minimal risk.”

He nodded.

“And Nali?”

He was silent for a time.

“How do you tell the difference between a Teacher of the Way and a recorder for the Masters?” Now his voice held a rich sarcasm. “Both seek to go everywhere and question everyone. Both are disruptive and extremely annoying. But the one does not seek to leave, which is itself an annoyance. Does that answer your question, little sister?”

* * *

Ylana heard the voices, quiet as they were, outside the door and moved closer to listen. It was impossible to hear the words until the door opened.

“He said,” the woman’s voice was a bit tart. “I may go anywhere and speak to anyone who will speak to me.”

“Yes, Teacher.”

His tone held resignation and some amusement. Short of continuous physical restraint, he had been unable to stop her.

“Will she speak to you?”

Ylana, desperately bored, spoke quickly.

“Of course I will.”

Bowing, without even a touch of triumph in her voice or face, Nali said quietly.

“You will tell him I am here.”

“I will report it to my clan commander.” His correction was spoken as quietly. “Sarr’a will tell him.”

He closed the door.

Ylana surveyed the girl standing before her. She was not tall and she was not dressed like one of them although her clothes were still not fashionable. She didn’t walk like them either.

Bowing slightly, her hands together, the young woman spoke.

“I am Jherret’tret’nali, child. You may call me Nali.”

Her eyes were frankly studying Ylana as Ylana studied her. At last, Nali smiled.

“It would not occur to them that you are bored, child. I will see what amusements I can find for you.”

“You aren’t any older than I am. Why do you call me child? My name is Ylana.”

It was curiosity rather than annoyance that sparked the question.

“And if you aren’t one of them,” her tone left no doubt of her opinion of the Brotherhood. “Why do they let you go where you want to? Are you going to ask me questions, too?”

Nali moved across the room and sat down on a chair, gesturing for Ylana to follow.

“I am a Teacher. And I am older than I look.”

There was a sadness growing in her eyes as she looked at Ylana.

“I am a Teacher,” she repeated, almost to herself.

Ylana sat near her, questions beginning to surface, but Nali continued.

“They ask the wrong questions, do they not, child?”

Her hand moved almost casually to rest lightly on Ylana’s arm. Tears filled her eyes for a moment, but she did not permit them to fall.

“A quiet place. With gardens, I think. Do you not agree, my lord?”

Deb was in the doorway, his face inscrutable as he watched her.

“Did you not notice?” she asked in rebuke. “Or are they all so shallow to you that you do not look?”

Flushing, Deb checked his reply and turned to Ylana.

“You are right,” he said after a moment. “A shell of personality only. She is almost gone, eaten from within.”

His distaste was apparent.

“May I send her to my home?”

Nali was smiling gently at Ylana who clearly did not understand their conversation, but who was disturbed by her part in it.

“To what point? You surely don’t expect to teach her.”

Deb’s derision was absently automatic, his attention elsewhere as he considered and corrected attitudes which had led him to miss this. In how many others, he wondered bleakly, while deeper inside there was an elated gratitude that a fear was gone. It was not, as he had said, not at all possible that Nali…

“It is dangerous to return, my lord. I find myself more enmeshed every day.”

Her eyes were smiling at him, understanding in their depths.

“I am a Teacher. I cannot teach and not care. She will be happy for a time with the children in the gardens. That ship you keep above us can protect her from the Masters, if necessary. And perhaps…?” She shrugged lightly. “I am not so arrogant that I foretell the future, Last of the Brotherhood.”

“Will you go with her?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“No,” she said. “I will send this with her as a message.”

She took a silver pendant from around her neck as she spoke.

“They will know she is from me and do what they can.” She looked at him gravely. “My life is here.”

“Perhaps not a long one then,” he said, his mouth twisted, but the pendant caught his attention.

Reaching out, he took it in his hand. His fingers moved: it opened, emitting a single clear note as it did. Inside, the stylized portraits of a man and a woman faced each other.

“Your parents, perhaps?” he asked politely.

“They do not matter,” said Nali, but her face was lit from within.

Snapping the pendant closed, he handed it back to her.

“I will arrange her journey,” he said and, turning abruptly, was gone.

Nali placed the pendant around Ylana’s neck and sat back to wait.

“When I was three years old,” she said, her voice quietly happy as the girl began to play with her new toy. “They brought me a tray of things: jewelry, boxes, books. I picked that right away, but they were certain after they watched me open it.”

Ylana was searching for the catch and not finding it.

“You will not open it, child. My lord showed me the secret when he made it for me.”

Smiling, she began to tell Ylana of the gardens at home.

Chapter Six

“I need someone old enough not to seem a child to these offworlders. Someone with enough experience to evaluate what they say and do not say. But not someone old enough to remember Zoran or who lost someone when they attacked our home and who would therefore want to kill them.”

The grimness in Deb’s voice was broken by a quick grin.

“Like me, for example.”

Glancing around at the Last of the Brotherhood’s assembled staff, Kaz spoke.

“That would be me, Deb. I’m nineteen. Both my parents are still alive and you’ve never had a problem with my judgment. At least, not that I’ve heard.”

That raised a short round of laughter. When Deb had a problem, they knew it.

“All right, Kaz. You will go to this meeting Tor has arranged with Sartak and Rys. Find out what they want.”

Deb’s attention was already turning back to his main preoccupation and his staff grew serious.

Neither Sartak nor Rys sensed his presence in the shadowed corner of the room. He moved into the light, a young man in the Brotherhood’s uniform, as they looked around the appointed meeting place. Both Lords of the Imperium recognized the Last of the Brotherhood’s staff insignia. Kaz did not offer his name before he sat down at the table and waited for them to begin.

* * *

“Where did you learn that hold, Teacher?’

They were in Deb’s office. Reth had been curious about that since he had learned her calling. Her people did not fight.

Nali smiled.

“My lord taught it to me because I am always wandering off alone. He said it was better against someone who knew what it was, but that it was better than nothing.”

Reth looked at her, at first chagrined, then puzzled.

“Your lord?”

He didn’t know a lot about her people, but that didn’t sound right.

“It was a long time ago.” Her smile grew warmer. “He has always had a strange sense of humor. Because it will not hurt someone unless they struggle. He knew I could not continue if that began to occur. Therefore, the more experienced the opponent…”

She let her voice trail off, then answered the question.

“I have always called him my lord. There have been many reasons.”

Theology had never been of much interest to Reth; his mind turned to the practical.

“What does Deb say about that?”

“Deb has told her to use his name.”

His voice, from the door, was coldly venomous. Striding across the room to his desk, he continued.

“When you have finished playing with your fantasies, Teacher, perhaps you will tell me why you are here. I thought we had agreed that you would come only when called.”

“I am called to teach the children of Lanour, Last of the Brotherhood.” Her tone dismissed him as a spoiled child. “The clan second, Merik Nataen, says that I must have your permission to speak with them. He was extremely polite.”

“Teaching the Brotherhood is not enough to keep you busy?” He had schooled his expression to one of polite interest as he scanned the displays flashing on his desk. Looking up, he said “Or perhaps…”

She had followed him across the room and now met his gaze directly.

“I thought to help you,” she interrupted very quietly. “As I cannot, I must teach those most in need of my help. If I can. We are neither of us children, Tar Abzoladan. Have you spoken to them?”

He made no movement, but the image of Lanour burned darkly between them.

“Of course,” she said, still quiet. “May I?”

Deb’s gaze moved sardonically past her to Reth.

“And what is the opinion of the commander of the clans?” he inquired caustically, aware of Reth’s desire to remain uninvolved.

“The commander of the clans has no opinion as the matter is neither military nor a clan concern. I am not a Teacher.”

Reth’s voice was coldly incisive and behind him, in her corner where she sat as invisibly as possible, Tor smiled to herself. As clan commander, she had suffered that tone several times and was glad to hear it used against her brother. Perhaps now he would understand just how the Brotherhood was held to the state of readiness that he so frequently required of it.

“Issue the order.”

His abrupt capitulation was snapped at Reth who rose to his feet. Nali made a full, formal obeisance.

“Thank you, my lord.” Her tone held no deference nor did her expression as she turned to Reth. “ The Last of the Brotherhood has never been a purely military position before,” she said. “It is perhaps understandable that you failed to teach him courtesy.”

Reth’s jaw clenched at this reminder that he too followed the Way. She was gone before either man could reply.

* * *

“Is the Brotherhood to be defined by a fifteen thousand year old oath? We are more than that. That was our beginning. It does not have to be our end.

“I speak for granting them their desire. I speak for giving them the order they crave, that they most ardently seek. We have tried collectively and individually for millennia to teach them the way. They refuse to listen. They will blindly follow when led to death, destruction, or enslavement; but when they are shown freedom, they spit and turn away. Or kill it.

“I say: let them go. Why should any more of us die for them? If the God of the Algolana is in truth returning, then tell Him that He may have them. They have chosen. Why do we fight against their choice?”

Skal’s clan commander, thought Deb, his jaw tightening. He has never been known for his eloquence. These words are almost certainly Skal’s. How deeply does this run in the clan? And is this the only clan involved? Fourteen were so far pledged to him. Fourteen only. His eyes went to Sarr’a who was so very quiet. How many?

Beside him, he felt Reth’s anger rising and signaled his sister to end the meeting.

* * *

Tor had been asleep for nearly an hour. She snapped awake to find her brother seated on the bed beside her. His grin at having surprised her sobered as he spoke.

“Skal has called a clan meeting for noon galactic standard at their primary base on Korend. He is leading them to the breaking of their oaths.”

“What do you want me to do, Deb?”

“Talk to them. Tell them…” Even in the darkness of her room, his eyes looked distant. “Tell them that I promised the Xackarn that we would honor our oath.” Deb looked down at her. “And if that fails, you will tell them that I no longer recognize their clan. Those who wish to remain with the Brotherhood will be welcomed by the other clans. It is their choice.”

The bleakness in his voice was echoed within her as she stared into the darkness after he was gone.

It was Reth who came to her just before she boarded her ship. He had never, at least to her eyes, seemed like either a smuggler or a business executive. Now he looked like what he was: the military commander of the Brotherhood.

“You will carry a message for me as well, commander. Skal is doing something more than exercising his right to choose. He is a traitor who seeks to subvert the Brotherhood. If any choose to follow, you will give them my message.”

His eyes hard, he told her what to say.

* * *

Discourtesy upon discourtesy, Tor thought as she was led to the amphitheater floor. Not being met at landing she could ignore. They were obviously quite busy. Being closely questioned as to her business with the clan by a very hostile and very young woman was more difficult to dismiss. Reflecting that Sarr’a’s observations about the descent of the Brotherhood had merit, Tor curbed her annoyance as they reached their goal.

A sound like a sigh went through the crowd as they noticed her. She stood before several hundred thousand people as well as several millions more who could not be physically present. Two men and a woman were already there: the clan commander and his second. And Skal.

Moving forward to address the clan commander, it was his voice she heard from her right.

“So the Last of the Brotherhood will not face us himself. He sends his little sister.”

Turning rapidly, she dropped, sweeping his legs from beneath him. Rolling over him, Tor came up with her right hand clenched to the front of his uniform blouse. She pulled him to his feet and held his face inches from her own. Murder flashed across his face before he had it controlled. Knowing that, by design, each word uttered here carried to every seat in the amphitheater, she spoke.

“I am his sister and his heir. I will hear no insult to my line.”

Her tone and voice promised death if he continued. Releasing him, she turned back to the clan commander.

“I have been…asked by the Last of the Brotherhood to give the members of your clan some information which may help them to decide. With your permission, I will do so.”

Hard eyes swept past her to Skal, who apparently gave his assent. She saw the clan commander flush slightly in reaction to her expression of disbelief and scorn as he replied.

“You may speak at the end of the debate, commander. Before the vote. You may listen, if you wish.”

Debate was not the word she would have chosen. Hate-filled rhetoric. Exhortations to turn their backs on the offworlder scum who had attacked them. After awhile, she listened with only half her mind, busy with her own thoughts.

I am no diplomat. That thought was rueful. I drop their hero in the dirt and threaten him within a minute of my arrival. Will they listen after that? In her heart, she knew that if they would not, they were already not Brotherhood.

There was silence and then Skal was speaking to her.

“We are ready for the Last of the Brotherhood’s message, commander.”

He stopped as he heard his own words and, for a moment, there was a question on his face as he looked at her. She let the silence stretch as the implication of his words reached the clan members and the sounds around them stopped.

Without moving, she spoke.

“The Last of the Brotherhood does not send heralds to his own people, Skal. I have two messages from him. The first is information.

“He reminds you that the Brotherhood was founded upon this oath. Tar Abzoladan will not break faith with the dead.

“If that argument is not strong enough to persuade you, I am directed to tell you that the Last of the Brotherhood has personally guaranteed the Xackarn that the Brotherhood will honor the oath.”

There was a stir through the crowd at that.

“The Xackarn and the other nonhuman races will be the first to die after the Brotherhood is destroyed.”

Many in the crowd did not like that word. Good, she thought as she continued.

“They did not send a fleet against us. Turn your back on the offworlder humans if you must. Can you watch these others who have never harmed us as they become extinct?”

Some of them were thinking, but it did not seem to be enough. Her eyes went back to Skal. He was right: the clan commander was not relevant. And there was something wrong with his eyes.

“That is the end of the first message, Skal.”

“And the second?”

“You do not want them to hear the second message, Skal. And I do not want to deliver it.”

There was a flash of horror across the face of the clan commander. Skal did not speak. Tor’s shoulders sagged slightly and she closed her eyes for a moment against the sick disgust she felt.

“You will not take responsibility for them. You think leading is pointing in a direction and standing back as they move. You are a coward and in your hatred you complete the work of those you hate most.”

Turning her back to him, clan commander Kalibarrna addressed the clan.

“If necessary, I will deliver the second message after you vote.”

She could not gauge the crowd’s reaction. Still feeling sick, she began to prepare herself for a task no clan commander before her had ever been called to perform. Had he faced any other adversary than God, she knew Deb would have come himself.

Then, unbelieving, she heard Skal address his people and ice replaced the sickness.

“So we are to fight for snakes, insects, and who knows what else instead of people. They have not turned on us, she says. Yet. I say that if they cannot defend themselves then they should die. I will not die for them.

“His father brought the offworlders down upon us and Zoran was destroyed. This one seeks to lead us on some psychotic quest to kill God. What will remain of the Brotherhood when he is finished? Will you follow him?” Sneering contempt filled his voice and his face. “Or will you remain what you are: the real Brotherhood?”

Drawing herself up to her full height, Tor spoke after the roar of approval that greeted his words.

“I was wrong. I will not wait for the vote.”

Turning to the assembled crowd, her voice rang out through a rapidly expanding, profound silence.

“I am clan commander Kalibarrna of the Brotherhood. I speak now for the Last of the Brotherhood. You are forsworn. He no longer recognizes you as a clan of the Brotherhood. Those who would keep faith with the oath will be welcomed by the other clans. For those who will not, I bear a message from the commander of the clans. Die now or hide yourselves in very deep holes. When we have finished with God, we will come for you.”

Turning on her heel, she marched back to her ship, past people frozen in disbelief. No one spoke and no one interfered with her departure.

* * *

“They hint vaguely of evil actions by the High Council of the Masters and probe to discover the extent of our knowledge. I was diplomatically vague. Sartak knows that you are Red Beard. And Rys spoke of the burned out remains of Lanour. They know something of Fior’s plans, but nothing with certainty. From their expressions, they consider them vile and would like to work with us against the Council.”

Kaz paused. The Last of the Brotherhood stared out of the window, apparently oblivious to his report.

Reth said, “Go on.”

“As a gesture of goodwill, as instructed, I informed them that we are returning Sartak’s ship and its crew…”

“I wonder if the sight of his Lord Sartak will bring Captain Sentos back.”

Deb turned to face them and continued even more coldly.

“They cannot help us. They have left the choice too late. If indeed they would really make it. Do what is necessary to keep them quiet. It is only a few days more.”

He turned back to the window, his eyes unseeing.

Chapter Seven

In shadow between two ancient trees, his tail tip twitching, a large feral cat crouched. His nostrils told him of small prey, too small to satisfy his hunger. Almost negligently, he caught one that ventured too near and broke it. The hot, rich smell of blood aroused him and he ate.

More, there must be more. Stalking the little ones through the trees, he began to move faster: running, running, then stopped. At the edge. Far below him, the valley floor was a black pool. Muted emeralds were slits in his face as he gathered himself, muscle by muscle, then leapt out and down into the night. His hands caught the projecting bar; a quick flip turned him toward the cliff face.

Startled, Tor stepped back into Sarr’a who had frozen as he hurtled through the window to their feet. Mouth agape, the base commander’s mind was caught inanely in the observation: nothing should be able to shatter that glass.

Crouched on the floor amid the crystalline shards, knotted muscles holding his body to quivering alert, his eyes stared through the walls of his office, through the very heart of the rock, searching for his enemy.

Tor hurried forward to her brother.

“Get a blanket,” she ordered, her tone indicating surprise that her friend was not already moving to do it.

Sarr’a ran into Deb’s quarters and returned, the world madly tilting.

I am Brotherhood, she thought desperately. Prepared to face anything. But not this, said a corner of her mind quite reasonably. He cannot fly. He must have jumped from the top of the escarpment and somehow flipped into the window. He is strong. He could…

Her eyes focused on his back, rock-hard muscles crossed with a web of scars old and new, some heavy enough surely to have killed. Realizing that she had never seen him even partially disrobed before, Sarr’a traced the scars around his body as Tor brought him to his feet, placing the blanket around his shoulders.

Deb was shaking, but not with cold or exertion. For several long moments, there was no recognition in the green eyes as they inventoried the room and the two women beside him. Sarr’a fought to control her instinctive need to back away, knife drawn, before at last he straightened and spoke.

* * *

“The offworlders would say he is insane.”

Amik was watching carefully as Sarr’a scanned the sentry reports.

She paused, frowning at one.

“A cat?” she said impatiently. “Lekk’a saw a cat?”

“She thought she saw a cat,” Amik corrected. “She realized it was Deb.”

“The offworlders also say that insanity is contagious.”

The clan commander’s voice was barren of any humorous intent and the eyes looking up at Amik were very dark.

“In this case, I respect the one making the report. But, if I had not seen him…”

“What are you going to do?”

Amik’s eyes were focused on the sword she now carried at all times.

“When I reach that decision, clan second, you will be informed.” There was no reproof in her tone. “We have some days yet.”

Seeming to dismiss the matter, she began to issue orders.

“Tell D’nal to accelerate the evacuation. I want every base but this one reduced to the minimum garrison required to bring it to automated operation. That’s by the time I come on duty tomorrow. And she will have all clan dependents within her perimeter sooner than that. She is to trust no one outside this clan and to take no orders outside the rigid chain of command: as clan third she will accept orders from you or me. Everyone in this clan is to obey orders precisely. Am I clear?”

“Yes, clan commander. We are on a war footing and we are not certain of the enemy. There will be no breakdown in discipline.”

“Tomorrow we will complete the plan for the withdrawal of our remaining forces. That will give the staff time to complete their estimates. And I need sleep to think clearly.”

He could see her hope that that was all she needed as she turned away.

* * *

Demented laughter echoed in her ears. Deb had never laughed like that, but she recognized him. By the flickering light of the torches of Lanour, Sarr’a watched her mother die. Choking on wriggling maggots, she saw the face of the man killing her; the face turned toward her hidden refuge. It was his. He was coming, bringing them. She would die in agony and for nothing. Terror mounting, she waited in frozen horror until, half falling out of bed, she awoke.

Dressing quickly, she was driven by the deep, desperate need to be somewhere else. To flee, to be safe, to live. Moving rapidly along the corridor, seeing no one, she did not have a destination. As she turned a corner, they would have collided but the shadowed figure had already stopped. His eyes held hers for a long frozen moment. Sarr’a moaned in renewed terror.

“Klerr’nadh.”

She closed her eyes to deny his.

“No. I am not.”

When she opened them, he was gone. Alone, breathless, she stood staring down the empty corridor, seeking within herself the reason for her flight. I am not a coward, she thought at last. And I will do my duty. But first, I must understand it. Understand him. As she thought of Deb, the terror rose again within her and she sagged back against the wall.

Her eyes closed, Sarr’a knew when Amik joined her and looked up to find him regarding her with grave concern.

“Yes?” she asked, her tone ignoring the circumstances of their meeting.

“It is a personal message to you from Skal, clan commander.” His reply was professionally correct. “Actually, two messages. We are verifying the contents of the second. He claims to hold two thousand Brotherhood children, about a quarter of them ours.”

“And the first?”

She was running just ahead of him toward the clan command center.

“He wants to talk to you. Alone. On Ganthos.”

Amik’s opinion was clear.

Sarr’a turned back to face her second just as they reached the door.

“I do not walk away from my responsibility, Merik Nataen.”

“I am as aware of that as he is.”

His reply was under his breath.

* * *

There were still a few wary, uneasy glances directed at him as he strolled through their camp, but they had learned to leave him alone. Few wondered at his continued presence when the other slave masters had all left. None would have understood if he’d tried to explain. Darce had a room and his own supplies. Two broken arms and the broken neck of one very persistent would-be-thief insured his privacy.

Wandering through their camps, still wearing the black uniform that meant nothing to them, he observed the slow evolution of their society as they grouped themselves around the strong. Supplies were running low. Soon they would have to move out from here, from the gutted ruins of the slave pens and administration buildings where they had been freed. Wordless derision filled his thoughts. They were perhaps free in the sense of having no monetary value, but certainly in no other.

“We need to get more food in.”

She probably wasn’t half the age she appeared. The men gathered around her ignored him as he half-listened to their inept plans for stealing from the nearby town. Abruptly, he decided.

“You can stay here and starve or you can take that town,” he said. “You’ll only make them angry if you steal it bit by bit.”

“And how do we do that?”

* * *

“Colonel Murthoc!”

The voice behind him was male and had an Eltharan accent. Turning, he found a man he had known in grade school and whom he had not seen in almost fifteen years.

“I know this is not discreet, but who can suspect the meeting of two acquaintances in the street?”

Professional outrage with the amateur warred with a need to discover the reason for discretion.

“Yes. They can,” he said, quietly terse. “Walk with me and speak of school and people we knew.”

Eyes questioning, the Eltharan (Mihall, he remembered; he could not recall the surname) followed his lead. They were in the central square and, abruptly reaching a decision, Colonel Murthoc moved to a bench. It was the bench he had shared with the clan commander after her meeting with Ant’n and he hoped that they remembered.

“Now. Speak clearly,” said the colonel, keeping his own voice calm and even. “No one of any importance can hear us.”

“I came to thank you, Cully. Without your help, we would never have completed the negotiations. They would have crushed us.”

Colonel Murthoc waited as the man almost babbled in his happiness.

“Elthar will have associate status with the Confederation. No more taxes and no more forcing our young men into wars we cannot hope to win. When you come home, there will be a place for you in the government. The information from you was invaluable.”

I will kill him, thought the colonel very calmly. Him and his spy and probably Sarr’a as well. He was however not surprised: it was simply one more piece clicking into place as well as one more kick to prove his offworlder status.

This conversation was now pointless. You cannot ask a man to tell you what you have done. Not when he is thanking you for having done it. He turned his mind to extricating this idiot from probable death. No, not an idiot. Simply an outsider. He had almost said offworlder, he realized with grim humor.

If I don’t say anything to him privately, he should be safe. And, since I don’t know what Deb is doing, it would be stupid and childish to overset it simply because I am annoyed.

“We will speak again when I return to Elthar, Mihall,” said Colonel Murthoc very clearly. “Have a safe trip home. Tell him I will continue to work for my people’s best interests.”

“Him?” Mihall looked puzzled.

“I misspoke. Them. Good-bye, Mihall.” Stepping back, he added. “It is better if we do not shake hands – no secret messages.”

His smile mocked his profession as he turned away.

Striding back toward his office, the colonel very seriously considered going home. Just retiring and resting on Deb’s laurels, he thought sarcastically, at least so long as Deb allows us to exist.

Sarr’a had promised that he would understand, but that explanation was still back in prehistory. At the rate of its telling, he would die before they reached the Darkness let alone the present. He needed to know and one of the things he needed to know was what “he” had told the Eltharan government. Patriot or traitor? He wondered bitterly as he considered the green of his Confederation uniform. And what am I as I play Deb’s game? An offworlder fool…

There was a pile of documents on his desk which had not been there when he left. Almost absently, he picked up the one on top and scanned it, then sat down heavily and began to read the text of “his” communications with Elthar over the previous weeks.

Almost an hour later, Murthoc sat back to consider the matter. It was not as bad as he had feared. Certainly, a cynic (and Deb would qualify for that description) could view the Confederation government as it was depicted in those papers. Only a blind optimist (most certainly not the Last of the Brotherhood) would describe the Confederation’s military capacity in those terms. If the Eltharan government wanted to leave the Confederation, …he realized that prior to his encounter with Mihall he hadn’t thought of Elthar in weeks.

Looking up, he saw Lieutenant Karel standing in the door.

“Will you need anything before I leave, sir?”

She had taken over most of Tren’s organizational duties and kept the office running while he awaited the assignment of a new aide. That was an unlikely prospect given the current unrest in the Confederation and would present a new set of problems when it occurred.

“No, Lieutenant. Thank you. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

After destroying the previous stack, he prepared to move on to the next set of papers. Resolutely, he did not think about Tren who would have been analyzing this. For a moment, he wondered why they had shown him the Eltharan documents, then dismissed the question. Maybe he would ask Sarr’a the next time he saw her. Another unlikely prospect with its own set of problems.

But after three hours spent reading reports, Murthoc sat back and began to consider a pattern. Those reports were oddly lacking in detail at times, but they described galactic-wide turmoil. System revolts, slave rebellions, open civil war in the Imperium and in the Confederation piracy threatening to seriously disrupt commercial traffic combined with political tension and secession.

It seemed that the Brotherhood was working to destabilize everyone. There was no valid reason for all of it to be occurring now independently of some outside force and they were the only group capable of this much disruption. Unless, he thought acidly, I’ve missed someone else.

At a minimum, they were feeding the fires. Callous manipulation on this level was mind numbing and this last report, of an attack by an unknown force against the Confederation base at Zytos… Abruptly, he reached a decision and left his office.

Normally, there were three following him; he had learned to spot them primarily by their eyes. Conscientiously moving along a normal evening pattern of meetings with informants in portside bars, he waited until he was certain of their identities and the count. Then, it was simply a matter of awaiting the next brawl, moving in an unanticipated direction, and slipping the leash. They had become just a bit complacent as their watch became routine. He would not think about their clan commander’s reaction to that complacency.

Behind him, as he crossed the city at a rapid pace, a shadow followed. When he reached his destination, a large military hospital, Murthoc showed his credentials to the guard at the desk. His shadow crept in a window. Explicit orders concerning the safety of the Brotherhood required that this watcher overhear the ensuing conversations with doctors and wounded men. Censoring information received by the colonel was however neither within his purview nor his interest.

* * *

Sound filled the room; rhythms and notes that it was doubtful anyone outside the Brotherhood had ever heard. His office vibrating with the music, Tar Abzoladan sat with his feet on the desk, propping his sketchpad in his lap. With the blast doors closed behind him, there was no distraction to his concentration until Tor entered, quietly. There had been no indication of the music outside.

She stood still, watching him as he drew until, with an exclamation, he threw the pad across the room. Tor picked it up.

“It is…”

Beautiful was not the proper word. Exquisite, perhaps.

“It is gone. Dead. Or it will be soon.” He leaned back with a sigh. “Events move too quickly, Tor. I do not have time to finish it, not even the sketches.”

“You do not expect to survive then?”

She moved to sit in her usual chair, still holding the pad.

“I face a Being no one has faced since the earliest genitor of our line, sister. I do not know if I will survive, if the Brotherhood will survive, or even the universe. Sometimes, I do not care. But, if I do return, I will have changed. It took me eight months to get this far. It is gone.”

“You have battle nerves, Deb.”

“Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Or perhaps Skal is right and the last two holders of this position have been fools.”

“Will you abdicate in his favor then?”

Her dry question caught her brother by surprise, then he laughed.

“I wish I could. That would almost be a noble enough revenge for what he has done. You are indeed my sister.”

Chapter Eight

“Deb.”

Tor was standing in the door when he looked up.

“Did you send the Teacher to speak to that boy?”

“I believe I said that she could try to teach him, if she thought it possible.”

The Last of the Brotherhood kept his tone even. In fact, he had been blazingly angry when Nali had asked about teaching Nat and the other children. Realizing that his sister was looking worried, he asked sharply.

“What’s wrong?”

“She left his quarters a short time ago. His guards called me. She did not speak to them, not even to reply to their greetings.” Her hand moved to cut off his comment. “I know, preoccupation is not unusual with Teachers. But… they said she looked ill. Almost gray.”

Deb had risen as she spoke and was coming around the desk.

“Where is she?”

“She went outside. The lower door. I have asked Sarr’a…”

She was speaking to herself. Deb was already gone.

Examining the ground near the cliff, he could see that Nali had set out on the trail to the waterfall. Deb could also see that she was not walking smoothly and did not appear to be watching where she was going. Moving rapidly after her, he continued to see signs of her stumbling progress.

Nali was on her knees at the edge of the water when he found her. Sliding down behind her, he pulled her back against him, cradling her against his chest. Deep, tearing shudders ran through her as he held her tightly. Slowly, she relaxed, but did not open her eyes or speak for some time. High above them, a sentry reported to his clan commander and continued his watch.

“I have been with your people, studied all of the histories. I have written some of them. And still memory fades, beloved.”

Her voice was very soft, her words spoken into his shoulder, as she was reluctant to move from his warmth. He shifted slightly so he could see her face and waited for her to continue.

“I find that I did not realize the full depth and breadth of the evil you face. They are messages, the children and Nat, messages to God. Chosen by their people at birth, they have been trained since early childhood.”

Deb frowned. “Messengers, you mean.”

“No.”

Her voice grew stronger with the contradiction.

“They are messages. Their bones, their blood, their bodies, their very souls are messages to that abomination you call God.” She gazed up at him with deep sorrow in her eyes. “They are not the Chosen, beloved. Their high priest did not converse directly with God. They must send Him messages to gain the blessings they desire.”

“That is what I felt with Sartak.” Deb’s eyes focused past her. “God was reaching for the boy.”

“Nat was trained by the Masters.”

Nali spoke quietly in explanation, her head still resting against his shoulder. In spite of the horror, it was a joy to be this close to him, his arms around her… A seductive, dangerous joy.

“He is very proud that he was chosen. Apparently, the Masters supplied some of the blessings that God had forgotten and thus were permitted to train the children. Nat was conditioned in some fashion. Sartak and his Power were to have been a gift to God from Fior.”

“That is why also I could not kill them.”

“And why you must not kill them now.”

She could feel him stiffen against that.

“Killing them would send their souls to torture and oblivion. You cannot.”

Now she did move away from him and her horror was directed at him.

“Shall I not grant them the apex of their desires?”

His eyes held a dangerous glitter as he looked at her as she knelt in the sand before him.

“They are children, Last of the Brotherhood. Children warped from birth. They do not know their own desires and to commit this obscenity…”

She could not speak or look at him.

“Nali,” Deb said quietly. “I will not knowingly send any souls to Him. My sister says that I am fey. I have traveled a very dark road and sometimes my sense of humor is very black.”

And I would willingly kill anyone who caused you this much pain, he thought and was surprised by the strength of the feeling.

She was looking at him again, her eyes clearing.

“A much darker road than even I had supposed, beloved, if that is your idea of a joke.”

Her hand cupped his face for a moment.

“Thank you for coming after me.”

“Why do you call me that? You do not know me.”

“Why did you come after me?”

He did not really want to analyze whatever had insisted that he had to find her. There had been no conscious decision. Sitting back against a rock, Deb stared up at the falling water as it came over the edge. After a time of silence, he asked abruptly.

“Why did you go to Lanour? How did you know I was there?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering.

“I felt your danger, my lord. Your entire being vibrated like a crystal stressed beyond its limits.”

He was still watching the water.

“There was nothing on that planet that could have injured me.”

She absorbed the arrogant certainty and replied gently.

“One person only, my lord. Does not a crystal shatter because of its own imperfections?”

They sat in silence, not quite touching. Then, rising, he pulled her to her feet and continued with what was not quite a non-sequitor.

“Even assuming that your people are correct, I am not that person.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “Nor should you be.”

He stood looking at her for a long moment, then spoke as he turned to go back to the base.

“And do you still intend to teach them?”

His tone indicated a withdrawal from their discussion.

“I shall try,” she said, still very quiet. “I shall try.”

* * *

Nat was quietly enjoying a new sense of power within himself. Since waking up on the Brotherhood medical ship, he had spent most of his time thinking about his people. Always before, his teachers and Master Fior had discouraged him from those thoughts. He was to serve the Masters and only by serving them would he serve God. Now he considered that service and wondered.

It did not occur to him that these thoughts did not make him ill only because the Brotherhood doctors had broken his conditioning. He could sense something basely evil about the Brotherhood and knew with the certainty of the blessed that they were sinners and God would punish them. That woman, Teacher she called herself, he dismissed almost without thought. She was not of God.

Turning toward the door as it opened, his eyes met those of the Last of the Brotherhood. Deb stepped inside, closing the door behind himself. His face was grim as he studied the boy in front of him. Unconsciously, Nat braced himself, recalling this man’s violent behavior in the past.

“A message to God.”

Nat reacted to the derisive sarcasm with a hot flush and clenched fists, but he did not move.

“And how do you deliver it, boy? Do you recite or do they tattoo it to your backside?”

“God will punish you for blasphemy.” Bat’s voice was shrill. “He will punish all sinners. You will come to the altar and you will know His glory.”

Deb laughed.

“Come to His altar, boy? I have torn it down.”

Rushing at the Last of the Brotherhood, denying the truth he heard in that harshly taunting voice, Nat Bahadur found himself held by his throat while his feet dangled uselessly above the ground. Choking, he heard his tormentor continue, vile truth still shining in his words.

“I killed your priest and knocked down your altar and the figure of God above it. Boy. And then I killed your planet and everyone on it. They are all dead. I will do the same for God when we meet.”

Nat’s feet were on the ground again. Shock and horror combined with the lack of oxygen to leave him dazed. Deb’s hand was on his shoulder now, steel fingers holding him still. Through a rolling grayness, he heard.

“I gave my word not to kill you and she is right. Why warn Him? When I am ready, I will be my own message.”

Nat was left alone, bruised and hating. Who was this blasphemous, evil man to threaten God?

* * *

“I no longer find this game amusing.”

Colonel Murthoc glowered at the two seated in front of him. One was a clerk, the other a junior analyst and both, at least to his eyes, were not sufficiently dismayed by the weapon he was pointing at them.

“When Tren shot his sister, there were four of you on duty. Two are…missing. You are not. Someone altered the duty rosters, but Jon kept backups of everything for me. I tell you this so that you will understand that there is no point in continuing the game. You are both Brotherhood.”

He had chosen his own seat with some care, his back to an outside wall. The door had been left open, in expectation.

“As I said, the game is over. Encouraging the breakup of the Confederation, I can ignore. It is basically a political question and you are hardly the cause of it. I will not ignore direct attacks on our bases even if he does still hide you among smugglers.”

There had been a sick bitterness inside him since he had heard the evidence, a bitterness that some of them at least should have known that he would not ignore it. Were they so derisive of his ability to do anything against them? And she had said that he would understand… He stopped that train of thought and continued coldly.

“His so-called alliance is broken. Perhaps we deserve this, I don’t know and I don’t care. My duty is clear. I will tolerate no more spies in my department or anywhere else in the Confederation. You will tell me who they are or you will die. Now.”

“You know that they won’t tell you, Colonel.” Lieutenant Karel’s voice came quietly from the doorway. “What is wrong?”

He now had three of them to cover and the situation was becoming dangerous. To defuse it, Kyrl moved into the room carefully, her hands empty as she stood just in front of her subordinates.

“I am section commander, Colonel. You will speak to me.”

There was no trace of the researcher in her posture or her face.

“Your people are alive. Killing them would admittedly have been easier, but I am ordered to help you. What has happened?”

“Your attack on Zytos two days ago happened. There were several in black uniforms directing the ‘pirates,’ section commander. They missed a few of the wounded. Careless of him. I do still have a few sources of my own. Not filtered by you, not controlled by him. What lie are you going to tell me now?”

She read the sour certainty in his eyes. Her clan commander was right: games were more trouble than they were worth. And if this man was the price for Deb’s games with the Confederation, Sarr’a was going to be very unhappy.

“They are not Brotherhood.”

Kyrl said it flatly. Skal did this on purpose, she thought. Even with incompetent scum as followers, he has never left survivors capable of describing an attack. Not accidentally.

“I do not have the authority to tell you more than that. My word, Colonel.”

“Your word,” he repeated acidly. “Is it worth as much as the contract I have with your clan commander?”

He saw shock on the face of the clerk. Under the circumstances, it was blackly amusing that these people claimed to hold their word inviolate. Kyrl’s jaw clenched for a moment, then surprisingly she smiled.

“Yes, Colonel,” she spoke very quietly. “Precisely the same. I will take you to Sarr’a and you may discuss it.”

A solution that might even save him, she thought, even as she doubted that he would choose it.

Murthoc considered the matter dispassionately. He could kill them, but he would then almost certainly die himself very shortly. Killing them solved nothing; dying here and now seemed as futile. Who in the Confederation would care, either for his report or his death? I will go to the Brotherhood, he thought, but not to Sarr’a. That was too bitter to touch. I will see the Last of the Brotherhood. Even when I fail to kill him, there will be the satisfaction of the attempt. I will play this extremely distasteful game a bit longer.

“No,” he said as he rose from his chair. “You will take me to Deb. The lie will be direct from him.”

The colonel shifted his weapon to cover her again when her left hand began to move.

“No, section commander. You will issue your orders out loud. I am still feeling nervous.”

“My name is Kyrl.”

Make yourself human to your captor, he thought cynically. We have studied the same manuals. But I am not human to you, am I? I am coming to understand that. Is that what Sarr’a meant? Kyrl was speaking.

“Zev. You will tell Dal where I am and why. Do you appoint someone to run the office, Colonel?”

Murthoc shrugged. “Do you think it matters?”

“Probably not, but we will keep up appearances.”

The bluntness of her answer surprised him.

“Without you, there is no Confederation intelligence, Colonel Murthoc. That is why I am stationed here.”

Have been stationed here, she corrected herself mentally. By the time you return, if you do…

“As opposed to where?”

Habit made him ask the question; he was astonished when, after considering for a moment, she answered.

“Anywhere in the city, Colonel. I command our forces on this planet; we are primarily in the city. Which is why,” she was regarding him seriously. “You will need to holster that. I will take you to Deb. I do not want any accidents between here and my ship. In this building alone, there are at least a dozen of mine on duty.”

She knew the count precisely, of course, and that her people were already being briefed on the situation.

“And drawn weapons make your security forces tense.”

She left the choice to him with an impressive composure that was already, he realized, calming his anger.

“You’re good, section commander,” he said, deliberately emphasizing her title. “I will take you at your word.”

His tone was almost expressionless.

* * *

Major Jonath Tren sat in the acceleration chair on the Brotherhood transport he had requested. His thoughts were not particularly coherent: the anger and euphoria, which had replaced shock and grief, were now fading in their turn. Behind them came an almost overwhelming sense of numbing futility.

The Masters were too powerful. He and his sister Mirrim were irrelevant insects to them. How could he hope to hurt them seriously? Even with the Brotherhood’s aid… It occurred to him that the Brotherhood had not, despite the fiercest enmity, succeeded in destroying the Masters. Not in some fifteen thousand years. He would die for nothing. Just as Mirrim had…

A man in the Brotherhood’s black sat down next to him. Tren recalled his name vaguely: Armh.

“Having second thoughts about being a hero, are you?”

His tone combined amusement with annoyance. To Tren’s narrow-eyed questioning look, he continued.

“I was head of Brotherhood intelligence, Major. I know people. And yes, Major, you may still be addressed by that title. If you think your colonel will submit that letter of resignation you gave him, you don’t know him very well. You will be buried with full military honors. Assuming, of course, that you choose to continue this. It would be embarrassing to draw back, but anyone would understand a man overcome with grief coming to his senses.”

Very direct, Brotherhood eyes were watching him. Tren sat back and closed his own.

“Do we have a chance?” he said finally. “A chance of really hurting them? Or was that some sort of lie to make me feel better? And, if we do, why has the Brotherhood not done this before?”

Armh was still considering him.

“Deb has no interest in making offworlders feel better, Major. He doesn’t have the time or the temperament. If we pull it off, yes, we will hurt them very seriously. The High Council of the Order does not leave that citadel.”

He was aware of only one exception to that and she was rapidly becoming irrelevant.

“The Masters have a rigid hierarchy. We will cut off the head. And, incidentally, kill thousands of lesser members of the Order.”

“Then why hasn’t the Brotherhood done this before? They were certainly willing to do worse to you.”

Tren was now studying Armh.

“The Masters are one of your choices, Major. The Brotherhood does not exist to protect you from them. As for why we aid you now…the Last of the Brotherhood respects your choice. You surprised him. And I am here because I do not like the Masters.”

His smile was wintry.

“Over twenty years ago, I began this mission. This time, I will finish it.” He continued quietly. “I can do this without you, Major. It would probably be easier.”

“But it was my idea.”

Tren’s voice was also quiet.

“When do we arrive?”

“Soon, Jonath Tren. Very soon.”

Armh reached behind the seat and brought up a black bundle of cloth.

“You chose not to wear your own uniform. Perhaps you will accept this one?”

Chapter Nine

There had been no demand for clearances from Ganthos before she landed. Deb had ordered the base closed; its equipment destroyed. Someone had repaired a generator. As Skal had promised, her ship came through to the landing bay without difficulty and the air was fresh.

Sarr’a’s footsteps echoed in the empty concourse. Already dust was settling everywhere. There were lights, but not so many as before. And, she paused infinitesimally between strides, there were people. Six people whom she would have called Brotherhood, but these were not. Each had said that they would come alone and made promises of safe conduct to the other. Her annoyance flared and she stopped short, growing more watchful.

“Skal!”

Sarr’a called his name into the darkness.

“I don’t like games and I don’t like people who break their word. Are you afraid to face me then?”

Coming toward her from the shadow, the man before her seemed more pirate than cold Brotherhood analyst. Skally grinned.

“Come to join me, love?”

Unconsciously, she shifted to a fighting stance.

“No, I suppose not.”

“You sent me a message, Skal,” she spoke flatly. “Two thousand of the Brotherhood’s children, over one fifth of them my responsibility. Hardly a proportion you would get by accident. Give them back.”

“I don’t think so, love.”

The five with him were in a sentry pattern around them. Sarr’a focused her attention on Skal, suppressing the anger that he would assume she would break her word.

“When Deb’s finished leading you all on this psychotic nightmare of his, the Brotherhood will come to us.”

He was slowly moving closer, she realized; she began an effortless dance to maintain the distance between them. His sentries shifted to constrain her movement and she recognized that she would have to kill them all in order to leave. A part of her began to make plans.

“Tor told me I needed to learn the responsibilities of command, sweetheart. Those children will slow Reth down considerably.”

Appalled that he would so casually admit to cowardice, she stopped and stared at him. It came to her that she had accepted his reasons for this meeting as if he was Brotherhood and she could trust his word.

“Why arrange to meet with me if not to discuss my children? Which are also your people’s children. You obviously haven’t changed your mind about honoring your commitment to the Brotherhood. What do you want?”

“Most of their parents went with the Brotherhood,” he shrugged. “They really should have considered what nice hostages children make. But this isn’t about them, love. It’s about you.”

It was not a threat she had ever expected from him: he had been Brotherhood. Within her, the ordering of her world was shaken again. Swearing mentally at her own stupidity, she replied.

“I suppose it is a sort of offworlder compliment,” she said, deliberately classifying him out loud. Them. “Six of you for me.”

Her knife flashed in her right hand.

“How many are you prepared to pay, Skally? And for what are you paying?”

One behind her stepped too close and Sarr’a’s blade sliced casually across her throat. Skal’s signal moved the rest back, out of the battle for now.

“I only need me, love.”

His eyes seemed peculiarly cold, not even glancing at the corpse.

“I will enjoy it and…”

He moved forward in a crouch, his hands empty. She backed away.

“Taking you will be a pleasure and you should at least stop Amik and Tor. Not Reth, I think,” he added consideringly.

“Amik has his orders,” she said, quiet as she matched his moves, suppressing her reaction to his threat. It was a careful defensive game she was playing: she would need to conserve her strength to face the others when he was dead. “They will hold so long as I am alive. And you will not want to face him after I am dead. Not if you killed me.”

He shifted to the right sending her two steps backward.

“You don’t know Tor very well, do you? Beneath her appearance, she is her brother.”

“And you are friends?”

He was backing her slowly into a dead end. Feigning ignorance, she led him on. His four would be behind him, not her.

“Intriguing, is it not?”

Her own eyes beginning to glow, she watched for an opening. He was being extremely deliberate in his movements. This game was more challenging than any she had played before. He was almost close enough. She would enjoy slicing through his…

No, this was much too easy. Too late, she realized how carefully he had planned their meeting. As she stepped backward, her foot slipped and she landed on the silken cloth that had shifted under her weight. Skally was on top of her before she could roll; he held her pinned roughly beneath him, her hands caught by his. Her knife landed somewhere in the darkness.

Above her, he was smiling now, his eyes warming although they remained alert. Sarr’a fought back the flash of terror as she saw the triumph on his face and felt him hard against her.

“Embracing offworlder culture, Skal?”

She spoke sarcastically as she looked for an opening to move.

“No, love,” he said confidently. “Embracing you. You are mine.”

He kissed her cheek and her eyes, then his lips hovered above her mouth.

“Admit it.”

She spat.

“You are shaking, sweetheart. The man is a fool.”

He kissed her lightly, then harder as she pulled away.

“You will find,” he continued in a deliberately amused tone. “It will not matter that it is me, not him. And I will teach you to prefer me.”

Fury flashed in the darkness of her eyes. Aroused, he forgot his opponent. She moved as his mouth came down again toward hers, butting her head sharply into his nose. Reeling, he pulled back. Her knee hit his groin hard and she threw him to one side as he recoiled in pain.

Berserker rage brought her to her feet, a second knife in her hand. Before she could kill him, the other four arrived. Sarr’a turned, smiling broadly, to meet their rush. These were Brotherhood trained and therefore not to be treated lightly: she killed them quickly before they took time to order their attack.

Stepping carefully now to avoid slipping in blood, she turned back to Skal. She saw him sitting on the floor still, his eyes staring past her and gathered herself for a new attack.

“Clan commander.”

Laren spoke from a respectful distance behind her.

“So you do not keep your word either,” Skal’s comment was barbed.

Laren’s tightly controlled voice responded.

“I did not give my word. And I will answer to her, not you, for my actions. May I kill him, clan commander?”

His eyes held an unusual intensity as they scanned her for injuries.

“My word was given as a safe conduct, clan fourth.”

Her emphasis was pointed as she sheathed her knife and straightened her uniform.

“I grant you he has chosen to forfeit that.”

“If I do not return,” Skal’s interjection was cold. “My people still hold your children. Jyn has orders to send you their bodies.”

There was silence as she considered her options. Automatically scanning around them, Sarr’a sensed the twenty of Laren’s new unit and realized that she had not known they were there. Practicing against clan brothers was evidently working.

To Laren, she said brusquely. “Let him go. I don’t know how they’ll feel about a commander who loses five chasing a woman, but it can’t help.”

Turning back, she saw no sign of regret for his people on his face and her anger flared again.

“Go hide behind children, Skally. Cower in your holes until we come for you.”

She stood looking fiercely up into his eyes.

“You still do not understand, do you? This is not about protecting the offworlders, human or nonhuman. It is who we are. When you chose the Brotherhood, if in truth you ever did, did you listen before you made your choice? I am not Brotherhood because I hate them. I am Brotherhood because of me. And you are offworlder because of you.”

Disdainfully, she turned her back and watched him leave in Laren’s eyes. There was something more than bravado in his walk and she felt cold.

“Amik sent you.”

Her tone did not contain any gratitude.

“No, clan commander.”

His eyes met hers firmly.

“This is a live fire training exercise authorized unanimously by your senior staff. Amik said we should be prepared. It was, in his opinion, highly unlikely that Skal would keep his word. And of course, if he had, you would probably have needed transport for the children. D’nal has several transports with her.”

“D’nal?”

“Yes, clan commander. She took the opportunity to run a training exercise of her own. Her ships dropped us.”

“Is this a mutiny of the entire clan or just its officers?”

Her hand stopped his reply as she continued almost inaudibly.

“Deb is right. I am a disruptive influence and I appear to be contagious.”

Looking up, she spoke with a snap.

“You may begin withdrawing your unit, clan fourth. And you had best tell D’nal to let him leave.”

She turned toward her ship as he gave the orders. He moved to join her as she walked.

“Your assessment of the exercise?” Sarr’a looked up at him.

“They performed well although more slowly than I anticipated. We will address that in further training.” He paused, then continued quietly. “Amik said that one of your blind spots is the Brotherhood and your own sense of honor. I agree with that assessment, clan commander.”

“Your timing seemed good to me,” she replied evenly, resolving through mentally clenched teeth to discuss her other blind spots with her second. “I will read your report.”

They continued in silence to the landing bay and her ship. She stopped.

“We will be following Reth into battle with Skal’s people.”

Her eyes were as darkly bleak as her tone.

“I am aware, Sarr’a.” Laren’s tone matched her own. “I did listen before I pledged myself to the Brotherhood.”

It was his opinion that Skal was a far greater threat than he had first assumed, but they had more immediate concerns.

* * *

Fighting had been fierce from room to room, but he wasn’t surprised when the intensity waned suddenly. A skeleton crew staffed the base; one of the reasons it had been chosen. Moving his men forward with care toward the command center, he was again unsurprised when they met increased resistance. That ceased abruptly, but it was several long moments before he permitted them to enter the room. Still, boobytraps took four.

Inside, a trail of bloody drops spoke of her progression from the door. Black hair, mid-thirties, she was sitting behind the command console waiting for him. At least his men were finally learning some caution; they did not rush forward. He waved them back: her hands were not visible.

“Not Skal,” she said. “I am disappointed. But not surprised.”

Sighting his weapon on her head, he spoke.

“Lift your hands into view. Carefully.”

Almost it seemed to him that she was smiling and he grew tense. But her hands were empty when she raised them, holding them oddly flat above the console surface.

“I am Azran Al Kaddhin. I command this base.”

He knew before she moved her hand sideways, permitting the beam of light to hit the sensor above her. A light behind her began to flash and a voice spoke briefly in the battle language of the Brotherhood.

“How?” His voice held disbelief. “I disabled both self-destructs.”

She laughed, a chuckle that sprayed blood across the console in front of her as it ended in a cough.

“My clan commander has a very jaundiced view of the universe. Offworlder. There are four. The other one would have been easier, but this is more satisfying.”

She pulled herself to her feet.

“I do not, however, wish to die while looking at you.”

Turning, she moved with measured steps toward her office.

Static replaced the transmission just before the shock wave hit the ship. They had been rising rapidly along an oblique course designed to put them behind the planet when it came; the buffeting was minimal. Above the base itself, transports coming in to begin the looting of its equipment and the fighter moving to intercept them were shredded as a giant wave of atmosphere and debris reached outward to the other attackers before subsiding.

Registering that most of those had survived; the pilot sent a questioning look sideways.

“I know, “ said the man beside her, quietly. “We don’t have the armament to make a difference. And we were told to report. It was the last order she gave me. I will obey it.”

* * *

“How many were Br…Skal’s?”

Sarr’a’s anger was tightly controlled. She had met them at landing. Except for the three who were unconscious, the surviving garrison had drawn themselves up before her to give their report. She was aware that they would not leave until they considered that report complete.

“Only the one, clan commander. I think we weren’t supposed to know about him. He used them like cattle. We didn’t see him until after we’d left.” He paused. “There may have been more on the ships. We didn’t get close enough to tell.”

Permitting just a trace of her anger to sound in her voice, she spoke harshly.

“You were ordered to report. She was right: I need that report. And I need you. If you are feeling suicidal, we can find you better targets than his pirates.”

She looked up into affronted eyes.

“Them we can kill anytime. Get your people to medical and we will discuss it after you have rested.”

Amik, standing behind her, spoke quietly as they left.

“He has been planning this for some time.”

“Yes,” she said. “But why? If he wanted to leave the Brotherhood…”

“I believe he wants to control the Brotherhood,” Amik said slowly. “What was it he said to you on Ganthos? ‘The Brotherhood will come to us.’”

“Skal wants to be Last of the Brotherhood? And he says Deb is psychotic.”

“No,” said her second slowly. “I think he wants the Brotherhood’s resources. You are right: he is offworlder, not Brotherhood.”

“And he thinks to lead the Brotherhood by starting a civil war? Who will follow him now?”

Her eyes followed a limping survivor.

“But we were not to know that they were anything but pirates, Sarr’a. I am certain that the evidence would have been clear.” He looked at her. “And he planned to have you. A distraction from clear thought, you will admit.”

“They were nothing but pirates,” she said coldly, then her voice chilled further. “And, if he does manage to capture me, you will not be distracted. I will be dead.”

“Understood, clan commander.”

He gave her a formal salute as she turned away.

“As will, I am quite certain, a large number of them. You will understand that I would rather not make the trade.”

She whirled back to face him, her eyes hard.

“You will convene a meeting here in one hour of my senior staff. Right here.”

Her hand indicated the line where the garrison had stood a few moments before.

“We have matters to discuss.”

Precisely one hour later, they stood rigidly at attention as she walked slowly down the line.

“We have not yet discussed your…training exercise on Ganthos.”

Stopping directly in front of Amik, she held out her hand, her rank insignia on the palm.

“Is it your opinion, clan second, that your judgment is better than mine?”

His eyes shifted to focus on her.

“No, clan commander.”

“Is it your opinion that collectively your judgment is better then mine?”

“No, clan commander.”

Her hand closed on the insignia as she stood looking at him for a moment.

“You are either a fool or a liar, Merik Nataen. I know that you are not a fool. Perhaps you lie to yourself. Or you are being polite to me. We have had a comfortable few years, have we not, playing games and pretending to be the Brotherhood?”

Her gaze swept over her officers who were each now listening closely. This was not the lecture on discipline and obedience to orders they had expected.

“You were right to send Laren after me. And you were wrong. We all forgot the enemy we face. Skal knows us as Brotherhood and personally. He knows our training. He can predict how we will react. He knows my blind spots and he plays to every one of them.”

She was remembering the rotting corpses on Ganthos. How far back had his plans begun?

“And he knows yours. Timing the attack on the base while our fleet was rescuing me was hardly coincidental.”

“Clan commander.”

Amik was holding out his own insignia. She exploded.

“When I want your resignation, I will ask for it.”

Glaring up at her oldest friend, she continued.

“Unless you cannot work with me?”

Her eyes swept up and down the line. No one moved.

“I am telling you that we must work together, that we must be aware of each others’ weaknesses and strengths. Skal will use all of them against us.”

She paused to let them think about it.

“And just now, we cannot do anything about him. You all have been given strict orders. We will now accelerate this withdrawal because I will not lose more on bases which cannot be defended. All bases except this one and Kyrl’s are to be automated in the next twelve hours. If that cannot be accomplished, destroy them. I will not give Skal the materiel to attack us. So be certain that no one outside this clan can enter any base we leave. Comments? Then you are dismissed.”

As they walked away, she called her second back.

“Amik.”

Sarr’a waited until they were alone.

“You, my friend, must recognize that I will never be safe. I am not that sort of commander. And I must trust you with the clan.”

“Do you?”

“If I did not, you would not be my second. But you must consider what that means.”

“It means that the next time you do something stupid, you will have to rescue yourself.”

“Precisely.” Her eyes beginning to smile, she continued. “Now, we will discuss my blind spots.”

“Are you armed?” he asked dryly, turning to walk beside her.

* * *

She lay in bed, willing herself awake, bitterly aware of what was coming. It would not matter that Skal had been Brotherhood. It would not matter that she fought against sleep. They were not dreams and they came when they chose; relentless flashbacks that left her sick and shaken and now colored every memory of her mother.

Around her, the darkness softened unnoticed to gray as she felt him above her. Straining upward against him, she felt his lips against hers. His weight a welcome closeness, he filled her to a sharp, shivering moment of joy. Just before she awoke, Sarr’a saw his face and understood that Skal was wrong. It did matter.

Turning against the pillow, she wept. There was no more time and Cully Murthoc did not want her. This was almost worse than the other. When, at last, she slept, it was without dreams.

Chapter Ten

Direwolves, thought Skal in derision. Cream of the Imperium. Elite forces of the genetically enhanced. I am reduced to this. And I must convince them to ally with me. I could take this camp in half a standard hour.

He stopped, recalling that he did not have the men to spare for that. Perhaps there would be time to train these offworlders. The Brotherhood should be in disarray for some time once it becomes clear that God is not coming, he thought and recognized coldly that he was playing games with himself.

Not enough of them were breaking away. In fact, almost none from outside his own clan had followed his lead. And not all of them. Deb’s mind had shattered faster than he’d expected - a psychosis involving God no less - and his plans had been revealed too soon.

Sarr’a for one. Coldly he knew that he’d been playing games about her as well, permitting his desire to overcome his reason. But, given more time, he could have broken her. The resultant satisfying image was banished by the Shamshir’s voice.

“So now you admit you are Brotherhood. Why?”

He ran his eyes sardonically over Skal’s uniform.

“Or is there perhaps a difference of opinion about that?”

That shaft was rewarded with the slightest of tightening of Skal’s mouth as he faced the Direwolf commander. Civil war in the Brotherhood as well, thought the Shamshir. Good. Times of anarchy and chaos produce new leaders. And the Brotherhood does not breed Emperors.

* * *

He has tricked me and I am trapped. Amik called away before we begin; Tor and Reth stopped at the door and sent elsewhere. Fidgeting hands showed her distress as Sarr’a watched Deb through narrowed eyes. The Last of the Brotherhood studied her from behind his desk.

Terror crept up her spine, then seized her throat when he jumped up from his chair. Deb was now between her and the door; confirmation if she needed it of the trap. His face held the feral glow she had seen before. Through the cloth of his uniform, she could see the tightly knotted muscles as he moved. Remembering the scars, the network of heavy scars across his body, she wondered how he had gotten them. How had he survived them? What was he?

Resentfully, she considered that this was her base, that her clan brothers were… She closed her eyes for a brief second. Unreachable. The desk was his, controlled by him, and the outer room held his staff. Inventorying her weapons, Sarr’a prepared to defend herself. Then her mind flashed to Deb’s hand in the priest’s throat on Lanour. Rising to her feet, she faced him and knew it was time to choose.

Within herself, centered, she grew calm. Knowing herself and prepared to fight, she was Sarnath Al Cador; she was clan commander; she was Brotherhood and this was her Brotherhood. Two strangers faced each other, weighing each other.

For a moment, Deb paused as he registered the change, but his need for certainty was too strong.

“This time we will talk, clan commander.” His tone was a coldly caressing lash. “You will tell me about Skal and why you went to Ganthos.”

Surprise flashed in her eyes. She had not expected that to be his challenge.

“I went to Ganthos because of the children. You have my report.”

“Children,” he repeated. “I saw no children when you returned. Nor did you bring back Skal. I have heard rumors and innuendoes. Is he your lover or just your co-conspirator?”

He laid the accusation plainly between them.

Blazing anger overlaid her fear.

“He is neither. I am Brotherhood.”

“But this is the end of time, clan commander. And you do not choose to follow me. Why?”

He circled closer, his eyes intent on his prey.

“I follow the Last of the Brotherhood,” she said tightly, her eyes carefully watching him. “Who are you? I have watched you these last days. I do not know you.”

“So you choose Skal?”

His voice was a snarl, but her impatient answer stopped him in mid-pounce.

“No. Why do you question me about offworlder scum?”

Drawing up sharply, his face now inches from hers, he spat.

“I question everyone. I have no Teachers to help me. The Way is dark before me. I have lost one clan to treason, clan commander. When I face God, I must at least know who is behind me.”

“As I must know who leads us. Who are you?”

“I am the Last of the Brotherhood. God’s bane.”

“Are you?” she asked, the growl in her voice matching his.

Then, sagging forward, her eyes closed in pain.

“Are you?” she repeated, her voice breaking. “I don’t know anymore. I saw you on that altar, then… I could not find you.”

She continued almost without sound.

“You left me alone. Again.”

Deb had frozen into stillness as she spoke.

“Alone,” he examined the word. “I have been alone since they left me.”

His eyes focused on the woman before him and he put his hand on her shoulder. The pain of his grip brought her eyes up to meet his.

“I came back,” he said very quietly. “And we came for you on Graneth. In both instances, you were not supposed to be there. Your mother’s choice, the first time. Yours, the second.”

Releasing her, he turned away. Moving wearily behind his desk, Deb sat down.

“I am who I have always been, Sarr’a. Like all of you, I thought God a nice myth to bind the Brotherhood together. I never thought to face Him.”

He stared out across the valley and after a time she left.

Gray shadows shrouded the trees in the great valley below when she returned. He was seated as she had left him, weariness crushing him into the chair.

Clan commander Sarnath Al Cador, attired now in the full formal uniform of her clan, sword strapped to her back, went to her knees at his feet. The ritual of submission does not require a witness. In the history of the Brotherhood, it has never been reported by offworlders.

Her sword now on the floor between them, Sarr’a looked up to find Deb leaning forward. Faltering, she stepped outside the words of the ritual.

“I am sorry,” she said, her eyes beseeching his for forgiveness. “I cannot see as my father did. I cannot help you that way.”

Proffering her sword, the Last of the Brotherhood replied gravely.

“It is written in our history, clan commander, that God is defeated by stout hearts that do not fear death.”

He was rewarded by a smile that few had ever survived seeing and when she was gone the memory of that smile warmed him for awhile before his own thoughts returned.

Entering the clan command center, Sarr’a was not surprised when they rose as one. By now, the entire clan knew she had been with the Last of the Brotherhood. They awaited word of her decision.

As she turned to face them, she said quietly to Amik.

“Transmit this.”

He nodded, his fingers moving. After he straightened, she began.

“This is the end of time. We are pledged to the Last of the Brotherhood. To any who choose not to follow, I say: Leave now.”

Nothing moved except her second’s eyes as he scanned the displays before him. At last, he spoke gravely.

“Clan strength is unaltered, clan commander.”

* * *

As they held orbit above the green and blue planet that was Sarr’a’s primary base, Murthoc reviewed the journey. Kyrl had made no move to leave him. That was not surprising since, although still armed, he was in effect her prisoner. He told himself that he was seeking answers and that dying would have served no purpose. It sounded weak.

Her ship had not been at any of the official landing fields. She had made no attempt to hide the location of the small Brotherhood base, which was remarkably close to the city. Revising downward his estimates of the cost of bribing Confederation officials, he had observed out loud that she obviously didn’t expect him to be returning. Kyrl’s only comment had been that that would be his choice. Sarr’a’s voice had echoed mockingly in his memory.

The clan commander met them at landing.

“Deb will see you, Colonel.”

Her eyes visibly catalogued his weapons, then she shrugged. Kyrl was uncertain which she was dismissing: Murthoc’s ability to inflict harm or Deb’s possible injuries. The colonel felt his rage rekindling as he was dismissed so casually as a threat.

“Let us go.”

“I can find my own way, commander.”

Anger smoldered in his tone.

“I am aware, Colonel Murthoc.” Her eyes met his, gravely accepting of his animosity. “As a matter of contract, I will walk with you while you do.”

Baffled, he strode beside her up the ramps to Deb’s office.

The Last of the Brotherhood was standing behind his desk when they entered. He turned away from the window into Sarr’a’s opening salvo.

“You see where your games have led us, Deb. Do you tell him the truth or do we abandon who we are?”

If Deb had expected a radical change in the clan commander’s opinions after her decision to follow him, he would have been disappointed.

“Your choice, Last of the Brotherhood.”

She sat down next to Tor in a corner of the room.

Deb looked at the colonel and it seemed that the corners of his mouth twitched upward before he spoke.

“The truth,” he said. “With which part of the truth would you like to begin, Colonel? Zytos?”

Colonel Murthoc was experiencing an acute feeling of disorientation that approached vertigo. Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

“Let us sit down then,” said Deb. “Truth is difficult and can take a long time.”

He settled back in his chair and continued in the same objectively cataloging tone that the colonel had found so infuriating on Ganthos.

“The Confederation and the Imperium are not the only groups having organizational difficulties. We are as well. Zytos was attacked, as were several of our bases, by a former member of the Brotherhood and his followers, also former members of the Brotherhood, augmented by pirates he was supposed to have killed some time ago. You will recall Skally, Colonel.”

When the Last of the Brotherhood speaks the truth… He could see, however, that Murthoc was fighting it.

“You will not believe that I am not orchestrating this until you know all of it, will you?”

Sarr’a said something under her breath. Deb continued without comment.

“God returns, Colonel. It is the end of time. The Brotherhood honors our ancient pledge and prepares to face Him. We are withdrawing our forces from the Imperium and the Confederation and, I will admit, we are encouraging rebellion and disintegration to cover our actions.”

Sliding past when that encouragement had begun was easy enough as Murthoc reacted to the announcement of God’s return.

“Some have chosen not to honor their oaths. They are not Brotherhood. Skally is trying to gather the necessary materiel for his forces. He turned to your bases after ours proved to be more difficult than he had expected.”

Deb nodded toward the corner.

“If you don’t believe me, ask Sarr’a. Her clan has lost one base and, almost, their clan commander.”

He watched the colonel’s carefully suppressed reaction to that. Interestingly, it was stronger than his response to the return of God.

“In a sense, you are correct that we are no longer your allies, Colonel. We have a greater concern. The Imperium, the Confederation, even the Masters are not very important right now.”

Colonel Murthoc leaned forward in his chair.

“Then why,” he asked. “Why do you take the time to explain this to me? Why not simply ignore me or have me killed if I am enough of a nuisance?”

Gray eyes met green in honest bewilderment.

“I threaten to kill your people to get answers that they will die to protect and you sit here and tell me everything I could want to know. Why?”

“Because she asked me to.”

Deb’s tone was light, but his eyes were even more assessing than usual. As were, the colonel realized, Sarr’a’s and Tor’s.

“That is one question that cannot be answered for you, Cully Murthoc. Consider it carefully. Why would I care?”

Murthoc shrugged rather helplessly.

“If I understood your motivations, sir, I’d probably be God. I came here to try to kill you.”

There was no surprise on Deb’s face.

“Even that seems pretty worthless as an idea right now. If you’re right about God returning, and I expect you are, then I can understand your strategy. If the Brotherhood can’t stop Him… You don’t need organized enemies behind your lines. And attacking you while you’re fighting God is exactly what they would do.”

He stopped and considered the matter for a few minutes.

“I don’t quite see what I do now. Telling them will only cause panic.”

“You may stay here, Colonel.” Sarr’a’s voice was quietly firm. “We still have a contract.”

“To understand. Yes. I don’t think you’re going to manage it, commander.” He turned back to Deb. “I thought people could leave the Brotherhood whenever they chose, sir. Why is Skally fighting you?”

“Skal wants power. To get it, he must control us. He thinks the Brotherhood will turn to his leadership.”

“Why would he expect that?”

“He believes me to be insane, Colonel.”

Murthoc felt Deb’s amusement and realized that the Last of the Brotherhood had read his own opinion on his face.

“He does not care about God or oaths. He wants power. He is not Brotherhood.”

“Isn’t the Brotherhood powerful?”

Murthoc had wondered about their failure to use that power for a long time, especially since Lanour.

“You mean, don’t I have power?” Deb was still amused. “No, Colonel. The Brotherhood is strong, not powerful. And I follow the Way. I choose strength within myself rather than power over another.”

“Do you understand the difference, Colonel?”

Sarr’a’s question was quiet.

“Strength is choosing for yourself; power is choosing for another. Although, some walk a fine line in presenting choices to others.”

Deb ignored her sardonic and in his opinion sanctimonious glare.

“Come, Colonel. Rest for awhile before you choose your next action.”

Murthoc was preoccupied as she escorted him to the rooms that had previously been assigned as his quarters. Before she left him, she paused.

“Concerning our contract. I have agreed to help you. You have undertaken to understand. It is perhaps a fine point.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“You are saying that the work in this contract is mine.”

Her smile spread slowly across her face.

“Perhaps then, now that I am supposed to be trying to understand, you will answer a question.”

“Perhaps.”

She looked up at him sideways.

“You say that the Brotherhood stands between God and the rest of us, your brothers.”

She nodded.

“When Deb sent you with me before Kuarmian. Would you have destroyed the city?” He continued before she could reply. “You told me that you would destroy the planet or the entire galaxy if Deb ordered it. Was that a game meant to frighten me into doing what you wanted or would you do it? And how is that protecting your brothers?”

Sarr’a stood looking up at him for several moments before she answered.

“I would do it, Cully. I told you that I do not like offworlders and I do not much care what happens to them. But Deb will not order that. I do not hide behind that fact; I merely state it. You must understand: I will stand between God and the rest of the galaxy to protect them from Him. They will have to find someone else to protect them from me.”

Murthoc’s next question was almost involuntary.

“Before you go, commander, what did he mean? Your clan almost lost its commander?”

Sarr’a’s eyes were dark as she looked up at him, the smile gone completely from her face.

“Skal plays more games than Deb, Colonel. One of them is that he wants me. As Amik says, he knows my blind spots. But he would not have killed me, not then. That was Deb reminding me that I disobeyed orders when I met with Skal. My duty as clan commander does not always coincide with my duty to the Brotherhood.”

Her eyes narrowed, she was gazing past him as she spoke.

“We lost one base to Skal; he has already paid for it in blood. He will pay again until he has no more.”

Chapter Eleven

“Why did you help us?”

“Good question, boy. When I figure out the answer, I’ll tell you.”

He turned away.

“Why are you wearing a uniform? Whose is it? Who are you?”

Almost to his ship, Darce stopped in mid-stride. Why now? he wondered. I have been recalled. There is no ducking away from this one for personal quests. This is God’s return. Why does he start asking questions now? And, as he turned back, a cynical voice answered himself. It’s only one boy. He’ll lose interest quickly. You know that.

“Who are you?” Darce asked in response. “And why do you want to know?”

The boy looked to be about fourteen years old. His face bore scars from the lash.

“I was a slave.”

His gaze didn’t waver from the slave master’s face.

“I don’t remember if I ever had a name.”

He jumped down from the wall where he’d been sitting.

“They said not to talk to you. That you’d probably kill me if I did. But I want to know. Why did you help us? And who are you?”

Calculation filled his eyes as he waited for the answers. From the bottom of society, he had risen to a moderate level of comfort and power. This incomprehensible man was perhaps a means of gaining more.

Darce settled back against the wall with almost a sigh. He had noted the calculation and correctly interpreted it. But a few more minutes wouldn’t matter.

“I am Brotherhood,” he replied. “If that means anything to you. It should tell you that I’m not going to help you become mayor or king or whatever it is you’ve decided you want to be.”

“Why not? I can get you what you want. How about her?”

He pulled a girl of about sixteen from behind the wall. Darce recognized the daughter of one of his former clients, although she was not quite as clean and well fed as she had been. So the ex-slave had a slave. Predictable.

“Right now, I want to leave, boy. And that you can neither give nor take away.”

He looked at the girl and sighed to himself. One more time.

“Freedom or slavery, girl? Your choice: do I kill him?”

Darce watched the same gleam of calculation come into her eyes as she studied her master.

“No,” she said. “He likes me, really. And he’s going to be important. I can help him.”

Her eyes dismissed the older man.

“You would just leave me. Who would take care of me?”

Turning away in disgust, Darce strode toward his ship. Ignoring the boy’s taunts, he thought: Disruption, Deb wants. That one should bring some disruption if he lives. And he will.

The conclusion sat sourly in his stomach as he took off.

* * *

“Commander, as I understand what you and Nali have been telling me, I must be the person I am.” His face twisted. “There is no way to say most of this without sounding ridiculous.”

“That is because it is self-evident even in your language, Cully Murthoc.”

Her voice however held none of the usual Brotherhood derision for anything offworlder.

“You are. Who else would you be? Your choices make up your life.”

“Do they?” he said with some bitterness. “That is rather self-righteously easy for you, Zorantian.”

He did not pause for her interruption.

“You are Brotherhood and you follow the Way because you have made the choices laid out for you by your society. As my test case, I give you Skal. You say now that he is not Brotherhood. But you thought he was because he did what was expected of him.”

“And his choices since have shown who he is. As yours show you.”

Her voice was calmer than her eyes, which showed some anger.

Murthoc shook his head in frustration.

“How many of your Brotherhood are simply not as ambitious as Skal? How many of them simply make the expeditious choices that keep them at home with their families and friends? You spoke once of my people choosing safety for their children and places for them to play over freedom, commander. How many of yours do the same?”

Staring at him, she spoke quietly after a few moments.

“I do not know, Colonel. But, unlike your people, mine are facing what may be a very final choice. This one defines the Brotherhood and no one will make it for the sake of expediency.”

Moving away from him, she continued.

“You are arguing that an individual is defined by his society and is therefore not wholly responsible for his choices. But you are hardly a typical Eltharan. You were born into a rather intricate maze of familial relationships that could have defined the course of your life: wife, children, work. I will grant that your family produces soldiers, but for Elthar not the Confederation.

“Very few of your people voluntarily leave Elthar. Fewer are philosophically inclined. You have no wife and, so far as we have been able to discover, no children. Certainly not within the complex rules that govern Eltharan society.”

Glancing up at him, she wondered why his face had emptied of its previous animation. Most probably he was annoyed by her reference to spying on him.

“But you are wrong about my choices, Cully Murthoc. I chose the Brotherhood at the moment that it abandoned me. And I chose the Way when the world went mad around me. I have considered both many times since. We are both searching for meaning, Cully.”

“And is the Brotherhood the only possible meaning?”

His voice was quiet.

“Of course not,” she responded angrily. “I am not that self-righteous. The Brotherhood holds a unique position because of our history. But I would not argue that we see everything clearly. Just more clearly.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I do not understand your history. You haven’t gotten to that yet. I can’t argue the point. But I am not arguing against the individual’s responsibility for his choices, commander. I am stating that who you are when you are born decides at least some of them."

Sarr’a stared at him in perplexity.

“I will grant you one, perhaps a few, that that is true of,” she said slowly. “Deb being the primary example. I do not see the rest of your argument.”

She shook her head when he would have spoken.

“I apologize, Colonel. I am on duty shortly. Will you walk with me?”

* * *

She was small. It was relatively simple to slip past the sentries while the ships were still joined. Half of them were pirates anyway. There weren’t enough…enough of the others to waste guarding a transport full of children. And if one of them caught her, her name would get her past them. Except that she didn’t want to do it that way.

“Stop. Who are you?”

His voice was a high treble as she came through the airlock.

Good, she thought. Someone’s set a watch.

“I am Tesvan D’narr,” she replied calmly. “I am Brotherhood.”

A few weeks early, but it didn’t matter. Her choice had been made when she overheard him talking to her mother. No. To the clan second.

Hope flared in his eyes for a moment, and then he looked behind her.

“Just you?” he asked.

“How many do you need?”

She grinned, instinctively working on morale.

“Who’s in command?”

“She’s over there.”

His nod indicated a door just down the corridor from the airlock hatch.

Pausing in that door, she saw three conferring at a table. Two of them knew her and she watched their eyes narrow as she entered. Placing her pack on a chair, her own face set, she joined them.

“Tesvan D’narr,” said the girl to her right who was almost a year her junior. “How is your mother? Clan second and Skal’s…”

“Enough.”

Across the table from her, a girl she didn’t know had risen to her feet.

“You may express your personal opinions on your own time. I am Renatha k’Thuen. None of us have battle names yet. Call me Ren.”

“Tesvan D’narr. Tes, then. You’re in command?”

“I have been.” Ren was studying the smaller girl. “Why are you here?”

“I am Brotherhood.”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

The voice from her right was derisive.

“I am what I say I am. And we do not have time for this.”

Two of them were looking to her now.

“This ship is scheduled to leave in seventy-three minutes. I need four or five teams who can carry some weight. Now.”

“Jan. Ten minutes. Organize them in the corridor.”

Ren issued the order crisply to the boy and turned back to Tes who continued.

“Hostages are expendable. Therefore, we need weapons.” She was sketching as she spoke. “There’s a weapons locker here on the other ship. Sentries here, here, and here. I will distract them. We will need to get everything we can carry. Do any of you have any weapons?”

“No. They searched us very thoroughly.”

“I have three knives and a handgun in there.”

She pointed to her pack.

“And my own knife. They were all she had in our quarters. Give her the gun.”

Tes indicated the girl who was still watching her sullenly.

“She’s better with guns than people.”

“Are you sure we need to do this?” Ren was a little uncertain. “I mean, they’re…they were Brotherhood. They won’t…”

She stopped as she met the eyes of her new commander.

“Before he left, Skal told my…the clan second,” her voice was cold. “That if he did not return, she was to send four hundred bodies to Sarr’a. Jyn said.”

Keeping her tone even was difficult; she almost managed it.

“She said it would be a pleasure, but that she would rather he returned. Any more questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

Ren glanced at the door

“We’re ready.”

“You stay here. They’ll still need a commander if this fails. Organize fighting units. We’ll go over defensive configurations when I get back. And maybe something more, but weapons first.”

Smiling quickly at her second, Tes then turned her attention to the other girl.

“You stay by the airlock and cover our withdrawal.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No sarcasm now. She had checked her weapon and given one of the knives to Ren. Tes picked up the other two.

“I’ll need two people with me for the three sentries. Two of them are pirates, but the one guarding the weapons will be harder,” she said to Jan. “You know them better than I do. You choose.”

* * *

As they went deeper, the air itself seemed to grow darker and heavier. Incense filled his lungs, underscoring the weight of the citadel above them. Tren choked, then tried to cover the sound.

Moving back to stand beside his companion, Armh’s voice was almost soundless in his ear.

“Overwhelming, isn’t it? And it’s all calculated to make you afraid. Interesting when you consider that they only allow their own this far inside.”

Tren’s mind engaged as he studied his surroundings to see how they achieved their goal. Bad air and bad lighting combined with what he now recognized as an almost inaudible vibration. His eyes moved to those of the Brotherhood officer and he smiled his understanding.

“Much farther?” he asked in the same breathless whisper.

“Two more levels to the door I showed you. Then we’ll have to move more quickly. I’d like to find their Council chamber.”

“With them in it,” agreed Tren.

Luck was with them.

“Chaos and anarchy sweep the stars, councilors. The Darkness returns. We have lost.”

“Not so. We stand on the edge of triumph. We do not need Fior. We do not need Lanour. Can you not sense the beginning? Chaos and anarchy now will simply prepare them for the glory to come. This time we will serve Him directly. This time we will reap the blessings. This time…”

“No.”

It was a man’s voice, never heard in this chamber, that quietly and unexpectedly interrupted her triumph. Two men in black uniforms who, after moving to the center of the room, stood facing each other.

“I don’t like speeches,” he continued. “When you’re ready, Major.”

This was not the monster she had sensed, only an old enemy somehow reborn. His casual attitude kindled outrage in her. Affronted, the Moderator reached for them and found nothing. Frozen in a horrifying moment of despair, she watched two hands move to two shoulders and pull down.

* * *

Startled, Sartak froze as first he heard the scream, then felt their death move through the Power. It was not possible that they were gone. He probed carefully, seeking the trap. There was none.

The High Council, the citadel itself, was silent. Dead. Within the Power, he felt dazed members of his Order searching for their leaders and finding nothing.

* * *

Murthoc’s stride matched Sarr’a’s as they moved rapidly across the hanger deck toward the ship. He recognized a rather expensive civilian model from the Imperium and wondered again what this was about. From her expression, so did the clan commander.

Amik had spoken to her by communicator – an odd circumstance in itself, thought the colonel. At least on their own bases, the Brotherhood seemed to prefer the more time consuming process of face to face communication. The clan second had not identified the pilot, only requested that Sarr’a meet the offworlder ship at landing.

As they approached the ship, a tall, silver-haired man emerged from the airlock. Sarr’a stopped as if a wall had appeared. Murthoc recognized the face instantly. This was the Imperium’s leading military historian: a man whose ability to bring a battle to life while finely dissecting it had kept military cadets on every civilized world awake long past official curfews.

As the man approached them, the colonel felt quizzically inquisitive eyes sweep over him, then the clan commander and watched as Sarr’a returned the scrutiny. She was drawn up stiffly, her face a tightly closed mask.

“I must apologize, cla…” he stopped. “Ma’am. I am aware that I have no right to be here. I am Ronnel Latten. I was…”

“I know who you are, sir,” she said, her interruption quiet.

In spite of her evident unease, Murthoc noticed that the honorific did not come grudgingly.

“I am clan commander Sarnath Al Cador. We met when I was very young. My mother was your clan second.”

After a pause, she asked.

“How may I be of assistance to you?”

His voice was grave.

“I came here because I knew the location of this base. I need to speak with the Last of the Brotherhood. Can you arrange to have me taken to him?”

“I will escort you myself. He is here,” she replied. “I do not know if he will see you, sir. He is preoccupied.”

“Too preoccupied to accept my return?”

“Not likely, my friend,” Reth spoke from behind them. “He can stand some good news, for once.”

“It is true then.”

“The Last of the Brotherhood has said it.”

Sarr’a’s voice was still quiet as she studied this man who had left the Brotherhood before the destruction of Zoran. A series of increasingly severe disagreements with Deb’s father had culminated with his departure from the Brotherhood. Many in the clan still felt it: as Amik said, they had not chosen her to follow Deb blindly.

“God returns. We honor our word and turn to face Him.”

“My word was given as well, clan commander.”

This time he didn’t stop himself and a smile flashed through her eyes.

“Sarr’a.”

She looked to her commander.

“If he will, Reth can escort you to Deb. May we move your ship?”

“You may do whatever you wish with it, Sarr’a. I have no further use for it. Its safeguards are disabled.”

Turning to follow Reth, he paused.

“You should know, clan commander, that as many as thirty-five ships may be arriving although some may come together. Or not at all. I gave them my conclusions and the coordinates of this system.”

* * *

“So. The missing begin to dribble in. We are to welcome you, I suppose?”

Deb sat behind his desk, a fine edge to his voice and scorn in his eyes.

“Welcome or unwelcome, I am here.”

The reply was quietly even.

“Why?”

“I took an oath, sir. I am here to keep it.”

“You took an oath.”

Deb’s sneer drew a flush to the older man’s face.

“And now, suddenly, you remember it? You broke on watch. Should we trust you in battle?”

“Trust me or don’t trust me. That’s your choice. I am here. That is mine.”

He met Deb’s still scornful eyes.

“I made the wrong choice before. I do not believe your father was right, but I should not have left. I have come to understand that. I lived with the results of my choice. But I will not walk away from this. I gave my word. I am here.”

“And when we survive the end of time? What then? You go home to laugh at the scare with your Imperial friends?”

Deb’s voice was deadly cold. The response was colder.

“You are more like your father than my observations led me to expect. I am Brotherhood and I am home. Accept it or kill me.”

After a long considering moment, Deb sat back in his chair.

“Accepted.”

There was still no warmth in his voice.

“I am told there may be others. You will tell them what I have said to you and they may choose. Leaving the Brotherhood is not a choice I will accept twice.”

Chapter Twelve

“Child of the green mountains. We would speak with you.”

Continuously broadcasting that message, the Xackarn ship had openly entered the system and proceeded to orbit above the base. Deb was in his ship and hurtling up from the planet’s surface before Tor could react.

He was met at the airlock by a young Xackarn and conducted to what seemed to be the bridge. Within the ship, air that had been difficult to breathe on Xackar was stifling and the light approached being painful. Wishing that he had time to study their systems, he waited for the Oldest to speak.

The Xackarn was in full battle armor and, after studying him intently, hissed what seemed to be a command, then spoke to the Last of the Brotherhood.

“You will sit down, child. Your body labors with our air.”

The light had grown dimmer. For a moment, Deb wondered if he was going to black out, then realized it was in response to the Xackarn’s order.

“I wish to speak with you, not kill you.”

“Of what do you wish to speak, father of the Xackarn?”

The Last of the Brotherhood kept his tone neutral.

“You prepare for battle, child of darkness. It seems that you keep your word.”

“Seems?”

Deb’s voice held an almost reptilian hiss as he rose to face the Xackarn leader. They stood measuring each other, until at last the Oldest nodded in an almost human gesture.

“There are those of the children of darkness who did not follow you. We bring you their remains.”

Deb grew still as the Xackarn spoke, the pain in his lungs forgotten.

“And those of the humans who followed them. Humans have strange customs concerning the dead; we would not offend you by their omission. The hatchlings…”

The Oldest noted the Last of the Brotherhood’s increased alertness with approval. Human mating customs were incomprehensible, but a leader protected the young.

“…we return to you. They were found on the field of battle. So far as we are aware, we injured none.”

“Thank you,” said Deb quietly and with a gratitude arising from a complete understanding of the cataclysm just avoided. “How many children…hatchlings? Are they with you now?”

“The ship bringing them awaits my command.”

A hissing comment came from a Xackarn standing near them. The Oldest sounded amused when he spoke again.

“This son of my first mating reminds me of the circumstances of their capture. They were drawn up in battle order and it required much negotiation before they agreed to enter our ship. Even the young females showed fighting spirit.”

“We will remember that,” said Deb politely, wondering if there was more.

Golden reptilian eyes still measured him. The Oldest spoke again.

“We will not be slaughtered this time, child of the green mountains. We gather with the others. We were not able to kill all of those who once followed you.”

“After I have finished with God, Oldest of the Xackarn, I will finish with them.”

The Last of the Brotherhood’s voice had grown very cold.

“But I thank you for your assistance.”

* * *

“Are any of you injured?”

“No, ma’am.”

Looking down into the face of the clan commander, Renatha k’Thuen was making her first official report.

“My commander ordered everyone into the interior compartments during the attack and sealed the hatches. Then she negotiated with the Xackarn for our transport home.”

“Your commander?”

Sarr’a’s interruption was quiet and was ignored.

“This is the complete roster I had compiled the first day, ma’am. I marked the six who left to be with their parents.”

“And which one is your commander?”

Sarr’a’s voice was still quiet, but not to be ignored this time. Renatha k’Thuen took a deep breath.

“She wasn’t with us until almost the end, ma’am. Until she came, we were concentrating on keeping everyone fed and reasonably busy. They didn’t have much time for us. We thought… We didn’t think they’d hurt us until she told us about Skal’s order to send you the bodies. If he didn’t come back from somewhere. She led the raid on the weapons locker and got us organized to take the transport. Then the Xackarn arrived.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since…since everyone was settled on the Xackarn transport.”

The girl’s face was guarded. She was remembering the whispers among some of the groups of children when they went to the transport. Tes had heard them for sure; she’d seen her face before the other girl had turned away. Maybe Sarr’a would accept Jyn’s daughter as Brotherhood and maybe not. Telling the clan commander wasn’t her choice to make.

“Her name?”

Sarr’a’s patience was wearing a bit thin.

“We called her Tes, ma’am. She’s Brotherhood.”

A defiant note hung in the air between them.

There is a mystery I am not going to solve short of a full-scale interrogation, thought Sarr’a with exasperation. I don’t have time and she’s still a child.

“You did well. As did your commander. You may go.”

Turning away, she met Amik’s eyes.

“Protective of this commander, isn’t she?” he observed. “I have no record of ‘Tes’ being a battle name.”

“It’s a common failing of seconds, I think.”

Looking up sideways, she caught his quick grin.

“One of Skal’s who balks at killing children, I suppose. Who else?”

Her shrug dismissed the matter.

* * *

“I understand all of Fior’s images now.”

Deb’s voice was tightly grim as he and Reth walked through the hanger area where the bodies had been laid out, Skal’s people on one side and pirates on the other.

“Yes, Deb?”

Reth’s tone was similarly austere.

“What images?”

“When I questioned him during the battle, he showed me his tools.” Deb’s eyes were still moving along the rows. “A man dressed in black, in chains and bloody, with a broken sword on the ground before him: the Brotherhood or, perhaps, more specifically me. Another man who was half wolf: the Shamshir and his Direwolves. Children playing happily while a vile darkness consumed them: the orphans on Thune. A group wearing gray robes and cowls: his own High Council.”

“A bit of hubris, that one,” observed Reth.

“Not if he thinks he can control God. The rest would be only a minor manifestation of psychosis.”

Deb continued his enumeration.

“There was one more: a black serpent that I could not interpret. Skal was working with Fior even then although obviously the Master did not know he was…”

Deb’s eyes closed in fatigue for a moment.

“Not Brotherhood. Some part of Fior saw Skal more clearly than I did although not consciously.”

“What do we do with them, Deb?”

Sarr’a’s question was quiet from behind the two men. She was not referring to the pirates, a fact made apparent by the troubled darkening of her eyes.

“Bury them.”

Reth looked angry.

“They pollute the ground they touch.”

He stopped when he saw Deb’s face.

“They were mine once,” said the Last of the Brotherhood, for whom this civil war was extremely personal. “For that, I bury them. But no one speaks their names.”

“And when Skal is dead?”

Reth muttered it to himself, still angry.

“You may do whatever you choose, Reth,” Deb sounded tired now. “He was never Brotherhood and therefore does not even rise to the status of traitor.”

* * *

“It is odd to see you, to speak with you, and to know that you are not my Lord Sartak.”

The Rajkar Emperor’s voice was sad.

“He was a great man who fought very ably for the Imperium.”

“In many ways, I am he,” said Sartak, who was developing his own not always flattering opinions of his predecessor. “And in many others, I am not. It is difficult to know with each passing day of my life how much different I become.”

He paused.

“I know that his respect and love for you were very great, sir. Working with you, I understand why.”

He was feeling his way with this one. Rys was a schemer and therefore quick to accept the tools handed him by fate. Kilian, cold-blooded inheritor of a ruthless throne, was by comparison a romantic. Those who had conspired with him to free his dynasty of the High Council’s chains had to be his friends.

Sartak felt an echoing sadness within himself and knew that his former self had also recognized this weakness. The difference was that he had cold-bloodedly exploited it.

His thoughts were interrupted by Rys’s entrance. The man looked exhausted.

“Starways,” he said. “Starways has closed its doors. Overnight the buildings are empty, all the senior people gone.”

He had made it to a chair and now looked up at them, his breathing ragged.

“Starways was almost eight percent of our economy. And that is just the companies I am certain of. There are others. We will know soon.”

“Eight percent?” echoed Kilian. “How did we permit this to happen? And what are we doing to contain the damage?”

“I have ordered the fleet to take control of the shipyards, although there is precious little left for them to guard.”

Rys shook his head and answered the first question.

“They were just so good at everything. It was simpler to just gradually let them do it.”

“The shipyards are empty?” Sartak’s question was sharp. “But there were…”

Rys interrupted him.

“All the ships ordered for the next fiscal period, all the armaments and munitions, massive quantities of medical supplies, and the cash assets of these companies. We are, as I said, working to control the damage, but banks are already failing across the Imperium.”

He glanced at his Emperor.

“The Lady Kally has been missing for some time, sir. Now, her residence is empty of even the servants and the secret areas have been destroyed. Completely.”

“Weapons as well?”

Sartak’s voice cut across the Intelligence chief’s summary. He had less of his own ego invested; his head was clearer.

“I would have thought Imperial weapons too primitive for the Brotherhood.”

Rys sobered.

“Then you agree with my conclusions. But why would the Brotherhood move to destroy us now? But who else can it be?”

Sartak continued as though Rys had not spoken.

“I have been considering the rebellions, the disruptions in trade here and in the Confederation and I have wondered. Then the move against the Council: gratifying, but they have never made such a move in their history. And now, this complete and sudden abandonment of what must be decades of work. If they have sought our destruction, Rys, they would better have stayed as Starways. Another decade of growth…

“The Brotherhood withdraws for a reason, their own reason. Always, they work for their own ends. I fear this time I know why.”

Looking at the two with him, the Master continued soberly.

“You know that the High Council sought to contact God. It would seem that they managed through these people on Lanour. The High Council is gone, but what if their plan continues? What if He returns? It is said that the Brotherhood defeated his Chosen before. What if they are preparing to face Him again? What do we do?”

“You are making a series of possibly dubious assumptions.”

It was Kilian who recovered first.

“Am I?” said Sartak. “When we met that young man sent by the Last of the Brotherhood, did you not notice his lack of interest in us? The Brotherhood was being polite, perhaps buying time.”

The Master paused, then continued more quietly.

“The Power is of God somehow. And lately, it has felt odd.”

I have not always been certain that it was not me, he thought, but now I am.

“The God of the Algolana returns. I repeat: what do we do?”

* * *

He’d been sitting alone in the darkness for several hours, unable to sleep, recent events and history jumbling together in his thoughts. Murthoc had observed the effects of civil war in the Brotherhood: tightly set faces as they carried bodies to graves. The Last of the Brotherhood said to bury them. Perhaps he was right. They had been friends, relatives, comrades in arms to many who were still Brotherhood and insult to the dead lingers.

His thoughts snapped back to himself.

“I have been as naïve as Ketha,” he said aloud. “Looking for beautiful, heroic clan commanders striding across the stars, fighting for good and truth and freedom. As if they would make some difference to who I am.”

He felt someone enter the room and looked up as Amik spoke.

“I ask your pardon for the intrusion, Colonel.”

The clan second hesitated before continuing.

“I have received reports that you are talking to yourself in the dark. It is not that we are watching you so closely, Cully. There is some concern that you are finding this overwhelming.”

Murthoc was silent.

“You will understand that we are fond of our clan commander.”

Amik hesitated again.

“You would not know that they call you ‘Sarr’a’s colonel.’”

“Do they?” His voice was dry. “Does she know that?”

Amik grinned slightly.

“Sarr’a has several willful blind spots. You are one of them. Since it does not involve the safety of the clan, I have not discussed it with her.”

He went on quietly.

“You will have observed, Cully, that we are a very direct people. If one of us loves another, we tell them. And if we are rejected, we withdraw. Quietly, without a fuss. It is after all your choice. She will not ask again.”

“She might have tried ‘asking’ the first time,” observed the colonel tartly. “For someone who values understanding and directness…”

“You’re an offworlder, Cully. She doesn’t understand offworlders and she hasn’t tried before you. Mostly, she kills them.”

Amik shrugged.

“It is direct, you will agree, if not leaving much room for understanding. It is possible she wanted to leave you a wide avenue for withdrawal. Planning for defeat…I have never seen her do it before.”

Murthoc sat back in his chair. After a few moments, he said quietly.

“You’re right. I am sitting here becoming morose. In part, it’s because I feel cut off.” He glanced up at the clan second. “No more reports from…my aide. I expect you’ve closed that base and pulled everyone out of my office. And you don’t particularly care about much outside the Brotherhood right now. I still do.”

Amik nodded, willing to close the subject of Sarr’a.

“Of course. There are three days remaining before we leave here. Until then, I will arrange for a summary of our intelligence reports for you. I would give you access to them directly, but you can’t read the language. Perhaps later…

Teachings

“Theirs was an ancient realm that spun through the dark void round a cool red globe of gas. They had dwelt there through the long life of their sun’s aging. A quiet race that had striven in their youth and had found after eons a gentle flow to existence. Their stride was on more than two legs, their form repellent though fascinating to the humanoids who chanced upon them. Never did they seek, in the last years of their kind; contact with the young and boisterous races that had come to flourish around them. Their thoughts were their own, not shared with ‘the others.’ Their hopes were unknown to any others, if indeed they had what other races could understand as hopes. They were apart.

“When the great crusade was unleashed against them, it was not as it had been with the humanoids. There was no building of the great Altar, no sanctification and purification of the sacrifices. There were no sacrifices set aside to serve God and His Chosen. Their world was pointed out to the Chosen to be cleaned.

“Out of the darkness between the stars, the Algolana descended and began the herding of the creatures; evil and repellent in the eyes of the Chosen and herded not to the holding areas at the Altar base, but straight to the greedy colossus hands and maw of their God. Like some ravenous thing, He grasped them as enormous handfuls, forcing them into His jaws as they screamed in high-pitched horror and pain, their green body fluid, their blood streaming down and staining God’s armor as He ground them to a nauseating pulp and ingested them.

“Screams pierced the Chosen’s very skulls; the stench caused them to retch; the sight of their God in an uncontrolled orgy of gluttony sickened and polluted their souls.

“This horror continued until there was not an adult or hatchling or an elder remaining. And when the race was consumed, God set about destroying every artifact or temple or structure of any kind. His Chosen were too revolted by what they had seen to help in any way; they could find no comfort in their beliefs after that slaughter. God mocked His people when He saw how faint of heart they were.

“And of the race that had found a gentle flow to their existence during their long journey around their red sun: no name, no temple, no knowledge of their hopes or dreams remains.”

Chapter Thirteen

Squinting in the bright sunlight, Nat Bahadur tried to appear undisturbed by his surroundings. Although he had never previously seen one, he had been raised to view all non-humanoids as the epitome of evil and therefore God’s prey. He found breathing their air contaminating and disgusting.

Beside him, a man in a black uniform was speaking to the one he called the Oldest. The Brotherhood was also vile and evil. Nat recalled with some satisfaction spitting in the face of the Last of the Brotherhood. Deb had said that Lanour was gone, that he had killed the high priest and destroyed the altar.

Blasphemous lies. God would not permit such a tribulation to befall His people. Or, if He had, and within himself Nat acknowledged the truth in Deb’s voice especially when…

He did not want to remember being held by the throat, his feet dangling inches from the ground, as the blasphemer raved, boasting of destroying God’s people and His altar. He had even threatened God.

It was a test of his faith. God’s purpose was not yet revealed, but it would be. He would pray.

“Thisss one is the spawn of evil, child of darknesssss. Why bring it here?”

There might have been anger in the Oldest’s tone. Kaz could not be sure.

“The Brotherhood goes to face God as we have pledged, father of the Xackarn. The Last of the Brotherhood asks that you keep this one safely removed from the battle for him. Our people will not have time to watch him.”

There was silence, then another voice spoke in the sibilant Xackarn language. The Oldest blinked his eyes several times and hissed a response to the younger male who left quickly.

“A few momentss, child of darkness. A solution has been proposssed.”

Heat and sunlight grew more oppressive as they waited. At last, a group of Xackarn approached the pavilion and among them…

Kaz straightened as all expression left his face and his eyes grew watchful.

Her eyes carefully not meeting his in challenge, the young girl took up a respectful stance in front of the Oldest. She did not appear to look at the two humans, although Kaz was studying her.

After a few moments, the Oldest again spoke to Kaz. His tone was neutral as he implicitly claimed the human girl as Xackarn.

“This hatchling is of the clutch of the third son of my eldest son, child of the darkness. Although unproven in the rituals, he can watch your prisoner.”

Turning his back, he joined the group of adult males on the far side of the pavilion. Kaz continued his study of the girl, a scrutiny she now returned frankly.

“I am Val ar Toranet, on the staff of the Last of the Brotherhood.”

Her expression told him that she’d already read his insignia, but she did not respond with her own name.

“How did you come here, child?” he asked carefully.

She continued to look up at him, her eyes seriously weighing him.

“My choice, sir. I am almost thirteen.”

“You chose the Xackarn over the Brotherhood?”

He explored the idea, considering the improbability of coercion by the Xackarn, and not wanting to offend her.

“Of course not.”

Her tone held a scornful impatience.

“I am Brotherhood. I am also the adopted son of…”

The Xackarn name was to his ears an impossible collection of clicks and hisses. She did not falter as she spoke and responded to his question before he framed it.

“Yes, sir. They know I am female, but… It is difficult to explain.”

Her expression seemed earnestly open as she looked up at him, but he had just the most fleeting of impressions that something was hidden. Kaz squatted down on his heels so as not to tower over her. She was very small.

“What happened?”

Her gaze distant, she reported.

“You know about the children Skal held. I took command. We had just won control of the transport when we saw the Xackarn ships. I ordered the hatches sealed and waited. They don’t kill hatchlings in their wars, sir. I was almost certain of that. But battlefields are messy and with them attacking humans…”

“Most of my command were under the age of six. Good fighters, some of them.”

She grinned for just a moment, recalling the stunned expressions on some pirate faces.

“But how much can you ask and, in this case, to what purpose? The Xackarn took the base and the ship we were docked to. I let their scout see the youngest ones and sent him back. They started talking to us. It took awhile. I needed to be sure.

“On the transport, the Xackarn commander started talking to me after we had everyone settled. I think a female commander intrigued him. I have a good ear for language so he taught me some of theirs.

“He wanted to know about Skal’s people. I told him some, mostly about me actually.”

Her expression closed further.

“My father’s dead; my mother will be soon.”

It was said with a matter of fact directness that held him silent. That same directness had led her to ask to see the human bodies. Jyn hadn’t been there somehow.

“After I knew the children would be safe, I asked him if I could stay. He brought me here and adopted me. I am his son because females don’t count except to produce the eggs. I want to learn about them, sir.”

“Tell me your name.”

“I am Tesvan D’narr.”

She was watching him intently without appearing to do so.

“Of what clan?”

Straightening to her full height, she regarded him with eyes that expected trouble.

“My mother is clan second Triznan t’Nalth. You will know her battle name. Jyn.”

He didn’t react as she had clearly expected. Her voice held a note of tired defiance as she continued.

“I am not Skal’s daughter. And I do not follow him.”

“Evidently not,” he said dryly, then continued matter of factly as she looked up in surprise. “You are here, not with him. And presumably your parents followed custom in naming their daughter for her father’s line.”

Kaz rose. There was no time left for training and she was not quite thirteen anyway. It was a solution. He addressed her formally.

“Tesvan D’narr, I will convey your report to the Last of the Brotherhood and inform him that you are watching his prisoner. And I will tell him of your adoption. After we have dealt with God, you may make your formal choice. Whether or not you remain here can be discussed then. May I carry any personal messages for you?”

“There is no one,” she replied quietly. “I am not even sure of my clan.”

His hand went to the front of his blouse.

“Mine would welcome you.”

“Thank you.”

She accepted the insignia with a quiet dignity, hoping that he was correct.

“A message to our clan commander then explaining where I am.”

She paused.

“Tell the Last of the Brotherhood that the insult of a hatchling watching his prisoner reflects on the prisoner, not him. And they are not quite sure what I am.”

Her smile was gone when, after watching Kaz leave, she turned to her prisoner. Nat was finding events more and more loathsome.

“You’re a girl,” he said disdainfully. “A little girl living with filthy…”

Her lightning response left him face down on the orange clay. When he pulled himself to his feet, it was apparent that his nose was broken.

“Shall I set that for you or shall we let it improve your appearance?”

Behind her, she heard the high-pitched clicks which were approving Xackarn laughter.

* * *

Hours later, when her prisoner was asleep, her father summoned her from the pavilion where she sat talking to her clutch brothers.

“You must be respectful, hatchling. This gathering of elders requires your knowledge of the children of darkness. If you are not certain of your response, say so.”

“I will do my best, my father.”

The elders sat in a circle, which enclosed the Oldest at its center. Respectfully, her father announced their presence and they were permitted to enter. Peering at them carefully as she was learning to do, she saw with surprise that they appeared older than the Oldest. Clearly there was more to Xackarn society than the Brotherhood was aware.

Their discussion was of her prisoner.

“He is a part of the evil directly,” said one. “To send him here. Is it an insult or a threat?”

“It is neither,” said another to her left. “We are trusted with their most important prisoner. Is it not so, hatchling?”

Without looking up, she replied carefully.

“If the child of the green mountains chooses not to kill him, there must be a reason. A purpose.”

“But he is not their most important prisoner,” said the Oldest. “That would be the designer of this plot, this wielder of powers he does not understand. We must see what becomes of him.”

His eyes rotated to focus on the girl beside him.

“I am told that you have knowledge of those of the children of darkness who broke their oath. Are there many?”

Tesvan D’narr straightened, but still did not quite meet his eyes.

“No, father of my father’s father. There are not. Only a few fools who listened to an ambitious schemer.”

“Will the rest keep their oath?”

This question came from her right and, very plainly, the speaker doubted that they would.

It was difficult to remain respectful.

“Yes,” she said, managing not to growl the answer. How could they doubt it after seeing Val ar Toranet today?

“How can a hatchling know that?” His objection was fierce. “A hatchling of humans so careless that they lose it. And it is…it is…not male.”

“Although he is a hatchling, this one has already commanded troops in battle. You were present when it was decided that we must learn more of the children of darkness. Their customs and thoughts are not the same as ours. Of what use is it to ask questions of experts, if you do not listen and weigh the response without prejudice?”

The Oldest paused before continuing.

“These children of darkness have always kept their word and I have received confirmation of the oath directly from the child of the green mountains. Twice. This hatchling speaks with a becoming pride which may be mistaken, but I believe him.

“Still, the fleet stands in defensive order above us and I have sent several of our fastest ships to observe the battle. We shall see.”

Later, as she walked back to the pavilion where her brothers kept watch over her prisoner, Tesvan D’narr looked up at her Xackarn father.

“So I was chosen so that you might study the Brotherhood?”

The pride of hatchlings, he thought, correctly interpreting the question.

“You were chosen because you interested me, my son. And because you asked. I knew of the elders’ discussions and that the Oldest would accept you. You did well tonight.”

* * *

Noise from the rioters reached his ears dimly. Ant’n could hear the sounds of troops trying to contain the riots and of emergency vehicles rushing to control the fires and evacuate the injured. The Confederation was falling apart. Most of the Senate had gone home to their own worlds. And now, wild rumors that the Masters were somehow dead tore through the city. Nonsense. He had seen three admittedly rather bedraggled Masters himself, just yesterday.

His sergeant was gone. Just gone, without a word. So was Murthoc, but he was Eltharan so that was not surprising. Crant was dead, shot by some old soldier raving about guilt and the Brotherhood.

The Brotherhood… The Vice Chancellor recalled just how frightened he’d been when Murthoc told him of their survival. That clan commander with the dark, burning eyes… He hadn’t been surprised when people he had worked with started dying.

Vice-Chancellor Ant’n turned from filling his glass with Tenaran whiskey, to find a middle-aged man in civilian clothes standing in the center of the room. Despite those clothes, he was obviously a soldier. And he was holding a large knife.

“So,” said Ant’n, looking at his own death. “I was beginning to think the Brotherhood had forgotten me. You are here to kill me?”

“The Brotherhood? No, sir. I’m not the Brotherhood. I just had to wait ‘til they didn’t need you anymore. But we don’t need the Brotherhood to put our own house in order.”

His knife flashed and Ant’n lay dead on the floor of the room where he had wielded so much power.

His executioner left quietly.

* * *

Burning eyes watched her every movement as she and her staff completed the final evacuation of the base and prepared for their own departure. Judgmental eyes that weighed each of her words and actions as members of her staff walked carefully around him. The clan commander grew terser with each passing moment.

The storm broke, as they feared.

Sarr’a whirled to face the shadow behind her, anger glinting in darkly dangerous eyes.

“Why are you here?” she growled, fatigue and stress lining her face as she advanced across the room. “Even if Deb is as insane as all of you, he cannot still doubt me. I have pledged myself and this clan to him. I will not be intimidated or threatened on my own base.”

Unnoticed by those who were uneasily inching away from the confrontation, Murthoc came into the clan command center as the klerr’nadh spoke.

“Threatened?”

The word was a thin whisper of sound between his lips.

“I do not…threaten.”

Murthoc was between them. A suspended, breathless moment held before dry, croaking laughter filled the room. It stopped as cold, black eyes raked the colonel, then began again as the dark form turned away and left. The colonel felt himself pulled violently around to confront the clan commander.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, anger and incredulity warring in her voice.

“He threatened you, commander.”

Murthoc was still riding the adrenaline.

Sarr’a’s eyes closed for a moment. Around them, the murmurs of voices began as people returned to their stations.

“He is klerr’nadh, Colonel. Brotherhood, but outside. He follows the Last of the Brotherhood. And, of all of us, they are the most deadly.”

“Even klerr’nadh would not hurt your colonel, Sarr’a. Not without orders.”

The technician behind her, ashamed of his own failure to support his clan commander, tried to lighten the situation.

Sarr’a froze.

His face flushed, Murthoc’s eyes were still intent upon her and her reaction to that offhand comment. In his eyes, she read his acceptance of the designation.

Pushing the knowledge aside, Sarr’a drew a breath.

“We’re all tired,” she said quietly. “Did you have a question, Colonel?”

“I was told to report to you, commander.”

His response was as quiet.

“You will have observed that we are leaving. Do you come with us or shall I give you a ship?”

“I will stay with you as long as you permit, commander. I still don’t understand.”

Her eyes were gravely troubled as she replied.

“You will, Cully. You will.”

Teachings

“It came to pass after many generations that the High Priest was a righteous man, blessing the works of the Chosen, his people, as he discharged his duty to God. Moving joyfully from planet to planet, he sent the souls of God’s sinful enemies miraculously transformed as blessed sacrifice to Him. The High Priest welcomed the fruits of his people’s labor: the new worlds to be purified to His glory and called down the blessings of God upon the Chosen, that they might continue this sacred work.

“And it came to pass that the High Priest went forth to the Altar on a freshly harvested world. Clad in his armor, he strode through the assembled sacrifice. The wails of sinners filled his ears as a joyous anthem to the noble purpose of God’s Chosen. As he walked among them, they cowered away in their shame and covered their faces, as it was proper that they should do. And the High Priest felt his breast swell with just pride in himself and in the works of his people and he rejoiced.

“Almost at the Altar steps, scanning the prostrate and humbled sinners through the stern-faced mask which hid his smile, his eyes met those of a sacrifice who stood tall and straight and unafraid. For the first time, the High Priest felt himself revealed in all his faults and doubts, revealed before this sinner, as he had never felt revealed before his God. He stood as though naked before this man and faltered as anger and something a lesser being would have called fear passed through him.

“To an acolyte waiting to bring the sacrifices to the Altar, the High Priest said:

“‘Bring that one to my tent and hold him there until I return.’

“Such was the discipline of the Chosen that he was obeyed and during the hours of the ritual of sacrifice, they waited. In terror and bewilderment, the household of the High Priest awaited his return. This, that was to have been a day of feasting and rejoicing, became a day of uneasy fear.

“After the ritual of sacrifice, the High Priest returned to his tent. Wearing still the armor of God, he paused outside, recalling the piercing eyes of the one who waited within. After a moment, he removed his helmet and mask. In his pride, he needed to face this man without the protection of God. He could and would face him.

“Both the acolyte and the man rose as he entered. Prepared for a battle, the High Priest watched in startled amazement as this man bowed deeply, his hands held palm together before his face.

“‘I thank you for this hospitality which you have shown me,’ he said in a quiet voice and continued in gentle tones. ‘But what of those others who waited with me beside your altar? What hospitality have you shown them?’

“And for the first time, the High Priest, standing in the bloodied armor of God, smelled the stench of death.”

Chapter Fourteen

He shivered as the icy wind cut through him. The howl of it deafened him; the blackness of night blinded him. His struggle was toward some ill-defined goal.

Something.

He couldn’t remember what or why he sought it. It had been important, but he could no longer remember why.

All he could do now was to struggle forward, mindlessly forward, until finally he dropped to his knees. He was on the verge of weeping: weeping from exhaustion, from frustration, from the desperate, wrenching need to weep.

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Each time he cried out the question the wind softened, as if the world around became more hushed, straining to hear his words. As the wind grew still, he began to hear a voice. The silence allowed him to hear it more clearly. He recognized it; he was almost sure. What was it saying? It was his time to strain to hear.

“It was necessary. Just necessary.”

The voice came from the gloom all around him. And then the form of a man separated from the darkness and came toward him. With a sickening shock, recognition came. It was his father’s face and form that loomed above him; his father’s voice that had stirred at the edge of memory.

For a moment, confusion ruled him, but that gave way quickly to rage. Rage that lifted him from the ground as a quivering mass of knotted muscle ready to pounce. He was no offworlder raised for hypocritical posturing or taught rote meaningless pieties as substitutes for true feeling and their expression. He had been raised among the Brotherhood. He had no time or tongue or heart for diplomatic lies even with his father.

“Liar.”

He spat the word. His heart turned to stone as his mouth twisted to a sneer.

“Liar. You left me alone. You left me with no guidance, no direction. How dare you call that necessary?”

His rage driving him to inarticulateness; his mouth worked, but he was unable to continue speaking. An unbidden flood of memories overwhelmed him as he masked his face and, struggling, blotted out the world with his hands.

“You will not do this to me.”

He threw the words, hurled them like boulders at the enemies within and without. Madness filled his eyes again as he straightened and composed himself for battle.

He moved with a deadly purpose toward the phantom, this form risen from memory to taunt him. Suddenly, he stopped, indecision unmanning him for a moment. Then a curl twisted across his lips.

He had remembered where he was.

“You’re dead. You’re a ghost.”

He would taunt in his own turn.

“You’re a warped memory, a seven-year-old’s projection of pain. You’re nothing to me.”

“Are you sure?”

These were the softly lilting, dulcet tones of the Teacher, Nali. Her words cut like the sharpest quartz edge, but he turned from her back to the phantom.

“You chose to die,” he spat again. “Stay dead, coward. You saw this and left me. And took the Thousand with you.”

“It was necessary.”

Repetition did not make the stern words softer.

“Our enemies needed a wounded foe. And you, my son, needed blooding.”

His father walked away into the darkness and reeling as though slapped, Deb heard again:

“It was necessary. Just necessary.”

The words hung in the air and he was not certain which of them had spoken.

He turned at last to the other presence. Her sweet tones cut him again.

“Where were you after the altar on Lanour fell? Why could no one find you?”

His breathing became shallow and quickened. She had touched a dark place. In protest, he cried out.

“This is a dream. You’re not real either. It’s…”

“It is necessary, beloved.”

She echoed his father’s words.

“Necessary to remember who you are and what you do. You are the Last of the Brotherhood. You are charged to face the Algolana God and defeat it. You are given the tools. Where were you at Lanour?”

Dulcet tones were now steel, with words like hammer blows. When the Last of the Brotherhood speaks truth, all know it. When a Teacher of the Way truly questions, all truth is revealed.

His rage was draining away. And he remembered fully. The cold, clear memory of the path he’d traveled took form. He remembered Lanour after the altar and it sickened him, but he remembered with horrible clarity all that had occurred after the altar’s fall.

Necessary, just necessary.

A life and a lifetime of just what was necessary, just what was needed. He faced finally the full understanding of all that he was, had been, would always be. He knew the full depth of the slavery he had been born to and, at last, found a peace with his father.

At least, he hoped it was a peace.

“I am here, beloved.”

She spoke in response to the plea in his eyes.

Darkness gave way to a grayness and then to the subdued lighting of his shipboard quarters. As his head lolled from side to side like an overtired child longing for bed, he focused on her sitting beside him. He smiled the smile of a child at home, needing peace as he stretched out over the blanket. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he passed into sleep, his head resting on the crook of her arm.

With her fingertip, she gently traced the intricate pattern of deep scars that enmeshed his body and recognized at last her own folly. She was still tied to him and to the Brotherhood. And through them to the monster called God.

And when he awoke, hours later, it was not with a child’s eyes that he looked at her or with a child’s hands that he pulled her down beside him on the bed. He kissed her and she smiled up at him, her hair tumbling down around her.

But when she would have spoken, he stopped her and said very seriously.

“You may call me ‘beloved,’ but never ‘Lord.’”

His eyes grew more intent as he looked at her.

“This is for me. Just once, not for them. Not because it is necessary.”

And she smiled again as she traced the line of his face with her fingers, hiding the sadness and terror behind her joy.

“For you, beloved. Just for you,” she agreed, choosing life.

Around them, the Brotherhood gave them privacy until they emerged from his quarters in the morning.

Teachings

“Scarlet banners snapping against the deep blue of the sky, each ebon Shareem with its screaming skull proclaiming the fate of sinners, the Chosen of God stood in ranks to await their God. Armor glittered in the glorious sunshine of this newly saved world. No outsider ever survived to describe this barbaric splendor. Nearby, in their white robes, the sinners who were the sacrifice waited in terror.

“The High Priest moved through his people and climbed this latest Altar to the glory of God. He stood upon the Altar of God speaking the words of the ritual of invocation. And below him, his people awaited the blessings of God for this was a world newly brought to salvation.

“Many were the sinners who had labored to build this Altar to God’s glory. These waited now in cowering fear, as it was meet and right that they should do.

“And the High Priest’s mouth filled with the words that beseeched God’s mighty Presence among His Chosen, His Algolana, that He might receive His due: the sacrifice.

“And God came down from the clouds to stand towering above His Altar and found it good. The High Priest, as he had on hundreds of worlds before this one, moved to his place to begin the ritual of sacrifice.

“And then, he stopped.

“Below him, his people waited, their armor gleaming proudly in the sunlight now streaming through clouds created and scattered by God. Those waiting to be sacrificed, dazed and exhausted as they were, beheld God and fell trembling to their knees.

“And upon the Altar, the High Priest removed his gauntlets and with bare hands reached up and removed his helmet and mask, thereby standing bareheaded before his God and said:

“‘No.’

“God, in His titanic armor, leaned down from His great height to better see this, His Chosen priest.

“‘Begin the sacrifice,’ He commanded in tones that thundered.

“Uneasiness ran through the assembled ranks of the Chosen.

“And again the High Priest said:

“‘No.’

“The sky darkened with the growing rage of God.

“‘You are my High Priest. Begin the sacrifice.’

“For the third time, the High Priest said:

“‘No.’ And this time, he added. ‘These are my brothers.’

“Then God pulled back His arm to smite this sinful priest and He said:

“‘Then indeed you shall be the last of your brotherhood.’

“But before He could strike, another voice was heard, that of the commander of the warriors. He stood at the forefront of his people, as was his right, and his helmet lay upon the ground.

“‘Hold, Lord. I would not have God a liar. For you must kill me first, if he is to be the last.’

“Then God was fully enraged and His anger grew greater as another stepped forward.

“‘Kill me first.’

“Then another and another until the cry spread through the ranks of the Chosen even unto the tents of their households and, with their armor on the ground beside them, they spoke as with one voice.

“‘Kill me first.’”

Chapter Fifteen

“What do you think of my people now, Cully Murthoc?”

Deb’s voice came harshly from behind the mask. Algolana armor, real Algolana armor which made that worn by the high priest on Lanour look like a child’s costume, distorted his form. The terror of legend intensified the effect.

“But the Brotherhood destroyed the Algolana… Thousands of years ago.”

Murthoc’s mind clung precariously to pleasant myth.

“You cannot be the Chosen of God.”

“Are we not, Colonel?”

The Last of the Brotherhood’s voice grew bitterly harsher.

“God came to my people when we were very young and seduced us with lies and promises of countless blessings. With the hope of accomplishing great good for we fought against great evil.”

He removed the mask and his emerald eyes bored through the colonel’s.

“We have never been unchosen, Colonel. And now, God returns.”

* * *

Around the swirling clouds in a sphere with twenty-five parts, the Brotherhood’s fleet waited. Their attention focused forward on the vortex, but there were still those assigned to watch the assortment of ships gathered a generally respectful distance behind them.

Most, like the Xackarn cruisers, had been sent to observe and report on the battle’s outcome. The Ryllth, the P’tarc, all the non-human worlds waited.

Of the civilized worlds, the human worlds, the Rajkari had sent a small fleet with Sartak himself in command. Hugging the Power closely to him so as not to disturb, the Master sat and observed.

Several others, motivated perhaps by curiosity, moved restlessly as they sought a better view. Occasionally, one of them crossed a line drawn without announcement by those who watched from the great fleet and these were destroyed as casually as one would swat an annoying insect buzzing too closely.

And behind all of these, in ships pitted and scored by the debris of space, the vultures awaited the battle’s end.

* * *

“He is here, sir.”

The technician spoke quietly behind Deb. Turning, the Last of the Brotherhood saw Fior, still in stasis, escorted by two klerr’nadh. His body curled around itself as the Master still guarded his secrets.

“Release him.”

Master Baltash Fior awoke with the displayed vortex before him. Groggily, he stared at it, unable to comprehend its meaning. He gathered himself and stood. From behind him, he heard Deb’s voice say sardonically.

“You called Him, Fior. He comes.”

Triumph flashed on the Master’s face as he turned, to be replaced with awestruck wonder as he beheld the armored form of the Last of the Brotherhood.

“Forgive me, Lord.”

He stuttered as he dropped to his knees.

“I did not know.”

For a moment, Deb could not speak. Then he stepped forward until he stood above the Master’s ecstatic face.

“I gave my word not to send any souls to Him,” he said, his voice tight with fury.

Behind him, Nali went rigid, but did not speak.

“But you have no soul to send. Give Him my greetings, Master of Darkness.”

Turning his back as Fior began to scream, Deb ordered:

“Place him in a probe and fire it into that.”

He pointed to the vortex.

The bridge crew fell silent as the probe penetrated the maelstrom. And it began to change.

“It is dissipating: energy levels are dropping and the visible… clouds?”

The technician’s voice was doubtful of the description.

“Whatever they are, they’re fading. Look!”

Now his voice was stunned, as were the expressions of everyone watching. A planet had appeared, a gloriously green jewel flashing against the black backdrop of space.

“What is He doing?”

Reth’s question was tense, but quiet. As commander of the clans, he too was clad in ancient armor.

Beside him, the Last of the Brotherhood responded.

“A bribe, old friend. A glisteningly beautiful inducement to His service.”

Deb began to laugh; his laughter filled the bridge and echoed.

“A gift, in response to a gift.”

Beside him, two shadowed figures edged away. His was a madness beyond theirs. He turned from the displays.

“Where are you going?”

Tor’s question was sharp, but she made no move to stop him.

Deb met his sister’s eyes firmly and smiled.

“To negotiate better terms,” he said.

Walking to his ship, the Last of the Brotherhood was conscious of the astonished awareness moving outward in circles, first on this ship, then through the fleet.

“Zoran. It is Zoran.”

And not far behind.

“He is going to talk to God.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he is crazy.”

“What if…?”

Let them wonder, he thought as his ship carried him down to the surface of the planet. They have chosen to be here. Their questions about me do not matter. Within himself, he knew the next steps.

* * *

On each clan’s command ship, orders began to be issued in support of this move by the Last of the Brotherhood. And on each of these ships, a dark figure unnoticed until then, stepped forward and spoke harshly.

“Hold. You will await the orders of the Last of the Brotherhood. And make no move until you receive them.”

On the ship commanding the Brotherhood, Tor watched the displays intently. She stood on the cusp of being, noting the signals that told of the ship’s landing and the opening of the airlock. She waited, knowing that no one could help her brother now, focused totally on a moment she did not want to arrive.

Behind her, the klerr’nadh who had delivered the orders turned darkly burning eyes on Colonel Murthoc who had been observing events as through a gauze mask. Understanding etched itself in acid through his brain. Distantly, he heard the hoarse whisper and awoke to hear his dismissal.

“This is for Brotherhood. Offworlders must leave. Now.”

For a short moment, Murthoc considered. Then he met the klerr’nadh’s eyes in direct fearless challenge and held them while he replied.

“I believe that I also do not want God to be a liar.”

As he spoke, the colonel became aware of a throbbing pulse within himself, a summoning.

Surprise and, briefly, approval flashed in the shadowed eyes before they hardened as he turned to Nali.

“You are not Brotherhood, Teacher. You must leave.”

“No.”

Her response was quiet, almost as quiet as the silence now spreading from station to station on the bridge. It was apparent from her expression that only death would remove her. The klerr’nadh took a step toward her. She did not move away

Behind her, angry glowering eyes caught his attention and he saw a communications technician loosen her knife in its sheath. Around them, he heard the sounds of other knives. There had been a Teacher at the beginning; it appeared there would be one now.

He halted his advance. Scarred lips twisted as he spoke again, as gently as to a child.

“Your path of non-violence is easy, Jherret’tret’nali. When you have others who will kill for you.”

He saw her flush as he turned away.

* * *

Walking from his ship across the plain and up into the mountains, Deb experienced the perfect reality that accompanies some dreams. If there is such a thing as a religious, mystic experience, he thought without irony as he looked out over the beauty spread before him and breathed the heady, crystalline clear air; this must be what it is like.

Turning away, he resumed his climb, concentrating deliberately on the aches in his legs and the itch of sweat down his back. His humanness was magnified by the emptiness around him: no birds sang, no insects buzzed. Even the green of the rocks mocked the plant life it imitated. Zoran was a dead world.

Reaching the top of the mountain, he looked up. Rising into the clouds, the massively armored titan body stood upon two enormous legs such as legend said supported the very vault of the sky. His masked visage was bent downward, waiting.

“Who are you? Why have you come?”

Deb spoke it as both demand and command.

The colossus spoke in a voice that echoed against the rocks.

“I am God.”

It paused.

“Who are you?”

Stretching to look the thing in the eye, Tar Abzoladan spoke clearly.

“I am the High Priest of the Algolana, the Chosen of God.”

Smiling behind the mask, his left hand moved to his right shoulder as he spoke and when he finished, he pulled down hard.

* * *

Time and space do not suffer interruption lightly. Zoran rippled, fragmented, and vaporized. In what seemed an instant to those who watched, the planet with its occupants was gone and cold vacuum rushed to fill the still emptier hole of its passing.

Aftermath

“But what happened to his eye?”

This small boy stood firmly in front of her, demanding a response while the other children tried to hush him.

Fixing her with a clear aquamarine gaze, he repeated the question.

“What happened to his eye, Teacher?”

He was remembering to address her formally on this, his first day attending class.

“The Last of the Brotherhood left his eye on watch, child. So that never again will the Brotherhood be surprised by the coming of God.”

“Isn’t God dead?”

A small voice asked from among the group that had tried to quiet him.

And he was speaking again, but not really to her.

“Then that is why he screams sometimes.”

He had waited for this day. She could see him making deductions and already she could feel him moving from her.

“We cannot be certain.”

Rising, she continued calmly, sadness reflected only in her eyes.

“Your next instructor is expecting you, children.”

* * *

A single gleam of emerald brightness pierced the blackness, waiting.

Contact the authors at Zorantian@yahoo.com

Table of Contents

Foreword

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BOOK THREE

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen