SAVING PALUDIS
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Thriller; Suspense

Saving

PALUDIS

Clayton Graham

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 publisher.

First published 2018 by Graham Clayton

Creator: Graham, Clayton D., author

Title: Saving Paludis / Clayton Graham

ISBN: 9781386617228

Subjects: Extraterrestrial beings--Fiction.

Human-alien encounters--Fiction. Alien abduction--Fiction.

Copyright © Graham Clayton 2018

Cover Design by ART 4 ARTISTS

Yvonne Less

Map design by Mundas Media Ink

Michelle Rene Goodhew

Formatted by The Book Khaleesi

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or any events past or present are purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ALSO by CLAYTON GRAHAM

PROLOGUE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO by CLAYTON GRAHAM

MILIJUN

Book 1 of the Milijun Series

First Contact is imminent, but it comes with conditions…

Laura and Jason are on vacation when their lives are turned upside down by otherworldly creatures that fall to Earth in the dead of night. http://viewbook.at/Milijun

AMIDST ALIEN STARS

Book 2 of the Milijun Series

Mysterious and chilling events on an alien world threaten the interstellar survival of the human race…

They have awoken surrounded by alien stars.

The exciting sequel to highly rated First Contact novel Milijun.

ALIEN WHISPERS: Conflict and Communion

Book 3 of the Milijun Series

The battle for the minds and hearts of humans is on…

The stage is set for a conflict that will decide the future of mankind and its expansion into the Universe. The enthralling third novel in the Milijun series.

LOOKING FOR LIFE

Strap in, turn down the lights, and enter worlds that will stretch your imagination to the full…

With tales of alien invasion, deep space mystery, time travel, and dystopian future Earths, this is a collection which takes inspiration from the much respected ‘old masters’ of Science Fiction.

SILENTLY IN THE NIGHT

A great collection of short stories that will quickly get you hooked…

Mystery, murder and mayhem – plus a moment of romance.

PROLOGUE

Paludis is a verdant planet, one hundred and forty-four light years from Earth in the Pisces constellation. In the year 3898AD, it sits at the extreme of human colonisation, accessible only by a series of Einstein-Rosen bridges.

Having taught the alien population their Earth language, and instilled in them some of their Earth ways, the human invaders subsequently confined them to a remote peninsula on the north-east of the main continent. There they have remained for hundreds of years.

Paludis is the planet's Earth name; the alien population call their home Musk.

Following the subversion of the indigenous population, humans maintain a tentative footprint on this world, surviving on the proceeds of bauxite mining, with most living a hand-to-mouth existence. The higher echelon of industrialists, academics and politicians, however, dream of great things for the planet. They dream of grandness, of grandeur even, but they have forgotten what it takes, and where it really comes from.

Excerpt from the Muskan Chronicles, translated from the original in 3905AD:

The new star will shine in the sky for many, many years, but it will not shine forever. When it becomes dust, only then will the Muskan people be free.

Erbza-nich di grik zebfa, zebfa usk. Grik ni dez. Res dern, Muskez drelna.

-1-

PALUDIS, PISCES CONSTELLATION

144 LY FROM EARTH

Tak-Elno sat on his haunches watching the Paludis sun descend gently over the horizon. He was on the edge of the vast marshes that surrounded the western continent, the greenish hue of his tall body blending perfectly with the immense expanse of the surrounding emerald seas. At intervals along the shore, tall, hollow stems of cane-grass rose to the sky, three times his height, upright like Muskans on guard duty. As the wind rose and fell, the cane-grass heads, consisting of thousands of slender fibres, swayed in the breeze, creating an uncanny rattle in the still of the evening.

Rising to his two-metre height Tak-Elno looked across the bay towards West Paludis, shading his eyes against the purple sunset. He carried a carved and coloured length of cane-grass stem, which he had proudly made two Musk years ago. It was his staff and his symbol, representing the lineage of his family over the last four hundred years – since the coming of the human invaders.

Ancestral thoughts clouded his mind as he gazed morosely at the staff. He saw the faces of twelve generations in the pattern of his workmanship: a loving pattern copied down through the years. He saw the coming of the fiery monsters from the sky, the bloody battles, the inevitable defeat of his people, the herding of the surviving Muskans into the North-Eastern Peninsula of West Paludis. He saw the renaming of the planet. Of the ten million souls of four hundred years past, a mere two hundred thousand descendants were now crammed onto the peninsula, which had become a living monument to the defeated.

A cold wind drifted in from the Northern Ice Fields and Tak-Elno automatically closed his back-tube to breathe only through his small facial nostrils. More thoughts of those ancient times passed through his mind: the peace, the war, the herding. Even now, his people were not allowed beyond the peninsular barrier, a guarded stone barricade spanning the full two kilometres across the neck of their natural open prison.

He started the walk home, loin cloth flapping in the breeze, sleeveless jacket showing the strength of his arms, staff held braced across his shoulders. His high, sloping brow was furrowed slightly above expressive reptilian eyes, and his mouth was tightly closed. The sun was half-gone now, and as the air temperature fell, he could feel the blood rush to his skin. It was invigorating and he walked faster to increase his heart rate.

In the sky, the hated star-thing the humans called ‘the Bridge’ was growing brighter as daylight receded. The erbza-nich was always visible, but at night it seemed to shine as bright as the Muskan sun in daytime. Yet it did not illuminate his world. Far from it. It shone without giving light; it darkened every Muskan soul. It was the way the humans had come, the way their armada had filled the Muskan sky hundreds of years ago. It was a symbol of their dominance.

Tak-Elno started to run. He loved to walk and he loved to run. His only regret was that his territory was so limited. How must it have been in ancient times with all the planet to explore, all the continents to feel, beneath tired yet willing feet?

The Muskan dwellings were in sharp contrast to the human plastic and aluminium buildings that dominated the Paludis cities; in fact their design had changed little since the arrival of the invaders. Mature cane-grass stems were bound together to form the walls, and the roofs were constructed from woven cloth, painstakingly waterproofed and then stitched in place. Glass windows, donated by the humans, were reserved for the elderly Muskans who needed protection from the winter squalls. As Tak-Elno weaved his way through the narrow lanes towards his home, he acknowledged his neighbours with a raising of his staff.

He found his mate and children at prayer. They lay on their backs with arms lifted to the ceiling and their eyes closed. A high-pitched humming echoed around the room. They had not yet switched on the lights and Tak-Elno did so angrily. The noise stopped.

His wife glared. “You offend us,” she said quietly.

“Sezza! You and your god of the marshes,” snapped Tak-Elno. “He will not make my meal or carve my staff.”

Brel-Elno ushered the children to their room, and returned to her partner. She was tall, almost his height, and wore the traditional knee-length dress of her race tied by an orange sash around her slim waist. Like all Muskan females, her eyes were smaller and rounder than the male’s and her lips were fuller. She wore a plaintive smile upon her pale-green face as she put both hands around his neck and gently tickled his back-tube.

Tak-Elno pushed her away. “Now you offend me,” he said gruffly.

“Tak, you have been thinking of the ancestors again,” Brel-Elno said, addressing him by the short name reserved for close friends and family. “It always makes you so angry, so indignant. You do not share our god, our worship, but you do share our lives. All this you knew before our betrothal. Lately it appears to anger you. Why, Tak? Do you prefer the god of the humans?”

Tak-Elno bit the instant retort from his lips. He did not agree with his wife’s beliefs, but found those of the humans even stranger. A universal god was beyond his understanding, for surely a god of worth would live among his creations. The ancestral creator of his people was Garn, the marsh and ocean dweller, and for thousands of years it had been so, but Tak-Elno could not believe such a thing. The humans had come from the sky, and the sky was not part of Musk or the marshes! Garn could not have created the humans. They even scoffed at Garn without retribution! So Garn was not a god. Garn did not exist.

Tak put his lips to Brel’s. “I am hungry,” he said. “Let us eat.”

* * *

Next day, Tak-Elno made his way to the barrier and looked up at its moss-covered wall. Concave to prevent scaling, it was six metres high and ran the full length of the isthmus, encroaching some two hundred metres into the sea at each end, to allow for the small tidal changes. Of course, it could be swum around or even passed by what humans called ‘boats’, but that would be to flout the Muskan religion which decreed that the ocean was Garn's abode. No Muskan was allowed to enter or even float upon the waters. And so it had been for hundreds of years – maybe thousands.

Tak-Elno's smooth, green brow suddenly furrowed. Nevertheless, on a clear day, it was possible to see the human boats taking life from the water. Garn did not seem to mind that! He walked along the wall until his bare feet just entered the murmuring ocean waters. It was a winter noon, and the sea felt cold upon his toes. Even now he was breaking the laws of his people, but there was a stirring in his breast. Was he the first among his race to do such a thing? Perhaps not.

He entered the water further until it lapped his knees. There was no fear, at least not of Garn. The grand elders of Musk were another matter. Still, mused Tak-Elno, here at the northern end of the barrier, there is nobody to see. How clever the humans were to use the Muskan religion to imprison its own people.

He stood still in the sea, tribal memories rising within him, fighting against his self-imposed logic. A low hum abruptly invaded his thoughts.

A patrol car had stopped on the wall, its suspicions aroused by his presence.

The manned hovering vehicle dropped, and Tak-Elno saw the camera's eye veer towards him. The cars patrolled the top of the wall at regular intervals, day and night, ever alert for Muskan transgressions. He stared back at the camera, old fears rising to gnaw at his psyche and threaten his bravado. He slowly moved from the water. Then he turned east and loped away along the shingle beach, mouth and back tube open wide to feed his pumping lungs. The camera watched his retreat for a while until the patrol car rose to continue its surveillance.

* * *

Shean James, chief executive of Western Mines, hated spaceports, and West Paludis’s was no exception. Even the bar, where he now sat, radiated an air of uncaring indifference. He was dressed in a light grey suit, a broad man with a head of brown hair that belied his middle age. Through the window, he could see the tall spires of the city, silhouetted against the large gold-red moon they called Muskluna – named as a gesture of appeasement to the indigenous natives. He smiled inwardly as he shifted his considerable weight on the support stool, covertly eyeing the ample bust of the bar attendant as he did so. The old native Musk was now Paludis, and as human as any of the other populated planets in the universe.

He had just returned from Muskluna, in transit from a business meeting at Centauri One. It had not gone well. The representatives from Earth were becoming hard-headed, or Earth was sinking into poverty, or maybe they’d just been hoarding bauxite. The mineral − the lifeblood of Paludis − was at its lowest level in decades.

The smile continued on his lips as he thought of George Andrews, the general manager of rival mining company, Saltzburg Bauxite. George had been caught with his hand in the till – a good many tills actually – to the tune of over three hundred million dollars. This on a day when many of SB’s employees had been made redundant. Maybe the scrawny rat had seen the writing on the wall.

A dull-throated roar interrupted his meandering thoughts. Through the window, he glimpsed the tail aurora of a mineral ship rise into the growing darkness. There were usually three flights a day but soon it would be two, then maybe only one. Already two of his smaller competitors had retrenched a fifth of their workforce, and tomorrow he had the arduous task of doing the same. Tonight the bars of Spaceport, Kentucky and Lakeside would be rife with rumour – recession, depression, even revolution. Not this bar though; the prices were too high. He downed his fine Paludis whisky and left for home, wondering whether the East Paludis syndicate knew of the latest market price.

* * *

George Andrews fumed in his prison cubicle. His vulpine face was tortured in anguish, and his thin neck seemed bowed under the weight of his head. How could he have been so unlucky? An audit because of the market conditions, an over-zealous company clerk, and a freak shot from a guard’s stun gun. A pain in the butt, all of it, especially the guard’s contribution.

His small frame was clad in standard prison garb: grey sweatshirt and grey shorts, no shoes or socks. The cubicle was about the size of a toilet and no more comfortable. A sudden tremor shook the ship, and his eyes momentarily blurred as the vessel emerged from the Bridge. He imagined Earth’s moon growing larger as the huge freighter sank to the well-trodden surface, dust rising and settling continuously under the barrage of tracks, feet and landing legs. Shit! Was he really destined to spend years of his life on this long-forgotten slum of human exploration? Mined out hundreds of years ago, Earth’s moon was an empty shell, a mausoleum to human greed, now used as a dumping ground for renegade individuals and waste materials.

Moments later, George stood with scores of other prisoners in a high-roofed reception area, next to the main arrival hall. There was no decor of any kind, not even any direction signs. George looked around furtively and felt a strange sort of superiority as he studied his fellow captives, a particularly unsavoury bunch – and he knew unsavoury when he saw it. One by one they were identified and led away. His name was called, and he stepped forward to face the tallest human he had ever seen. The man must have been over two and a half metres – taller than a Muskan – and George’s air of superiority immediately vanished.

“Andrews G,” the man said. “Follow me.”

Was there an amused smile on his lips? George, biting back a retort, reluctantly shadowed the official down a poorly lit corridor. They entered a small office, and George was bade to sit. There was a screen on the desk with George’s name glaring from it.

“George Andrews. Thirty-two years. One point five metres. Embezzlement. Sentenced to confinement of ten Earth years. Correct?” The official peered hard at George and frowned.

George nodded. The man was even more threatening behind a desk, maroon uniform lending an aura of menace, white collar and flamboyant tie an affront to George’s grey simplicity.

“A long time, ten years,” the man continued, casting a casual glance at his watch. George jerked. He was quite aware how long ten years was.

“You’ll be forty-two,” the official continued. “Middle-aged and marked for life.”

George began to feel like a miscreant schoolboy.

“Why did you do it, George?”

There was silence as George, who hadn't spoken for light years, gathered his wits. He looked beyond his interrogator at the wall behind. “I don't─”

The official shouted him down. “Damned stupid! Damned stupid!” He got up and walked behind George's chair.

A shadow fell across the room, and for a brief moment George thought he was going to die.

The voice came again, quieter.

“You're a lucky man, George. We're going to give you a choice that is offered to only a handful of felons.” The shadow moved as the officer returned to his chair and stared into George's eyes. “You can do your ten years, or you can volunteer for PMC − Personality Malfunction Correction.” The stare lingered on.

George blinked, totally intimidated. “What's PMC?”

The man smiled banefully. “I just told you.”

“If I’m to make a choice, I need more detail.” George felt his hopes rising. He had managed to speak with some of his usual authority.

“Of course. It's a program of drugs, subliminal lectures and other painless treatments. It lasts for days.”

“And afterwards?”

“You're a free man. To go wherever.”

George frowned. “I didn't mean that. What does the treatment do? How will I feel? Are there any side effects?”

The broad jaw of the official expanded into a wolfish grin.

“It turns you into a good boy. It turns ten years into four days.” The eyes suddenly glinted, full of urgency. “It releases an intelligent man back into the workforce.”

“Side effects?” George chewed his lips and frowned.

The man shrugged. “Depends. Some people suffer memory loss. Not total, quite small in fact. A small price to pay for freedom.”

George breathed deeply. “Will I remember my, uh, crime?”

“It's the most likely thing you'll forget. But it doesn't really matter. Even if you remember, you won't be tempted again.”

Perhaps, mused George, and perhaps not. After all, he'd spent the last five months planning his criminal escapade. There were an awful lot of memories.

“And I'm a totally free man?”

“Totally free.”

“Could I go back to Paludis?”

“George,” the official said, “this treatment is so good you could even have your old job back.”

George stared in total disbelief. They must be mad. It was crazy. Like a dream.

“Many PMC patients return to their old job and perform better than ever. It's as if the treatment erases all their old hang-ups and inhibitions.” The official certainly made it sound true.

“How long do I have to decide?” George asked.

“About two minutes. Surely there's no choice? Ten long years in questionable company, against four days, then back earning your favourite dollars again.”

George sighed. “Okay. I'll do it. I'll take PMC.”

The official nodded. “Pleased for you.”

“Two more things,” George added. “What if I forget all my training? What use will I be to anybody then?”

The tall purple figure rose from behind the desk. “PMC will contain a re-training component, so don't concern yourself about that aspect. Your superiors are most anxious for you to undertake PMC. You’re a valuable man, George, a valuable man.”

The official swiftly pressed the door-release panel and disappeared from the room. The door slid shut, leaving George alone with his thoughts.

Five seconds later, George was unconscious as a powerful, odourless gas filled the office.

* * *

The grounds of Tanberg University were peaceful at dusk, full of sweet bouquets and lilting birdsong. The verdant lawns were carefully manicured, the flower beds a riot of colour, the paths well swept. The southern hemisphere summer was at its height. Everything was cloaked in peace. Yet the heart of Simon Sangster could not be stilled.

He lay in a hammock slung between two mature cane-grass plants, eyes closed to the world, thoughts concentrated on one single topic − the kelp forests of Paludis. They swayed before him like a group of Martian beauties, tantalising and full of promise. His research meant a great deal to him; it was his life and his blood, and after five long years, success had come unforeseen and instantly raised his spirits to the stars.

The university was the only one on Paludis. The first three hundred years of human settlement were not ones of education; they were dark, ruthless years of savage wars and frantic mining. People died to make Paludis prosper. And then, a hundred years ago, wealth had blossomed as if deistically ordained, and with it came the proud construction of the Tanberg University campus, serving both west and east continents in their academic pursuits. It was part of the growing, part of the feeding off the dreadful past. The campus had spawned many achievements − new, efficient methods of bauxite mining, the hovercar, the land-growing cane-grass genus. And now, the crowning glory − the magic of the kelp.

Study of the Paludis seas and marshes was relatively new, going back no more than ten years. Everything was so unique, so different, and the concentrated scrutiny of the kelp’s properties had reaped dividends within an unbelievable five years. It was a dream come true. The kelp was everywhere, an infinite source stretching around every land mass on the planet. Fame and fortune would surely come to Paludis, and not a moment too soon, if the current rumours concerning bauxite were correct.

Such thoughts that occupied Simon Sangster were, however, plagued by one huge menacing black cloud: the apparent necessity to involve the business community in the kelp discovery. Simon, young, prematurely balding, still lived in a theoretical world of numbers and processes, which had scant regard for, and deep suspicion of, commercial activities. The academic world was his forte, safer and much more interesting. He stirred in the hammock and stretched his short, stubby frame. Heavens! The power of the kelp scared him to death.

-2-

The office of the President of Paludis exuded an uneasy air of foreboding as the assembled group awaited the planet’s leader. Gathered there were Shean James, the Western Mines chief; Richard Vidmar, Dean of Tanberg University; Chief Finance Minister, Michelle Sanson; and Edward Rodriguez, a top executive of Saltzburg Bauxite.

The room was circular with an imported table of maple wood dominating the floor. The chairs were fashioned from Paludis cane-grass stems and upholstered in a plush green velvet, which matched the deep-pile carpet. Several exotic plants were placed around the pale cream wall, one area of which was devoted to a panoramic window overlooking a water garden where streams ran and splashed between knee-high flowers of many hues. As was the case in many such places throughout the galaxy, portraits of past presidents ran prolifically around the circumference, as if in orbit around the seating area.

An external corridor rang with footsteps. The door opened and President Aaku Johansson swept into the room and immediately sat at the table. He was a tall, wiry man with silver hair and a large, sharp nose. Aged fifty, he commanded attention easily and had served Paludis well over the last three years.

“Welcome to Kentucky,” the president said. “You all know why we’re here so let’s move straight on.” He looked at Shean James. “The bauxite drop. How does it affect you?”

“We’re extremely vulnerable,” James answered, his cheeks wobbling as he spoke. “We retrenched twenty per cent last week. Smaller companies were already at that stage prior to the latest drop. Additional redundancies are inevitable, and any further drop in demand will be calamitous.”

“It’s the same on East Paludis,” Rodriguez interjected. “We’ve had suicides. Saltzburg Bauxite is gone. What’s left of our workforce is on strike. Even the plant at Stanley has one-quarter retrenchment. It’s a nightmare.”

President Johansson held up his hands. “I get the picture.” He scanned the table meaningfully. “If the price holds as is, can we survive?”

Michelle Sanson answered. She was nearing retirement, petite, silver-haired, still beautiful in a white trouser suit that clung neatly to her figure. Next to the obese Shean James, she looked what she was – a different breed. “Financially, we could get by. There will have to be adjustments. Lower living standards, fewer workers in the mines, alternative work found.” She grimaced. “If there is another fall...”

Shean James’s fear made him belligerent. “This whole planet depends on the mines. There is no alternative.”

“We must send a deputation to Earth,” said Rodriguez without much conviction. “Tell them of our situation.” He shifted his muscular frame restlessly, and the cane-grass chair creaked in protest.

“Yes, of course,” Johansson responded. “We must at least do that.”

Shean James gave a short laugh. “I’m sure they know already. After all, the bastards control the universal markets. They’re probably behind the whole thing. In any case, we’re too far away. Why should they care? They’ve already shown they don’t. Demand is dropping. What the hell do we ask for? Subsidies? Loans? How long for?”

Silence descended and Shean James got up and strolled to the window. This was doing his blood pressure no good at all! For that matter, neither was sitting next to Michelle Sanson who, like many female Martians, simply oozed sex appeal. He grabbed a capsule from his pocket, and hastily swallowed it, before re-joining the group.

Richard Vidmar abruptly stood. “We suffer from lack of diversification, which is obvious. What we can do? That is not so obvious.” He was a medium-built man, middle-aged, ordinary in appearance, with a double chin and receding hair. His small brown eyes darted from face to face as if checking they were all awake. He smiled abruptly, turning his own features into a fair imitation of the full Paludis moon. The others stared back at him in dull reticence.

“Two months ago,” the dean continued, “one of my department heads came to me with details of a discovery that may help our current dilemma. The discovery, I might add, was no overnight sensation; rather, the culmination of many years of dedicated work.” He paused to ensure he had their attention, and the sound of creaking chairs filled the room.

“The discovery,” Vidmar went on, “involved the processing of this planet’s prime natural resource, other than bauxite, of course.” He paused as if expecting the others to hazard a guess, but there was no response. “I refer, lady and gentlemen, to kelp.” A patronising smile played around his lips. “The kelp forests that surround all our major land masses.”

There was still no reaction from his audience and a more discerning speaker would have picked up the atmosphere of disbelief among his listeners. The dean, however, was undeterred.

“I believe that kelp is Paludis’s next major industry. Indeed, I believe it will make us extremely rich and,” he added with a glint in his eye, “all-powerful. Linked in with humankind’s expanding Einstein-Rosen bridge network, universal exploration should be boundless.”

The Tanberg dean looked so pompous that Shean James had an insatiable urge to throttle him there and then. President Johansson was a little more diplomatic.

“This is fascinating, Richard, but to start a new industry here would take billions of investment dollars. Think of the machinery, the new skills required. It would take years.” The president looked hard at Vidmar. “And you have yet to inform us of the nature of the product.”

The dean smiled, face aglow. “The product is...” He paused, and Shean James raised his eyes to the ceiling. “The product is a sleeping pill.”

A stunned silence gripped the room, only to be broken by a huge guffaw from James.

“A pill! A damned sleeping pill.” The eyes of the Western Mines executive bulged and he clawed for a handkerchief. “Our saviour is a damned pill!” His laughter continued, echoing around the office to be taken up by Edward Rodriguez. As the two large frames creaked their chairs into submission, Michelle Sanson and her president exchanged embarrassed glances.

The laughter eventually ebbed, leaving an uneasy quiet in the room. Tears rolled down Shean James’ cheeks and Richard Vidmar’s rotund face showed the faintest hint of annoyance.

Johansson waved his hand at the dean. “Please elucidate.”

“Gladly,” Vidmar said, regaining some of his superior air. “At Tanberg, we have produced what we think is the perfect sleeping pill. Sleep comes within a few seconds and is the pure, normal sleep we all need. Furthermore, lady and gentlemen, that period of sleep can be timed exactly to within a tolerance of one minute.”

James was listening now. It was getting interesting. “You mean that a body can be put to normal sleep for a pre-determined period?”

Vidmar nodded. “To a tolerance of one minute, the period depending on which pill is chosen.”

Michelle Sanson’s mind was racing. “You have obviously done trials.”

“Yes. On volunteer students.”

“What is the longest period of sleep induced?” Sanson’s eyes reflected brightly in the subdued light of the room.

Vidmar beamed and took a deep breath. “One month, lady and gentlemen.”

* * *

Michelle Sanson’s small figure was dwarfed by the roof-high pillars of the Tanberg University hall, which towered up to the vaulted ceiling twenty metres above. The pillars were assembled in segments after the style of ancient Earth, and mated to the soaring arches by intricately carved capitals.

It was the weekend following the presidential meeting, and most students were away or in the adjacent library. Michelle checked her watch impatiently. Was Vidmar deliberately keeping her waiting?

Her name suddenly echoed around the empty auditorium and she glimpsed the dean beckoning from a doorway. She strolled over, long red dress trailing the flagstones, following him into a lavishly furnished suite, which made the presidential office seem like a prehistoric cave. Michelle made a mental note to reduce the university stipend for the next fiscal year.

“Sorry about the delay,” Vidmar said. “Personnel problems. Have a good trip down?”

Michelle nodded and took the offered chair. Behind the dean stood the obligatory bookcase full of historical books, which probably hadn’t been touched for years. Vidmar’s huge desk was covered by lizard skin and carried an antique Earth computer and an even more antiquated pen set. Trappings of authority, Michelle mused. The dean’s chair was at least ten centimetres higher than that of his guest.

“Now,” the dean said, leaning forward over his desk, “you would like more details on the pill?”

“Yes,” Michelle replied. “The ministry would like to know financial details − how much they cost to produce, what capacity you can handle, if you can reduce cost in any way?”

Vidmar fished inside a drawer and pulled out a slim file, which he pushed ceremoniously across the desk. “It’s all in here,” he announced with a flourish. “Not information on the process, of course, but most everything else.”

“Thank you,” Michelle said, casting a casual glance at the document’s screen. “Can I see your laboratories?”

The dean had expected the question. “Most certainly,” he replied. “There’s no one there at the moment and there’s not really much to see, but you’re most welcome.”

The laboratories were indeed a disappointment. Rows of tidy benches covered by various pieces of gadgetry met Michelle’s gaze as her dull footsteps echoed down the central walkway. Each separate bench had an array of adjustable spotlights on an overhead gantry. There was no sign of any kelp, so Michelle asked the question.

Vidmar chuckled. “It comes into here as powder. We receive it in the basement, dry it out and then powder it. Quite medieval really.”

Michelle didn’t believe a word of it. “Do you add anything to it?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

“We don’t actually,” Vidmar replied, smiling, “but it undergoes some rather special treatment.”

They moved through the laboratory swiftly, the finance minister learning very little. Vidmar stopped in the corridor and turned to his visitor. “Would you like to see a demonstration?” he asked.

Michelle nodded, then scuttled after the dean as he bowled along the corridor.

After half a minute at frantic pace, they stopped. Vidmar produced a key and with an exaggerated flourish unlocked a passage door. He entered the room first and relieved the darkness by palming a switch. In the low light, Michelle was surprised to see a figure lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed. The face, rather pale, protruded from a clean white sheet. They approached in silence.

“He’s asleep,” the dean said, stating the obvious.

Michelle peered at the face. It was young, presumably a student, male, narrow of countenance with dark hair. The chest rose regularly in the primeval movement of breathing. She put her ear to his chest, heard the heart, faint and beating perhaps every eight seconds. She put the palm of her hand over his mouth to feel the warm breath. She was, she had to admit, fascinated. Then she noticed the small wire running through his hair and touched it gently.

“What’s this?” she whispered.

Vidmar answered in his normal voice. “A monitor. It records all brain activity during the period of his sleep.”

“Which is?”

“In this case, three months.” He stared at her, as Michelle caught her breath.

“You told us one month.”

Vidmar nodded. “One month for the full cycle of sleep and awakening is the maximum to date. This student will be the first to sleep for three months.”

“You’re sure he’ll awaken?”

“Of course. They always have.”

“Is there a theoretical maximum?” Michelle could feel her heart thudding within her breast.

“No,” replied the dean thoughtfully. “It depends on the concentration and the amount.”

Michelle’s mind was now racing to match her heart. “Don’t they awaken from hunger? Don’t they lose weight?”

“Fair question,” Vidmar responded, “but the fact is they don’t. At least over the one-month period we’ve tried so far. The body appears to metabolise differently. The pill negates the need for protoplasm. Of course, there may come a point when liquids need to be introduced, but I don’t see that as a problem.”

“But there must be a limit.” Michelle felt the first pangs of a strange, chilling fear. “Three months. Six. A year. A hundred years.”

“No theoretical limit,” Vidmar emphasised.

“But the possibilities are endless,” Michelle said. “Space flight, medicine, perhaps even time travel − to the future at least − if anyone should be so stupid.”

Vidmar threw up his hands in mock dismay. “Dear lady, stop. We cannot yet say the body does not age during sleep. It certainly metabolises slower, but that is all we can say at this stage.” He caught Michelle’s frown and smiled. “However, I trust you comprehend how this discovery may change our lives.”

All our lives, thought Michelle. All the damned lives in the known universe.

Since the discovery of the suction warp drive, the only barrier to further human space exploration was the frailty of the human frame under the combined and prolonged exposure to cryogenics and bridge distortion forces. Maybe now that last great hurdle could be overcome.

Three days later President Johansson, Richard Vidmar, Michelle Sanson and

Simon Sangster were on their way to Earth. Sangster carried twelve of the sleeping pills, ranging from one hour to one month’s duration.

* * *

Tak-Elno opened his back-tube and took an augmented breath as he arched his body from the water. A quick glance in the gathering dusk told him he was a hundred metres from the shore − the shore on the human side of the peninsula barrier. He laboured on, even now learning more efficient arm and leg movements as he threshed through the water. There came the touch of gravel beneath his searching feet and, floating gently face down, he raised his head to survey the beach.

To his right, he made out the barrier, perhaps two hundred metres distant, snaking into the mist, and on the left the beginning of the eastern coast of West Paludis. Ducking his head under the sea to remove plankton residue from his face, he marvelled at the automatic closure of the back-tube, at the way his transparent cleaning membrane protected his eyes. Surely his race was bred for the water. Lifting his head once more, he saw the flicker of lights, which signalled the presence of human settlement further round the bay. He rose, waded to the shore, and sank to his knees on the beach of moon-kissed pebbles.

He had done it! He had flown in the face of Muskan tradition and flouted the laws of the sea-god, Garn. Exhilaration coursed through his veins. Was he really the first Muskan to swim since his ancestors of many hundreds of years past had played and hunted in the freshwater lakes of the northern lands? He wondered what Brel would say if she could see him now. Certainly, he could not share this secret with her.

Tak-Elno gazed at the stars as they were born in the darkening sky, one by one, sometimes as twins, and wondered if the human sun was among them. The Bridge was there, too, a construction of detestation. The grand elder priests had recently said the humans were in trouble, that their way of life was in jeopardy, that soon Muskans would rule Musk once more. Tak-Elno was not so sure. He did not trust the priests, or their holy writings and prophecies. Sezza! What would they do to him if they knew he had swum to the other side of the barrier wall? What would the humans do, if they found him? Only priests and representatives were allowed on this side of the wall, and then only for arranged discussions with the humans. Tak-Elno was neither, but he was fit and headstrong, and possessed a challenging mind. From where he was now, the barrier looked like what it really was − an artificial means of imprisoning his people. It may be better that way, but it hurt him to behold it.

Taking a deep breath, he noticed the drop in air temperature and decided it was time to swim back. No sooner had he stood to enter the water than the hum of a hovercar broke the dusk silence, and a strong light abruptly pierced the surrounding gloom. The vehicle was on the road leading to the barrier. He crouched, still at the water’s edge, and saw the hovercar’s tail lights pass, then stop as the car reached the barrier’s portal. A search buggy, approaching swiftly, pulled up behind the hovercar and Tak-Elno felt a shiver slide down his spine. Although the smaller buggy was unmanned, it could be more of a threat than the hovercar patrol. It was all-terrain and possessed weapons, and he knew the guards within the wall were able to view what it saw on special screens. This much he had learnt from his uncle, a Muskan representative of long standing.

Tak-Elno crouched lower, not knowing which to fear most – the buggy or the occupied hovercar. He closed his back-tube against the cold and swivelled to slide into the sea. The hum of the buggy grew suddenly louder, echoing weirdly and sinisterly in the night. Tak-Elno saw its lights turn and come towards him. He could just distinguish the sleek, alien shape in the reflected glare.

The buggy suddenly slewed from the road, dropped and gave birth to savage, electronic shouts that cleaved the air like thunder. Tak-Elno rose in confusion, and started to run into the sea. Diffused white light enclosed him. A sharp pain hit his right thigh and he collapsed into the shallows, senses lost amidst a cacophony of sound and illumination. His head swam then he sank into darkness.

* * *

Consciousness revealed the sound of muted voices and the low hum of electronics. Tak-Elno opened his eyes slowly, recalling the events of his sudden capture, and found himself gazing, for the first time ever, into alien human eyes.

“He’s awake,” someone said. Footsteps sounded and stopped. Tak-Elno’s arm was shaken and he felt water offered to his lips. As he drank thirstily, the room came into focus.

There were two of them standing over him. He was lying on a simple bed attached to a bare aluminium wall.

“How did you get on our side of the barrier?” The voice was calm but strangely guttural in his ears.

The Muskan closed his eyes. It was no secret, yet he felt an unwilling pang of conscience as he told them.

“You swam?” one of the guards echoed incredulously. “That’s against your beliefs. Why should we believe you?”

“I don’t hold Muskan religion,” Tak-Elno answered. He was feeling stronger now and able to look around the room. There were four simple cane-grass chairs, a huge screen at one end, which viewed the night as if it were day, a picture of two naked human females on another wall, a row of humming consoles. He imagined he was inside the barrier.

“A damned rebel,” the taller of his two captors sneered. The other guard felt

Tak-Elno’s loincloth, wet beneath his fingers, and nodded.

“He swam alright. Unless he pissed himself.” They laughed loudly together.

“Why did you do it?” the tall guard asked.

“Kibra zel-na. Because it was there,” Tak-Elno replied, feeling pleased with himself. He had read that response in a six-hundred-year old human text − a standard reply for most voyages of exploration.

“Smart ass!” The guard admired his spirit. “What do we do with you?”

Tak-Elno remained silent. If his own people found out he may be better off staying with the humans.

-3-

ONE MONTH LATER

Michelle Sanson awoke abruptly and opened her eyes. The mission to Earth had been a success, and their demonstrations had greatly impressed the mother planet’s authorities. She had been so influenced that she was now awakening from a one-month hibernation imposed by the pill. If the timing was correct the Paludis moon would currently be hanging beneath her viewport.

Stretching stubborn limbs, she craned her neck to look outside. There it was, Muskluna, a florid pearl on an infinite dark canvas. Breathing slowly and deeply, Michelle examined her mind for after-effects and found only clarity of thought. If truth be told she felt marvellous, full of life. The transfer through numerous bridges, which she usually found traumatic, had left no effect and she indulged a sensation of self-satisfaction for embracing the sleeper technology.

Minutes later, the interstellar was settling at Del-Shangi, the Paludis moon’s transit city, where they would take the shuttle to Paludis. The group disembarked in a buoyant mood, talking excitedly about the promised finance that would enable design of the kelp-harvesting vessels and processing plants. A new Paludis era was in the making. Within months, the project would be in full swing. Furthermore, the ships and plant would use aluminium in their construction and thus alleviate the current unemployment problem.

On their way through the transit hall the small group suddenly shuffled to a halt, as President Johansson paused in his determined stride to stare at a videonews screen. It showed a close-up of a Muskan male against the peninsula barricade. Scrolling along the bottom of the picture were the bold words: REBEL NATIVE RETURNED TO HIS OWN PEOPLE.

They watched in fascination as the tall figure walked proudly away from the wall. Then the Muskan broke into a run as if seeking to distance himself as swiftly as possible from the barricade. Michelle left the group to operate the switch that would give them a hard copy of the full story. She dutifully handed it to Johansson. It told the strange tale of a Muskan named Tak-Elno who had swum around the edge of the barrier.

“Well,” muttered Richard Vidmar brusquely, “the worm turns.”

“Perhaps,” Michelle Sanson commented, “but more likely an isolated case. After all, it’s totally against their religion. The poor creature will be crucified by his own kind.” She could not explain the involuntary shiver that ran down her spine.

“We’ll have to talk to the grand elders,” the president said. “Find out why he did it.” The last thing he wanted was a plague of rebellious natives − especially in an election year.

They moved on, eventually to go their separate ways, but now united to set the wheels of the new Paludis economy in motion. Michelle Sanson quietly wondered what effect the sleeping pill would have on a Muskan body.

* * *

Tak-Elno put as much ground between himself and the barrier as his heaving lungs would allow before halting in the lee of a large boulder. He rested there, gulping air fiercely through mouth and back-tube. His release after a few weeks of tedious confinement had certainly been less dramatic than his seizure. Following a final interrogation, he had been unceremoniously dumped on the Muskan side of the barrier. Doubtless his capture had been newscast, which meant the grand elders would know everything − and would be after his blood!

It was dawn and Tak-Elno realised that if he used the main peninsular track he would almost certainly come across early field workers. The air was clear and they would easily see him across the open landscape. Decision made, he walked as swiftly as he could towards the southern shore. There he determined to find a cave and await the fall of darkness. Then he would seek Brel-Elno, and his fate would be decided. As he travelled, he cursed the misfortune that had changed him from an adventurer to an outcast, simultaneously realising he could not hide eternally in the narrow strip of land his people inhabited. Sooner or later, he would have to face the grand elders of Musk.

* * *

Brel-Elno had sent the children to bed early, as soon as the grand elders had appeared at her threshold. Worry had creased the skin above her small nose as they had departed. Union with Tak did not promise moments like these. She collapsed into a chair, gathering her night robe about her slim body and closed her eyes. No doubt word was spreading with the speed of a winter wind: Tak-Elno had rebelled against Garn; Tak-Elno had unlawfully communicated with the humans. Silently she prayed to Garn. Did he not care for her, for her union and her children? A whimper from one of the bedrooms caught her attention, and she went to attend to her daughter. When she returned, Tak was standing there with an anxious expression on his face. Brel-Elno stopped in her tracks and stared. Tak-Elno broke the awkward silence.

“How are you?” he asked lamely, a limp smile breaking over his face.

“Urf! How should I be?” retorted Brel-Elno, snorting through her back-tube. “What possessed you to do such a thing? Can’t you think of me and the young ones just for once? How do you think we feel?”

Tak-Elno sat down heavily. The repercussions were only just dawning, and he wondered if he was to be an outcast from both societies on this world.

Brel-Elno pursed her lips, wrinkled her nose, sat down opposite and looked at him compassionately. “The grand elders have been. They wish to talk to you. You have ridden against all they believe, Tak. To enter the water, to immerse yourself in Garn’s domain.” Curiously, she did not think to mention his unlawful contact with the humans. As far as Brel-Elno was concerned, his Muskan infidelity was much more important.

He held out his hand to touch her and she did not withdraw. “It felt so right, Brel. It felt like I belonged in the water.” Tak-Elno sounded hoarse from emotion. “Something inside my head, my whole being, drove me to those cold seas. I feel something, Brel, something that is changing our world forever.”

Brel-Elno looked frightened. “You should not say such things.” She suddenly stared past her husband and caught her breath. A rustle of robes came from the doorway and Tak-Elno swiftly turned his head. Two grand elders had entered the room and stood quietly by the door. Their presence immediately dominated the small sitting area, resplendent golden robes stamping an air of authority upon the tense atmosphere.

Tak-Elno rose slowly to his feet and studied their faces. Age was not kind to Muskans. It dried their skin, which responded by developing cracks and crater-like pores. It shrunk eyes to slits beneath wizened eyebrows, and it closed back-tubes from lack of exercise, causing laboured breathing at any kind of inimical exertion.

For those few Muskans fortunate enough to inherit, or in rare cases, be elected to a position on the Council of Grand Elders, there came the welcome relief of the golden robes behind which their decaying bodies could surreptitiously hide, while simultaneously displaying an aura of flawless integrity. The majority of elderly Muskans, however, whose role in life gradually fused into baby-minder, house-minder or cane-grass carver, had to be content with loin cloth and, if lucky, a thin cotton robe scavenged from the guards at the barrier. Most of such goods went to the women.

“We are glad you are safe, Tak-Elno,” the tallest of the grand elders said.

Tak-Elno smiled wistfully. “Am I?”

Brel-Elno laid a restraining hand upon Tak-Elno’s arm as if afraid he would mount an attack upon the grand elders. Her face showed a trace of inherited fear of the Muskan law makers.

“We ask you to come to the great temple,” the grand elder continued, “to account for your most strange actions and to receive judgement.”

Tak-Elno blinked his cleaning membranes over his eyes. “If I must.”

“Indeed you must,” the other elder affirmed. “You have intentionally breached our laws and flouted our religious traditions. Penalties must be imposed.”

Brel-Elno gasped, and her grip on Tak-Elno’s arm tightened. She, like all Muskans, knew the penalties for breaking the basic commandments. If they were enforced she may never see her husband again.

* * *

The great temple was approached from a huge earth ramp that ran for two-hundred metres to the temple’s arched entrance, supported by massive granite blocks from the northern cliffs of the peninsula. The temple itself stood atop a natural mound and, built from pyramidally arranged blocks, stretched a further twenty metres into the night sky. Tak-Elno walked through the huge doors for the first time, marvelling at the workmanship that held hundreds of cane-grass stems together to form the hinged structures.

Inside, away from the moonlit night, a cane-grass woven geodetic pillar soared from floor to apex. The pillar held spotlights that highlighted various colourful Muskan works of art hung around the walls. This was the only light in the building, and as Tak-Elno and the grand elders approached the far end of the temple, a multitude of shadows sprang from their bodies and the golden robes shone iridescently. Beneath their feet, a huge purple carpet covered the entire floor. There were no chairs or benches, as Muskans prayed flat on their backs.

Tak-Elno was led to the priests’ preaching dais, where one of the grand elders raised a hidden cover to reveal a stone staircase descending beneath the temple floor. His bare skin felt the temperature drop as they trod the ancient stairwell which was illuminated by evenly spaced glowing spheres of human origin. The walls were bare rock and Tak wondered at the energy and time it must have taken to create this secret enclave of the grand elders.

At length, they entered a small cavern, which was a deep contrast to the starkness of the secret passageway. The walls were completely covered by pictures depicting the Muskan way of life: people working the fields, people at worship, a cane-grass carver, a housewife making a loincloth, a mother with a child in her arms.

Sitting at a small desk set against the far wall was the most ancient Muskan Tak-Elno had ever seen. His face was a mass of cracks, his left eye was completely closed over, his body, beneath the damascene gold cloak, shrunk to perhaps two-thirds of normal adult size. This, Tak-Elno knew, must be the revered Great Elder.

On the wall behind the Great Elder, dominating the cave, hung a large picture of a being which in some ways resembled a Muskan, yet possessed certain features unknown to Tak-Elno. The head was round with no apparent nostrils, the body was shorter than the Muskan average, a membrane of skin joining upper arm to hip, and the feet were large and wide. Words, in ancient Muskan, ran along the lower edge of the picture and Tak-Elno, reared mostly on the human tongue, could not translate them.

The Great Elder smiled, as if acknowledging Tak-Elno’s ignorance. “It says, ‘Great God Garn who is the deliverer of our eternity and the seed of our beginnings’.” The old voice grated like that of a mountain lizard, yet it possessed immense power.

Tak-Elno did not respond and appeared mesmerised by the stare of the Muskan deity. For the first time since being taken by the grand elders, he felt a thread of fear invade his mind.

“You have committed a grievous crime, Tak-Elno,” the most ancient elder continued. “It is an unprecedented crime and the punishment is not scribed. What do you say?”

Tak-Elno stared the old Muskan hard in the eyes. “I did what I did for the reasons I did it.”

“Your wife, Brel-Elno, tells us you are not a believer.”

The reference to Brel hurt and for a fleeting moment, Tak-Elno lost his proud composure. Would he ever see her again? Or the young ones? He blinked forcefully and said, “I find the old beliefs difficult to accept, even without the presence of the humans.”

“The humans are not of Musk!” the Great Elder snorted. “They are interlopers and savages.”

Silence followed until the Great Elder lost his look of hate and continued. “You are aware of our philosophy of punishment for criminal acts?”

Tak-Elno raised his head to the rocky ceiling. He was all too aware of the Muskan principle: like for like, theft for theft, death for death. It had worked well through the ages, resulting in an extremely low crime rate among his people. Murder and theft were rare, although minor law violations did occur on occasion. Not that he considered himself a criminal. He had neither dispossessed nor hurt anybody.

“And what is to be my punishment?” he asked.

“We have debated at length upon your penalty. You have ignored our traditions and scoffed at your Muskan inheritance.” The old one suddenly rose to his feet, his face twisted with undisguised contempt. “You entered the sacred seas of Musk. You travelled beyond the barrier!” His rasping tones rose as anger mounted. “You conversed with humans and soiled your body by their presence. You are unfit to be called Muskan!” The ancient voice, still strong within its decrepit shell, was screaming now and the gnarled hands shook with rage. “The sentence given to you, Tak-Elno, as you appear to enjoy the invaders’ company, is one of banishment to the other side of the barricade.” The elder supported himself on the desk, then slowly sat down, his ire suddenly evaporating. “I wish you luck, as I think you are going to need it.”

Tak-Elno was devastated. He had envisaged hard field labour or home building, but never this. His arms were gripped strongly from behind and he was pulled abruptly from the chamber.

* * *

Michelle Sanson sat with her hands clasped over her drawn-up knees, and looked northward to where the sea glistened against the meandering cliffs of West Paludis. She wore a simple brown tunic with green cotton slacks. It was a rare rest-day noon, and her thoughts beneath the equatorial sun were as relentless and deep as the ocean she surveyed.

She mused of Earth where, perhaps at that very moment, they were testing the capsule under repeat warp conditions somewhere out beyond Jupiter. “The sooner the better,” they had said. Things were stagnating. They needed to break the human frailty barrier, to surge outwards once more, to give man the key to the source of creation, to plough towards the centre of the universe. The thought excited her.

Far below the hilltop perch, she could distinguish the movements of the construction workers who plied like ants between shore and sea. The unmistakable hand of man was already visible, stretching skeletal fingers into the water where, before long, huge kelp dredgers would rise to drift and consume the alien underwater forests.

Earth Federation money was financing the first shipyard and, pending the sleeping pill trials, there would be more to come. She surveyed the stirrings of the new industry with a pride tinged with relief. Paludis was saved from an apocalyptic catastrophe − by the innocuous tinkering of a group of university isolationists.

She permitted herself a smile, wondering if anyone on Paludis realised the full potential of the discovery. Currently, less than a thousand million souls were in space, but with the opening of the heart of the universe and the need for attendant population, hence progressive emigration and procreation, that number could increase ten-fold within sixty years. It would be a mighty tide of human expansion, unparalleled in history, the breaking of universal shackles that had frustrated mortal endeavours for centuries.

She had no doubt that within a very short period of time, every man, woman and child would be using the pill, which had now been christened – the sleeper. To some, night would be day and day would be night. The wheels of commerce would never cease. Every human would sleep and awake refreshed; every waking second used to the full. The economic benefits would be revolutionary − and Paludis would be at the hub of that revolution.

Michelle’s thoughts turned to herself and she considered her life to date. Born on Mars of third-generation Earth immigrants, she had inherited the Martian lust for life, and the keen sexual appetite that others regarded as warped, degenerate even. Yet, as she mused upon what little remained to her, perhaps thirty years if she was lucky, she knew she wanted more. She wanted to be there, to see the culmination of it all. She wanted to see new life forms, see new worlds, and be part of it. Oh, to be part of it! Her thoughts extrapolated the possibilities and within a second, she had decided. Dangerous thoughts danced around the edges of her mind and she screwed her eyes shut against them and the shining sea. It was done! The step was taken.

She rose, dusting the dry grass from her slacks, and turned away from the ocean. Yes, she said to herself, within sixty years − and she intended to be there to see it!

* * *

Simon Sangster surveyed the Muskan with interest. It was the first time he had seen one close up and he felt somewhat overawed by the occasion. They were alone together and the young university scientist observed the native with the same interest he would have applied to any of the planet’s fauna. Unlike other indigenous species, though, this one radiated sadness, and by doing so, proclaimed a symbiosis with his captors. The Muskan was a long way from home, albeit he was on his own planet.

Tak-Elno, for his part, felt distinctly uncomfortable. His second excursion into human territory could not have been in greater contrast to the first. Replacing the thrill of the swim and his ensuing capture had been an official meeting, which had lasted but the briefest of moments. He was now legally at the mercy of the humans for one year with the full blessing of the grand elders of his people. Rather they had dumped him on the other side of the barrier to fend for himself! With trepidation, he recalled the words of the Great Elder: “The humans are interlopers and savages!” He thought also of Brel-Elno and his children, Pas and Shel, and hung his head in sadness. Pas was almost a man. He would need his father to deliberate upon manly things.

“I believe you speak our tongue well.” Sangster’s voice interrupted Tak-Elno’s thoughts and the Muskan took a deep breath through his back-tube, the sound echoing loudly around the small study. “Please,” continued Sangster, “I mean you no harm.”

Tak-Elno’s laughter sounded gross in the confined space, and Sangster, caught unawares, felt a shiver of fear invade his spine. Not for the first time he questioned why he had volunteered for this project.

“I can see why your people call you a rebel.” It was an audacious statement, and Sangster felt his muscles tighten as if expecting a sudden attack. The effect on the Muskan, however, was remarkable.

Tak-Elno leant forward and spoke through tight lips. “I am a rebel because it is the sensible thing to be, and I laugh because humans have already done my people untold harm.”

Sangster nodded. “I cannot but agree. But we have a year to work together and maybe some good will come of it. Perhaps we can mend some rifts.”

Tak-Elno stared hard at the human. It sounded almost like a partnership was on offer. Could he trust him? What would he be expected to do?

“Whilst you are with us,” said Sangster, “it would be preferable if you were clothed more appropriately. Have you any suggestions?”

Tak-Elno held his head high. “Our males wear loin cloths and vests until made a grand elder.” He made it sound easy, automatic. “Our grand elders wear long robes.”

“Then perhaps you can become a grand elder before your time,” Sangster smiled. “We will make you a robe.”

“Thank you,” Tak-Elno said, holding his copious joy within. “I am quite partial to the colour gold.” His Muskan brain danced with delight. What would the old men think when they heard of his little masquerade? Yet another snub to their precious traditions. The fact it was part of his exile made it even more delicious.

“Then it is agreed,” the human was saying. “I will now return you to your quarters where you can rest in peace. The trauma of your transition from Muskan to human lifestyles must be minimised as much as possible.”

Strangely then, Sangster held out his hand and Tak-Elno stared at it in confusion. Then the Muskan tentatively grasped it with his own and felt the warm blood coursing through the human’s fingers.

To Sangster, the alien’s hand felt soft and cold. He wondered how many such handshakes had occurred over the last four hundred years.

* * *

Simon Sangster sat with Michelle Sanson in his Tanberg study. He stared hard at the pert little figure, a bizarre comparison to that of the Muskan who had occupied the same space an hour earlier. He felt some sort of attraction towards her, which despite the difference in their years, was not wholly asexual. However, she was a member of the governing class and thus to be treated with caution. Michelle smiled sweetly.

“A pleasant surprise,” Sangster said obligingly. “And why do you favour us with yet another visit?”

“I believe you have the Muskan.” Michelle came straight to the point as was her wont.

“You must have your contacts, so denial would be of little use.” Sangster tried to overcome the suspicion in his tone, but it was of no avail against the practised ears of the politician.

“You have your plans laid?”

Sangster shrugged. “Is there a hurry?”

“I would like to try a few things.”

“Such as?”

“I would like to try the sleeper on him.” Michelle crossed her legs.

Sangster laughed nervously. “Whatever for?”

The finance minister shifted in her seat. “The reasons are good, but not yet for your ears.”

“The pill was designed for humans. It is unlikely to work on the alien.” It was not a scientific statement, but Sangster disliked the intrusion.

“But it could be made to work – if you studied the Muskan’s physiology deeply enough? Funds would be provided, of course.”

Sangster shrugged. “Perhaps.” He felt a deep pit opening before him. He had to be careful.

“Perhaps a trial of our own pill. Perhaps a one-hour period.”

“It is obviously possible, but I would not want the alien to be used as a guinea pig on a regular basis.” He had just shaken hands with him for Lord’s sake!

Michelle sensed a weakening. “I would be most grateful.” She stroked her pant-clad thighs with both hands and noted with satisfaction the effect on Sangster. She stood suddenly, leant over the desk and kissed him fully on the lips. Her perfume was overwhelming and Sangster pushed his lips hard against hers. Then she was gone – with a promise to return soon.

Sangster stared after her. The witch. The bloody mad witch. What was she? What was she up to? He felt a headache pushing its way through. The day had been too much. Too much!

-4-

As the orbitcraft descended slowly through threatening cumulonimbus, Michelle pursed her lips in thoughtful anticipation. From the viewport, the sprawl of Saltzburg became discernible, a few isolated patches fortunate enough to be bathed by indistinct sunshine. Her thoughts turned to George Andrews. He had sounded strange on the videophone and had looked distinctly uncomfortable at the mention of the reason for her impending visit. She smiled to herself, confident in her ability to handle the reinstated Saltzburg Bauxite executive.

The streamlined craft swooped to earth and within minutes, Michelle was aboard a tube heading for the mining company’s head office. Peering through its transparent nose, she saw a cold, grey world full of high-rise commercial buildings apparently untouched by the gentle side of the human soul. Not a blade of green showed anywhere and the buildings lacked architectural splendour of even the most rudimentary kind. Saltzburg was indeed a metropolis spawned of the need to support the mining operations of East Paludis: purposeful and little more.

Michelle pondered upon the man she was about to meet. Whilst she had read deeply about Personality Malfunction Correction, like all others on Paludis she had yet to see its results. It was an Earth procedure, new even there, and would take years to be accepted beyond the realms of the mother planet. She found herself anticipating with interest her meeting with Andrews. It was a marvellous opportunity to investigate his alleged new-found honesty and impeccable behaviour. He may prove the perfect foil for her plans!

The tube whistled through an unsolicited station and rain splattered against the canopy. Low clouds wreathed the tallest skyscrapers and, as the natural light dimmed, automatic illumination sprang from most of the windows.

During her discussion with President Johansson, they had agreed that Andrews was the outstanding candidate to lead the kelp operation in East Paludis. A wry smile invaded Michelle’s lips. Neither had mentioned the fact that PMC apparently made people easier to manage – readily controlled, if you wished to be pedantic. Such an obvious advantage to the western continent.

The tube slowed to a halt and Michelle disembarked. She strolled purposefully, under a covered walkway, to the cold, imposing building that was the headquarters of Saltzburg Bauxite. Despite the shelter, she pulled her knee-length coat around her body. Following pleasantries in the foyer she was ushered into a plush office decorated in light and dark greens, perhaps in an attempt to belatedly commune with Paludis nature.

George Andrews came around the desk to meet her and Michelle took the proffered chair. He looks too demure to be a criminal, she thought, too fragile to lead a major operation.

“You realise that bauxite mining is now on the upgrade – the need for the dredgers.” Andrews’ opening gambit was direct and forceful.

Michelle nodded. “Of course. But once the dredgers are completed...”

“What?”

“… then kelp will be the only worthwhile activity on the planet. Maybe another ship now and again, perhaps the occasional repair, but nothing that requires your current capacity.”

Andrews smiled. “Perhaps the occasional repair will see me to retirement.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It is very tempting.” Andrews leant forward in his chair. “Remind me of what you said on the phone.”

He still has the greed, thought Michelle. That is good. But is he feigning indifference?

“We would like you to manage the kelp operation over here – at a substantial remuneration, of course. There are others who can run the mining.”

Andrews laughed. “You want an ex-criminal to work for the government and control such a huge enterprise!”

So he remembers his past crime, mused Michelle. It saved her the danger of broaching the subject. She stared hard into his eyes. “How much do you recall?”

There was a slight tautening of his facial muscles.

George Andrews stood abruptly and walked to the window. He looked outside, silhouetted against the grey, monochrome sky. When he spoke his voice was slow and grating, as if he was holding within an uncoiled spring of intense energy.

“Is that at all relevant to our discussion?” He turned to face her. “Without wishing to seem ungrateful, madam, I do not feel obliged to answer that question.”

Michelle bit her lip. Within seconds the man had changed moods. Dare she take the conversation further? She smiled nervously. “Please accept my apologies.”

There was silence for a moment. Andrews returned to his chair. He looked suddenly tired and Michelle knew he was not the man for the job. But, of course, she had suspected that before she left Spaceport. Better he stayed as he was. She chose her next words carefully.

“You mentioned retirement.” She smiled disarmingly. “Are you well positioned for such?”

Andrews took a deep breath. “Do I detect a hidden meaning to that question?”

Michelle flinched inwardly. Something sparked in her mind and she let it run full length. Could it be that PMC was totally specific in its process? Had Andrews been treated to return him to his previous roles: a perfect and honest replica of his old self? She knew it had to be so, thus explaining his reluctance to accept a new position. The poor bastard was on straight and narrow rails.

Andrews leant forward. “Shall we stop fencing, Miss Sanson? I really believe, irrespective of your president’s thoughts, that you do not harbour, in your wildest dreams, the notion that I am the ideal person to run the East Paludis kelp operation. It is some other reason that brings you here – yes?”

Michelle blinked. He possessed some semblance of mental insight. Not like her own, but some small germ was present in his electronically ravaged brain. There was danger here, but the moment was upon her. She stared at him, wide-eyed, projecting the full force of her thoughts.

“You comprehend the full potential of the new pill, what we call the sleeper?”

Andrews shrugged. “It is a sleeping device – to be used in spaceflight, it seems. To help open up more unsuspecting planets to the antics of humankind.”

Michelle smiled at his cynicism.

“I do not see it as the panacea for all our ills,” he continued. “Only perhaps for some.”

Michelle noted the deliberate ambiguity. Andrews was no fool, despite all he had been through. She took the bull by the horns. “I wish to be part of that future: the future of a hundred years from now.”

His eyes sprang to hers in surprise. “Forgive my lack of gallantry, madam, but you are too…” He suddenly understood. “Ah, the pill.” He shook his head. “You are crazy.”

“Think of it, George. Countless more planets, eventually the heart of the universe. More life forms, untold riches for Paludis. This planet will be the new centre of the universe. The sleeper will be like a drug. Humans will not be able to exist without it − otherwise their new conquests will be lost in the vastness of space. The new outposts will be marooned.” Michelle’s eyes shone with ardour.

“I hope Earth never hears such words,” Andrews said, then leant forward with renewed vigour. “I still await why you are really here, why you sit before me now. Do you think I still have the money?”

Michelle threw her head back and gave what she hoped was a good impression of a hearty guffaw, whilst her mind raced to another tack.

“I do not imagine that a PMC patient could be permitted to remember the whereabouts of his ill-gotten gains.” She looked suddenly serious. “But I would imagine the doctors could easily find out.”

Andrews nodded. “Probably. And so...?”

Michelle’s voice grew suddenly intense. “This mining company, your mining company, had a plant on Muskluna, which is now defunct. Is it still there? Are the buildings still intact?”

Andrews frowned. “The moon? Where do your thoughts run now, madam?”

“I need a base – secluded, safe.” Michelle was aware of the terrible risk she was taking and resolved to utilise the undoubted conditioning of Andrews before the meeting was over. She smiled demurely. “Could you please show me?”

“I can show you, of course. No harm in that. Please wait.” Andrews left the office to Michelle and her thoughts. She took several deep breaths. Andrews was clever. There would have been no chance of approaching him prior to his treatment. But now the man was incapable of a falsehood, if the text books were to be believed, and she took comfort from that fact.

Andrews returned with a file which he slipped into the front of his desk.

Immediately a map sprang to life on the wall behind him. He stabbed with a finger.

“The old plant is here, some eight hundred kilometres west of Del-Shangi. I can’t vouch for the buildings. You’ll have to go and look.”

Michelle nodded. “Could I have a copy, please?”

“Of course.” As the copier whirred in the corner, Michelle gathered her thoughts. The copy completed, Andrews handed it to her without a word.

She looked deeply into his eyes. “This must be in the fullest confidence, you understand. My privacy is very important to me.”

Andrews smiled. “Madam, should you wish to live forever in far-flung staccato stages, it is none of my concern. However, please do not ask me to join you. My place is here with my work.” He returned her look. “You understand?”

Michelle nodded and repeated for safety. “Full confidence. Our minds only.”

“Full confidence. Our minds only.”

“And what have we discussed today?”

“We discussed your offer concerning the kelp harvesting. Unfortunately I was unable to accept the position.”

“Did we discuss anything else?”

“Of course, but nothing of importance and nothing for another person’s ears.”

Michelle was satisfied. “Then I will leave you to your work, George, with regrets that you could not accept the offer.”

“Thank you, Michelle. Regards to the president.”

It was only when Michelle was comfortably aboard the tube that she realised Andrews had followed her lead, and called her by her first name in his parting words. She sighed. A dangerous man indeed.

* * *

Three months later, news of an orbitcraft loss devastated Paludis. On board were three East Paludis politicians, a union leader, twelve young families including eighteen children, a volleyball team and nine industrialists. One of the industrialists was the reappointed head of Saltzburg Bauxite Mining, George Andrews. The disappearance of the craft was a complete mystery, contact having been suddenly lost half way through the flight. Satellite tracking showed the craft abruptly diving and plunging into the Amity Ocean within minutes. No bodies or traces of wreckage were found.

* * *

Pas-Elno stared with watery eyes at the Northern Sea. He came here often now. At first he had gone to the southern shore to gaze wistfully towards the place where his father allegedly lived with the human invaders but, after three weeks of lonely vigil, he had grown to hate the southern vista and became strong in the belief he would never see his father again.

Something deep within his troubled mind led him to the northern shores, there to continue his strange oceanic watch, thoughts swamped by images of his father in earlier, happier times. He had seen the pictures of his father dressed in the false robe and had suffered the taunts of his friends as a result. Yet he knew there must be a reason for all this apparent madness, a reason that ran much deeper than the obvious surface events.

Pas-Elno was a Muskan of almost fourteen years, mature for his age, and like his sister, Shel-Elno, strong in body and fleet of foot. At his age, he was but a hand’s width shorter than an adult human. Adhering firmly to his mother’s religious convictions, he believed Garn to be the seeds of his beginning and the pilot of his life. However, unlike many of his race, he also possessed the nuances of an enquiring mind: the lingering shadows of his departed father cast over the powerful rationale of his upbringing.

Now, as sunset approached, he watched the marsh and the distant sea with the understanding eyes of someone far beyond his years. Two or three stars were already dancing in the deep purple sky, the human bridge was glowing ever brighter, and the faint Muskan moon hung forlornly over his right shoulder. To his left, shore and cliffs ran for thousands of kilometres along the great northern coast where his ancestors had wandered free before the coming of the humans. To his right, the peninsula stretched eastwards in a vain attempt to caress the multitude of islands spilling from its narrowing landmass. He remembered the one occasion, at ten Muskan years of age, when his parents had taken Shel and him to the far east of the peninsula, to a point where they could go no further for fear of entering Garn’s domain.

Out to sea they had seen the high peaks of Masno Island wreathed in mist and had heard the plaintive call of the marsh birds echoing over the uncanny panorama. Now, as he looked east, the arm of the peninsula resembled the dark, omnipotent limb of some huge shapeless monster emerging from the depths of a mysterious oceanic world. Tales of childhood filled his mind, family dusks around a summer eve fire.

Remembrance tears clouded his sight, so at first he did not see the light rising from the water perhaps a kilometre from the shore. It was a blur initially. Then, as he used his cleaning membranes to clear his vision, the image changed to a distinct blue circular light that hovered over the sea. It grew in size, as if approaching, until the brilliance hurt his eyes, and he raised both arms as a shield. Swiftly, the orb dwindled to nothing, lost in the darkening sky.

Pas-Elno stood transfixed. It had all happened so quickly. He sat on the sand and stared at the sky. It puzzled him that he wasn’t screaming, or even fearful. Perhaps it was Garn or some new human machine. Was this his secret or was it to be shared? He uttered a solitary cry into the night as it descended around him.

Far to the south another freighter leapt to the sky from Spaceport.

* * *

Muskluna, full of crevices and canyons, also boasted smooth, swollen mountain ranges that rose and fell roundly, running into each other like huge sand ripples left by a restless tide. Devoid of atmosphere, the moon performed a similar duty to Earth’s solitary satellite: illuminating the nocturnal behaviour of mankind and providing a stimulus to waxing poets, both native and human. Save for the grasping hand of man, Muskluna was entirely lifeless.

A ring of ancient mine-workings surrounded the equatorial regions, all long since depleted, and the moon was of little use any more other than as a staging post to more exotic worlds.

Paludis hung in a black sky, a green orb against a velvet heaven. Michelle Sanson thought the planet appeared tantalisingly close, a little larger and more overpowering than Earth seen from its nearest neighbour. The Paludis sun was high in the sky and would remain there for some time.

Michelle concentrated on steering the four-wheeler through a crimson valley littered with man-sized boulders. Beside her, Simon Sangster squinted at a map through the darkened visor of his helmet. A sudden wave of light from behind signalled the launch of an interstellar – bound, no doubt, for a more habitable place. They were eighty kilometres west of Del-Shangi, just a tenth of their journey completed. The surrounding terrain scared them both to death.

Back at the staging post the intrepid pair had posed as eccentric academics, nostalgic hunters of the Paludis moon’s pioneer era, looking for a final fling among the relics of the past. Perhaps they would eventually produce a film. Sangster had to admire Michelle’s nerve. Hiring suits had been easy and they had used false names − a married couple killed in an orbitcraft accident. There was no doubt in Sangster’s mind that Michelle would have come alone if he had refused her overtures. Nothing, it appeared, would stop her now. Even the officials had succumbed to her Martian charm and not queried the difference in their ages; Martian women often espoused younger men.

They swept on. Canyon walls reflected red, and Michelle could not eliminate the irrational thought that a wild creature might suddenly leap out across their path.

Every two hours they stopped to look at the map and exchange places. Hours passed. Checking the satellite compass, they moved on. They should be almost there.

Michelle started to have doubts about the authenticity of George Andrew’s map. She cast a glance at Sangster and saw he was worried. Then something glinted through a temporary gap in the undulating hills. She grabbed his arm and pointed. “See? Through there,” she cried. They were her first words for a long time.

Minutes later they mounted a rise and there it was before them − a scattering of white buildings, open cuts and even abandoned vehicles. The vehicles puzzled Michelle, until she realised that the transport costs of moving such heavy equipment would probably outweigh the price of replacements. No doubt they had served their purpose. They scudded down to the plain and Michelle slewed the four-wheeler to a halt beside a small hemispherical shell, obviously designed for pressure, and turned off the engine.

They left their transport and nervously approached the building. There was a small airlock set half a metre above the ground. Sangster inspected its mechanism. “Manual override,” he whispered, as if expecting to be overheard by the hemisphere’s occupants. He turned the wheel and the circular door unsealed and swung open.

Sangster squeezed through and repeated the operation on the inner door. Light met him as he entered, emanating from a large window on the opposite side. Michelle joined him and stood entranced. Suddenly, she grabbed his hand.

“Home,” Michelle breathed as she tentatively looked around. There would be no atmosphere, of course, no power at all. The shell was empty save for four bunks stacked to one side. She moved towards them and, in the low gravity, managed to swing one down to the floor. A brief explosion of dust rose, then eventually settled. She moved gracefully to the bed and slowly reclined on its grubby covers. Simon watched her and laughed nervously. She beckoned him over and they made clumsy love, as best they could, through their suits. Afterwards, they checked their suit reserves and slept for two hours.

On awakening, the cogs of Michelle’s mind, refreshed by the brief sleep, churned into the future. They would need expensive equipment to make this place work: oxygen reserves, preserved food and water, a videonews receiver, power to run it, return transport; lots of things. It would be what they would make it. A home for a hundred silent years or more. She wept at the thought.

-5-

ONE YEAR LATER

It had started. Interstellars were reaching out from mankind’s occupied worlds to probe and explore, in leaps and bounds, the unknown stretches of the universe. Einstein-Rosen bridges were robotically duplicated and spawned, targeting multiple sequences of fifty-light-year jumps, promising untold adventure and the unrelenting thrill of unknown futures. It was still exploration with danger. But it was like a re-birth, a breaking of the iron shackles previously imposed by human intolerance to space-shift and cryogenics. It was as great a step as that taken aeons ago when man departed the spherical boundary of Earth’s protective mantle to explore the neighbouring planets of the solar system.

Ships were modified accordingly and production rates increased to cater for a wave of expansion, which at one time had been just a latent dream in man’s escalating psyche. The moons of planets became more than staging and mining posts. They now echoed to the vibrant sounds of construction. Huge assembly halls for the larger suction warp engines rose from dusty and arid plains. Crew became like dormant ants riding the back of a powerful brute of an animal, sleeping metabolisms fused to a man-made leviathan.

During this frantic growing period, Paludis prospered. Kelp dredgers were built at record pace and laboratories rose to produce the magical capsule that had spawned the new exciting age. Immigrants from other worlds arrived to feed the voracious demand for workers, and new city suburbs arose, it seemed, almost overnight.

President Johansson was re-elected on a wave of euphoria, notwithstanding the scandal that had seen his chief finance minister apparently decamp with a young university researcher. They had disappeared six months ago and never been traced, despite the stringent efforts of police and military. Michelle Sanson had known the ropes too well. Aaku Johansson presumed they had left the planet and dismissed them from his mind.

* * *

One man who had Michelle Sanson still very much on his mind was Senior Agent Stefan Lattanzis of the West Paludis Police. She hung within his thoughts like a huge spider in front of a tangled web of intrigue and lies. Despite mountains of facts and numerous recorded interviews there was no trace of either her or Simon Sangster leaving Paludis. On the alleged day of their disappearance there had been two passenger flights departing the planet: the first to Suffek, a smoky little world in the Caldereban system, and the second to Earth. Of course, if they had left on a later date it compounded the issue, but the comprehensive checks at departure points, instigated on the third day, should have made that impossible. There had been no outward flights on the second day.

Ergo, Lattanzis surmised, they are still on Paludis. Trouble was, he didn’t believe that either. His investigations had revealed Michelle Sanson to be a woman of expensive tastes that belied her demure appearance. He just could not imagine her skulking in a small domicile awaiting the day when she could once more venture abroad.

She was a fourth-generation Martian and had emigrated to Paludis at the age of thirty-three, possessed of several economic degrees and a burning desire to succeed in public life. Lattanzis had lost count of her alleged lovers, but was conversant with the fact that Martian women were renowned for that kind of thing and somehow had genetic endowments that kept them relatively young, at least until the age of eighty.

The police agent stirred in his seat as he awaited the presence of Richard Vidmar. Why, he wondered, would a woman of such talent get involved with a research scientist thirty years her junior? Perhaps more to the point, why would he get involved with her, even if she was still attractive? Power? Then why vanish?

Sitting upright in his seat, Stefan frowned deeply. He had a long, thin face framed by closely cropped blond hair. Soulful brown eyes flitted continuously around his surroundings as if searching for hidden clues to his current investigation. His dark green uniform was immaculately pressed, covering a tall, wiry frame that carried no excess flesh. One of his hands drummed on the side of the chair.

All passengers had checked out correctly on those two early flights and all videograms, rapidly transferred back to Paludis by the bridges, had proven it so. Stefan grimaced. He was just going around in circles, but was damned if he would let it go just yet.

Stefan toyed nervously with the pistol at his waist. As always, he felt distinctly uneasy in the cloisters of the academic world, especially when they were as lavish as Richard Vidmar’s office.

Vidmar entered at speed and scurried around to his leather chair. “I’m a very busy man, Mr Lattanzis.” His tone was aggressive, challenging, his mien as pompous as ever.

Stefan nodded. “Believe me, sir, so am I.”

“Is it Sangster?” Vidmar’s eyebrows rose over his rotund face, dark escarpments on a pale moon. “Is there any news?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The dean looked hard at the young agent. He could really do without this. “Then why are you here?”

“One final shot, sir. If you don’t mind.” Lattanzis produced his recorder and pressed the diaphragm.

Vidmar didn’t object. “It was some time ago,” the dean said. He studied the craggy face of the policeman, old beyond its years, his deep brown eyes and short fair hair. Another immigrant, probably from Earth, he thought. Earth was a medley of genetics these days. “Presumably you’ve considered the possibility they’re both dead,” he added mischievously. “Murdered even. I believe Michelle Sanson had quite a few admirers.”

Stefan nodded, trying not to smile at Vidmar’s un-minced words. “You said last time that Sangster was a leading scientist engaged on the sleeping pill, and that Sanson had taken an interest in the project. That was how they met, yes?”

“I presume so,” responded Vidmar, “and I also presumed Michelle’s interest was purely platonic. It appears I was wrong there. She visited here many times as a representative of the government. I showed her around myself on the first occasion. She was, after all, responsible for setting up harvesting operations for the kelp. She liked to know the subject.”

“To the best of your knowledge, they hadn’t met before?”

“To the best of my knowledge.”

Stefan changed tack. “Erratic behaviour for a high-ranking politician, don’t you think?”

The dean shrugged. “I suppose. I’m not an expert in the affairs of the heart.”

He smirked unexpectedly. “I have enough trouble with one woman − my wife. You understand.”

Stefan smiled obligingly then leant over the desk, staring intensely into Vidmar’s eyes. “Last time you told me they were here, together, the night before they vanished.”

“I did and they were. They were still here when I left, in fact.” Vidmar recalled the evening well; wet and windy, noisy with thunder. “I do believe you checked with the registrar when they left, and you did, of course, search the campus thoroughly. This is all old ground, officer.”

“What else was Sangster working on?” Stefan asked.

The dean looked embarrassed. “He was working with the native, the Muskan.

You will recall the publicity at the time.”

“Where’s the native now?”

“Still with us, though with Sangster’s disappearance the project lost most of its momentum. In fact, the Muskan’s due for returning to the peninsula in a few days.”

Stefan nodded. “If I remember, he was alienated from his people for a year.”

“Correct. We’ve been little more than his keepers for the last few months.” Vidmar sounded as if he disapproved of the whole episode.

“Can I see him?”

The dean looked shocked. “Whatever for?”

Stefan shrugged. “I’ve never seen a Muskan close up before.” His deep brown eyes bored into Vidmar’s, daring a refusal. “He’s alright, isn’t he?”

“Of course,” the dean replied snappily. “Follow me.” He stood and left the office with the agent trailing in his wake.

Minutes later they entered a darkened room and Vidmar relieved the gloom by palming a light panel. Lattanzis was surprised to see the Muskan stretched out on a table, apparently asleep. A wire ran from his head to an adjacent computer console.

“Why is he like this?” The agent’s tone was accusatory and Vidmar felt a cold sweat break out on his face. Memories of Michelle Sanson’s first visit ghosted into his mind, and he felt the whole series of subsequent events closing in upon him.

“It’s a trial,” the dean replied. “Perfectly harmless. He sleeps most of the time now, anyhow. Boredom, I would say. We’re just monitoring his brain activity.” There were no lies in that statement. No lies!

Stefan looked closer, noticing the rise and fall of the chest under the golden robe. Somebody needed to check these people out. He would organise it tomorrow. He took a final look around the room. Bare walls, the consoles blinking in their lifeless anonymity, a large rectangular aluminium box, Vidmar’s sweating face. His Earth nose could smell him!

The agent left the campus in a subdued mood. Something was there, something just beyond his reach. One thing he knew, one thing his instinct told him: this was not, as Vidmar had expressed it, an affair of the heart. It ran much deeper than that.

* * *

The huge freighter emerged from the Bridge in the usual position, some twenty thousand kilometres from Pluto, adjacent to her moon, Charon. Subjected to mutual tidal locking, the same surfaces of Charon and Pluto always faced each other, and the combination had long been used as a beacon for extra-solar travel and was now fully automated and devoid of human life. The sun, a mere star at this distance, shone like a siren between planet and moon.

Senior Navigator Nguyen checked her screens. All appeared well – except something fluttered suddenly, then traced normal once more. She rubbed her eyes. Maxels had shifted briefly and then reverted. Mass accelerometers just could not do that! She looked again. Nothing! She’d check the jump recorder on Earth. Get her eyes checked, too. Probably the effects of the sleeper.

Stefan Lattanzis stared around the room in total disbelief. Nothing remained other than a few snaking cables and dusty trail marks on the floor. The Muskan was gone, the equipment was gone, everything was gone. What’s more, Richard Vidmar was nowhere to be found. How the hell could this happen again?

The agent leant on the wall and closed his eyes, cursing his luck. It had only been a day! He felt uneasy about the whole situation. The people from the Native Rights Commission had left in frustration some time ago. They would check if Tak-Elno had been returned to his own territory. Stefan somehow thought not. Such simplicity did not fit into this growing, tangled web.

He recalled the room as it was, recalled Vidmar’s discomfort. There had been the body, the equipment, the box. Nothing else he could remember. The clearing of a female throat came from the open door. Vidmar’s secretary stood there, middle-aged, frowning beneath auburn hair.

“I called his wife,” she said. “He didn’t go home last night. He phoned and told her he would be here. He did work through the night on some occasions.”

Stefan nodded, then thanked the woman. He left the room for some fresh air.

Outside, the cane-grass rattled gently in the noon breeze and after some time he turned back inside again. There were phone calls to make.

* * *

Within a week, it became obvious that the dean had vanished as abruptly as Michelle Sanson and Simon Sangster. In addition, and even more inexplicable, the Muskan had apparently disappeared with him.

Once more, Stefan Lattanzis and his colleagues checked computer lists, detailed departure videos and timetables of outgoing transports, both local and off-planet. The screens showed no sign of Richard Vidmar. Undeterred, Stefan felt more confident this time. He was closer on their heels than with Sanson, and there was no way the Muskan could have gone too far unnoticed.

Several hours passed before he thought of checking the whereabouts of Vidmar at the time of Michelle Sanson’s disappearance.

* * *

The old lady in the long green robe viewed the distant horizon with a wrinkling of her nose. There were at least four towers of smoke curling towards a dark brown sky within which a large anaemic sun struggled to shine. Several machines, as tall as three storey buildings, stood idle around the perimeter of the spaceport. Three human figures could be seen working in an adjacent handling bay; they resembled ghosts in the mist. All were clad in heavy breathing gear, helmets fully transparent, white suits a stark contrast to their murky surroundings.

The volcanic planet of Suffek was an ecological impossibility as far as the human race was concerned. Long ago, an eco-shift had been tried and had failed miserably. Suffek was too far gone. As a result, all of the planet’s inhabitants, which were few, breathed man-made air at all times, either in a suit or a tightly sealed building. Mining was the only industry and was fully automated, supported by teams of highly paid maintenance engineers who were, in turn, serviced for their short monthly shifts by the spaceport complex. Nobody spent more than one month on Suffek!

The old lady was no exception. She sighed in an absent-minded manner and walked slowly towards the transport desk. As she approached, her manner appeared to change from one of tired resignation to one of extreme dignity.

She paused before the desk and addressed the transport officer in a voice that was obviously used to giving commands.

“My name is Emma Serina Bronowski. I am the chief purchasing officer for the Caldereban Mining Syndicate.” The officer nodded nervously as she showed her identification. “Two weeks ago,” the old lady continued, “we sent a container of equipment to help our operations on this planet. Regrettably, we now find that the equipment is no longer required and would like to return it to Muskluna, the moon of Paludis.” The old lady smiled sweetly. “I feel terribly embarrassed. Could you possibly arrange it for us? I believe the container is still in your receiving stores.”

“Certainly, madam,” the clerk replied. “If I could please have your passport, identicard and invoice details, I’ll check the whereabouts of your cargo and arrange immediate freight to Muskluna. The end destination is to the moon, not to Paludis?”

Emma Bronowski nodded. “We still have a significant storage facility on Muskluna.” Despite knowing that her documents were perfect counterfeits, she felt a faint tremor of nervousness as the clerk turned away to check the computer. Her qualms were ill-founded as the clerk soon returned, eager to impress with his own brand of efficiency.

“All completed, madam. Your account will be debited. The cargo will berth at Del-Shangi at ten hours on the ninth.” He put the details onto her identicard and returned her documents.

Emma smiled, eyes twinkling behind coloured contact lenses. “Thank you. I’m so obliged.” She walked away slowly, resisting the urge to kick up her heels. She wondered where the real Emma was at this particular moment in time. It had not taken long to find a suitable persona amongst the mining fraternity − same height, age and build − but once back on Muskluna she could be put to rest. Michelle felt a surge of excitement course through her veins. Back to Muskluna. Back to sleep. Back to the future.

* * *

A year had made a big difference to Pas-Elno. He stood dressed in loin cloth and tunic at his favourite place overlooking the Northern Sea, as tall as an adult human, strong of limb and will. He had not told anyone of his vision, but it was still lodged inside his head. It would always be with him.

Breathing deeply through mouth and back-tube, he recalled the events of yesterday. He had liked the human agent, despite the news he had carried. He, his mother and sister had been summoned to the barrier wall where they had been told the full details of his father’s mysterious disappearance. Brel-Elno had carried herself well through the interview, as the human queried whether she had seen her mate, and if any contact had been made during Tak-Elno’s time with the humans. But Pas-Elno had sensed her inner despair. His mother had made it clear that any communication was forbidden under Muskan law during a period of banishment.

“Will you find my father?” Pas-Elno had asked as the interview drew to a close.

“We’ll do our best,” Lattanzis had responded, and Pas-Elno had felt the huge brown eyes studying him intensely. It was obviously the closest the human had been to a Muskan. A glance of something approaching supreme respect had passed between them and, as he savoured the recollection of the incident, Pas-Elno took another deep breath and soaked up the sight of the sea he loved so much.

* * *

Clare Cavanna stared wistfully at the endless deep black of Earth’s Pacific Ocean, which mirrored a brooding sky mottled by high clouds. Leaning over the huge cruise ship’s stern, she felt hypnotised by the seething wake, oblivious to the encroaching chill of the tropical night. Movement was silent save for the sound of churning sea water. Tomorrow they would be in Maui, another round of shopping and what she called falsetto socialising.

At thirty-five years of age, recently divorced, no children, the cruise had seemed a good idea − an escape from the past. Now, however, she felt depressed and aimless. She had, in effect, given up her position as a research chemist and run off to sea, albeit temporarily. She allowed herself a secret smile in the falling dusk and the wind blew her long red hair forward over her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Clare thought of the wide-open spaces of North Australia where there was still room to breathe, still the chance to divest the soul of incessant human clamour. The domestic memories, however, were painful.

She brushed her hair from her eyes and, as she did so, something shot across the purple sky: the death throes of a shooting star, symbolic of her condition. She watched it skate the clouds and fall to earth. Unlike others she’d seen in her homeland, this one did not fade, rather it grew as it dropped towards the ocean, and she was suddenly afraid as she realised it was not going to burn out before it met the water. Clare gripped the rail as the natural drama unfolded, abruptly looking around to see if anyone else was there.

The star grew larger, and suddenly stopped just above the waves. It was perhaps two kilometres away. Clare’s heart skipped a beat. She swallowed air. The light changed colour and sank slowly beneath the water.

It had stopped! She was sure it had stopped! Her hands seemed frozen to the rail. There were goose pimples all over her body. For five long minutes she stood gazing blankly at the darkening sea. Please, God, let somebody else have seen it.

She turned away, still in shock. She had to tell somebody. Morning would be too late. They’d say it was a dream. Nobody else was about. Clare felt lonely again and shivered in the night.

Three hours after departing Maui, the cruise ship Iona reached a thousand degrees Celsius and vaporised into the surrounding air. Clare Cavanna read about the ship’s enigmatic disappearance the next day. Following discreet enquiries with the radar room, where no readings of her floating star had been registered, she had abandoned the cruise as soon as the ship docked. She needed to laze on sun-drenched beaches and heal her frightened, racing mind. Now, as she read the article on the beach videonews screen, she was even more fearful.

God! She could be dead! Images of her fellow passengers ghosted through her mind. She looked around at the crowded sand, the bronzed bodies exercising in the designated areas, and it all became a blur. The star had fallen. The ship had vanished. There was a link. There had to be. She lay down, and let the sun warm her long legs. Who could she turn to now?

-6-

Fingers drummed incessantly against a laminated desk top. Three people sat upright in black chairs. All of them wore identical grey suits with open-necked white shirts. A large circular skylight bathed their heads, the only source of illumination. The room was round, the top office of the Earth Spacecraft Control building: a globe surmounting a tall square-based pyramid that soared almost a thousand metres into the sky. It was a warm, still New Mexico day, bright and motionless around the tower.

Two of the men jerked as a printer commenced to spew copy on thin plastic film. It stopped as suddenly as it had started, and the largest of the men rose, snatched the output and returned to his chair. His face visibly paled as he read the contents. The other two men leant closer, frowns and unspoken questions swamping their faces.

The large man was Alexander Stuhr, head of Earthspace Security, strongly built with a weather-beaten complexion. A former interstellar captain, his brow was furrowed and his expression forlorn. Next to him sat Lance Desally, his assistant. Desally’s thin, long-nosed face looked ill at ease, as if he was not accustomed to inexplicable events. He was a tall man and held his hands in an attitude of prayer, elbows resting on the desk.

“Four reports; all identical.” Stuhr sounded hoarse, and he swallowed the mineral water placed nearby. “Maxel shift trace of no more than a thousandth, but there all the same.”

“Anything else?” Desally asked, running a hand nervously through his dark hair. Nothing was sure yet; not yet.

“Instruments checked and re-checked with no error detected. Deduction – mass acceleration from invasive spacecraft of at least two tonnes assuming near light speed to avoid detection.”

The third man, Charles Cheng, nodded slowly. He was small, keen-eyed, despite his advanced years, and his expression portrayed an alertness and sharpness of mind not present in his colleagues. As the Earth’s foremost expert in quantum mechanics and relativity, he welded the cosmic and subatomic realms together and was, in fact, one of the principal exponents on the suction warp drive and the Einstein-Rosen bridge operations.

“Four of them?” Cheng said.

Stuhr nodded. “There’s more.” He looked at the print out. “Four large ocean cruise ships have vanished, completely and suddenly. Absolutely no trace. No signals, nothing.”

“Four on four,” whispered Desally.

“All at the same time,” Stuhr continued. “All at noon. Last Thursday. Dead on noon.”

“Christ!” Desally left his chair and headed towards the restroom door.

Cheng put his head in his hands. Is it happening at last? An invasion of Earth! Why not? he thought. Humans have been invading other systems for generations. His fingers started to drum again, awaiting the return of his colleague. Desally came back into the room and sat down. He looked pale and weak as if he had just wretched, eyes bloodshot from the exertion.

Stuhr played his trump card. “They were all from Paludis,” he breathed. “All from that shitty pill planet. All flights showing maxel shift started there.”

“Not our own kind, for God’s sake,” Cheng muttered.

“Nuke the bastards,” Desally said.

Stuhr grimaced. “There are two races on Paludis: human and the native Muskan − a backward, pseudo-reptilian humanoid species. Intelligence does not believe either has the technology to piggy-back one of our own interstellars.”

“Do the military know?” Desally asked.

“As from nine today.”

“When’s the next flight from Paludis? Cheng inquired.

“Two days away.” Stuhr managed his first meagre smile of the morning.

“There’ll be quite a reception at Charon.”

“What about the newscasts?” Cheng saw the possibility of mass panic.

“All they know about is the loss of the surface ships, which I’m sure they’ll put down to some kind of terrorist action. Control has already put out one false claim.”

The other two nodded. Heaven help them if this got into the public domain.

They started to rise, but Stuhr held up his hand.

“One more thing,” the head of Earthspace Security said. “There’s apparently a woman, name of Cavanna, who allegedly saw a UFO the night before the ships went missing.”

Desally laughed. “Her and a hundred others, no doubt.”

“There’s a complication,” Stuhr continued. “She just happened to be on one of the missing ships when she saw it. Left the vessel soon after in Hawaii.”

Cheng took a shrill intake of breath and got straight to the point. “Who has she told?”

“So far only the authorities − and she’s been instructed not to tell anyone else, including the media. The usual precautions are in place.”

Cheng grimaced. Poor woman, he thought.

“She’s a danger,” Desally frowned. “What do we do?”

Stuhr shrugged. “It’s been taken care of − diplomatically.”

Desally wrung his hands feverishly. “I presume we’re supposed to carry on as normal, act as if we can all sleep safely in our beds.”

“Exactly,” Stuhr said. “Silence, in this case, is most golden.”

There was such a menacing aura to his words that the room was, once again, plunged into an agonising stillness. Above the skylight a lone eagle drifted upon the artificial updraughts.

* * *

Clare sat in the lunar spaceport lounge and observed the passing parade with the detached interest customary to most impending travellers. Contrary to the opinion of ancient geneticists, the human race had diverged remarkably over the many centuries it had been in space, and it seemed that the majority of its representatives now paraded across her vision. Many of the diversifications, of course, had come from ex-terrestrial breeding, humankinds forged by totally alien environs. Changes were most obvious in height, skin pigment and iris shadings. Martian-bred humans, like herself, were usually green-eyed and allegedly oversexed. Not that she was living proof of the latter attribute − perhaps because her parents had emigrated to Earth when she was still young. She had been reared in the open vastness of North Australia, where she had eventually married and subsequently divorced.

Through a nearby viewport she could see the sunlit surface of Earth’s long since ravaged moon stretching to the short horizon. It returned her stare blandly, devoid of life and soul.

The mother planet hung on the horizon: a distraught parent in an uncaring sky, her lunar child still-born in cosmic terms. How the human condition is reflected in the universal mirror! Clare closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to Earth, her thoughts flowing through empty space and fluffy white clouds.

The job offer had been too good to be true; a letter from the Department of Employment innocently occupying her Alice Springs inbox: an unbelievable salary and a chance to enter space once more. The position, at Paludis’s Tanberg University, suited her qualifications ideally and the two weeks’ training she had received in Manila, prior to embarkation, had been most interesting. She had never felt fitter or better equipped to take on a new challenge. It was a new beginning, away from her contemporary trials and tribulations.

Not far from the spaceport lounge, yet another Earth shuttle touched down silently, perhaps to load a new explorer craft with excited young pioneers, anxious to tread the far expanses of the universe. She wondered if there were limits anymore. A thousand light years by fifty jumps? Ten thousand by five hundred? Too far away to be comprehensible. Too far away from home − wherever home was. Too far away, probably, to ever return. The bridges were fine, but to be forever crossing? And it would be a privileged few who knew where the ERs were stationed, out there beyond the realms of imagination.

She feared for the new generation, forever lost to the mother planet. To sleep, perchance to dream. The words came to her from the latent depths of an antipodean childhood and, as she watched the aura of the shuttle blink out, she felt a strange wave of dread sweep through her body. There were also ripples of home-sickness.

Clare fished out a mirror from her hold-all and studied her face. She had the classic red hair and green eyes combination, hair now clipped short, eyes deep and enhanced by golden highlighter. Her Martian genes had seen her through the trauma of separation relatively unscathed – no frown lines yet, but no laughter lines either.

She stood, resplendent in her purple travelling robe, tall and rangy, like an ancient jillaroo. Soon she would be asleep, to awaken just five minutes from the Paludis moon. Clare took a deep breath. She would win her battle against the universe.

* * *

Paludis had almost set beyond Muskluna’s swollen hills as Michelle Sanson slid the small transporter to a halt in a flurry of dust. She gazed at the three silver domes, against the flame-red panorama of the moon’s landscape. Michelle groaned and slumped over the control column. It had been a strenuous drive and she felt utterly exhausted, nerves stretched to breaking point and muscles frozen into steel knots.

She would have accepted Sangster’s offer of help, but two people were more conspicuous than one and it had, after all, been relatively easy to get the containers loaded. The solo drive, however, had been a nightmare.

She left the vehicle and stared at the sky. The dwarf star had dropped lower to the horizon since her last visit, and a few stars were struggling to gain hold in the pitch blackness of her particular heaven.

Walking slowly around the vehicle, she stared through her helmet at the two aluminium containers. A brief feeling of power surged through her tired mind. Two lives! She had two lives beneath her fingertips, to do with as she wished. Despite her fatigue, she smiled.

Over nine months ago, it had been her and Sangster inside the shielded boxes and Vidmar patrolling nervously outside. Vidmar was most certainly not her type, but once the dean had expressed a strong desire to join them, he and his students had proved very useful in helping renovate and service the domes. Michelle was pleased her plans had gone so well – the pill being used to induce sleep and the comatose bodies then being transported as freight.

She had journeyed from Suffek to Paludis twelve weeks ago, masquerading as Emma Serina Bronowski. Travelling alone and at night, she had installed a temporary and covert base among the many hidden cloisters of Tanberg University. From there she organised the transportation of Vidmar and the Muskan. The visit of agent Lattanzis had only served to bring their departure date forward, though she had certainly disliked the unnecessary panic displayed by the dean. The use of Suffek as an intermediary holding point, Sangster’s idea, would help to hide the trail.

And now the buildings were finished and the final stage of her scheme was ready for initiation.

This final trip, her trip, was the weak link, for she would now remain on Muskluna − hence the impersonation, which she had actually quite enjoyed. Within the helmet, Michelle breathed deeply. Now it was really beginning. They could sleep or wake as they wished − even the Muskan if he co-operated. Heavens! The poor alien was in for a shock when he awoke.

With one hand resting on the transporter’s roof, she watched the moon’s planet slowly drop in the sky, and wondered when she would again tread the Paludis surface. Her eyes tried to make out the continents. There was no tug on the heartstrings − not yet, perhaps not for a long while.

Strolling over to the nearest dome’s airlock, Michelle pressed her passcard into the special recess and spoke her entry words. Going through, she waited for the inner door to close before peeling off her suit and removing her helmet. Clad only in slacks and a blouse, she recalled her first entrance over a year and a half ago. There was a stark contrast. Atmosphere was now automatically controlled, power supplied by an external array of the latest solar cells, backed up by fifty-year batteries. A bank of switch-over batteries hung adjacent to the main console. Inside the dome, the entire energy source was no larger than a spacesuit pack.

Three light panels were equally spaced at head height around the dome wall, and two large consoles occupied the central zone. One of the consoles provided secured videonews reception from Paludis and also a local transmitter, linked to Del-Shangi, which they could use in the unlikely event of an emergency. The other console contained food, medical and personal items, held in a sterile environment.

There were two beds and an adjacent en suite. After some deliberation it had been decided that all three domes should be fully operational, one for herself and Sangster, one for Vidmar, and one for Tak-Elno.

Sangster was asleep in one of the beds. Michelle walked to the bathroom, combed her hair and let her clothes drop to the floor. She sprayed most of her body with scent and walked sensually over to Sangster’s bed, fervently hoping he was in natural slumber. Gently removing the covers she slid on top of him. It would be ten hours before Vidmar and the Muskan would awake.

* * *

Pas-Elno stared with dark green eyes at the walls of the human’s office. The emphasis of the decor puzzled him. There appeared to be no ancestral records of any kind, and certainly there were no religious artefacts. Instead, the walls were covered with numbers and lines, with occasional colour photographs of bizarre alien animals. There were also a few strangely-shaped solid objects on one wall, which had resisted his probing fingers when he had tried to move them.

They had brought him straight to Kentucky, a day’s journey by express hovercar along West Paludis’s wide, flat roads. It was the fastest he had ever travelled, and he had sat in wondrous silence as the scenery flashed by. Rolling green hills, large shiny buildings, other road users − especially the large transporters – cane-grass plantations, expanses of inland water with white edges, weird animals in fields surrounded by high wire fences: all caught his imagination as the journey progressed.

Pas-Elno recollected his recent meeting with the Muskan grand elders. He had given them a difficult choice − either he would never cease trying to escape the peninsula in a quest to find his father, or they could arrange his official transfer to the human agent, Lattanzis. There had been a third alternative, of course, that being to imprison him indefinitely beneath the temple, but that particular course of action would have been untenable to the Muskan populace. Brel-Elno had suffered enough as it was.

With a promise to regularly communicate, and to return within a Muskan year, Pas-Elno had thus departed the peninsula for the first time in his life. Brel-Elno, like many mothers of the universe before her, had been left by her males to fend for herself.

However, there had been pride in her face when she had bidden her son farewell, showing as a spasmodic flaring of the nasal cavities as they touched lips. Hundreds of Muskans had stood around them, observing in silence as Pas-Elno walked through the portal into the barrier wall. Brel-Elno had stood to face her brethren and raised her arms to the sky, feeling their strength enter her body. She was soon to be a Muskan of some stature.

The humans had given Pas-Elno a blue robe to hide his alien body. He wore it with some reluctance, for he had not yet the audacity nor cynicism of his father. Underneath he still wore his loincloth but, having left his ancestral staff with his mother, he still felt somewhat naked.

The door suddenly buzzed open and Stefan Lattanzis entered the room, all arms and legs, like a human tornado. Pas-Elno leapt to his feet and offered his hand in the human tradition. Stefan smiled briefly and shook it. The door slid shut behind him and they both sat down.

“How in the hell did you manage this?” The agent’s voice, despite the words, was not angry.

Pas-Elno stared at him in apparent disbelief. “If your father was missing would you not wish to find him?”

Stefan sighed. “You realise that you can’t just walk freely among us. You’d be abused, beaten up, perhaps worse. Not by all, you understand, but by a small minority.”

“I see that as a human defect.” Pas-Elno looked defiant. “You do not wish to harm me.” It was a statement, not a question.

Stefan smiled and shook his head. “How do you think you can help me?”

“I know the Muskan ways, what my people do in certain circumstances. If you show me where my father was, the people he was with...”

Stefan nodded. “The university. I’ll take you to Tanberg. You’ll be away from the main population there, and,” he added unnecessarily, “they’re familiar with your kind.”

“That is good,” Pas-Elno responded. “There is one favour I would ask you now.” Lattanzis raised his eyebrows. “I wish to have some human clothes. I am not happy in the robe, and I cannot wear the normal Muskan garb among you. Is it possible?”

Stefan held up his hands. “That would make some people angry. They would not want a Muskan native masquerading as a human.” He saw the look of disgust shade Pas-Elno’s face. “Maybe we can come up with a compromise. Short cloak and trousers, perhaps. Leave it to me.”

Silence enveloped the room, then Pas-Elno asked, “When can I go to the university?”

“No time like the present,” Stefan replied. “Let me make a call.”

* * *

Clare Cavanna was floating in a haze of green mist. Weightless, she hung face down, back arched, legs and arms limp, only her fingers moving like the tentacles of a small squid. Stars were all around, shiny in a black sky. They started to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Abruptly the form of three letters hurtled out from the galaxy of lights. First came a P, then an M followed by a C. They moved swiftly, growing from nothing to dominate her vision and burst into flames, one after the other. A fierce pain stabbed the nape of her neck, and the heat of the inferno scorched the skin of her face. She screamed in agony, and the movement of her jaw increased the suffering.

Within the sleep cubicle, her lips moved noiselessly.

-7-

Pas-Elno surveyed the room that had sheltered his father for more than a year. There was a table and a chair, both manufactured from unnatural materials, and a small bed tucked away in a corner. A self-luminous picture of a plain of cane-grass at sunset hung on one wall, but there was no other decoration – and there were no windows. His father would not have been happy here.

“Urf! This place has no spirit,” the Muskan youth said. “I cannot feel my father here.”

Stefan Lattanzis grimaced, tempted to tell Pas-Elno that Tak-Elno had apparently spent many of his latter days at the university in the laboratories and their appended dormitories.

“I need a room with a window,” Pas-Elno continued. “A window I can open. I want a view of Musk.” He deliberately used the ancient name and awaited the investigator’s reaction.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Lattanzis replied, not rising to the bait. He decided to grab the initiative back, indicating the chair to Pas-Elno. “Let’s talk about your father.”

Pas-Elno sat down, shaking his head. “I feel that my father was a prisoner here. I feel that Vidmar holds the key. He was a human elder, was he not?”

Stefan perched on the edge of the desk. “If you like. He was important, but he did not make the rules that govern our society.”

The Muskan breathed gently through his back-tube. “What was his work?”

“Everything here was his work, but he had a special interest in molecular biogenesis, especially related to Paludis biology.”

Pas-Elno nodded. “Ah, the kelp.”

“Sure, the kelp and other plants. Animals, too. The kelp was really Sangster’s forte.”

“Sangster?”

“He disappeared together with Michelle Sanson, a politician, about nine months ago.”

Pas-Elno grunted. “And there’s a connection?”

“Sangster’s one connection. He worked for Vidmar. He developed the sleeping pill.”

Pas-Elno’s eyes bore into Stefan’s. “There’s more than that, of course.”

“Undoubtedly, but the rest remains unknown at this stage.”

The Muskan slid his cleaning membrane over his eyes and asked, “Where was Vidmar when the other two vanished?”

Stefan frowned, somewhat startled. He wondered if the Muskan youth knew of his impending trip, or did he just possess an inquisitive mind? He phrased his reply carefully. “On the day of their disappearance he was here, at the university.”

“Do you believe they are still on Musk?”

“I did, but now I’m not too sure.” Stefan leant forward. “Look, I’ll bring you up to date but only in the strictest confidence.” He felt strange treating the alien like one of his fellow officers.

Pas-Elno nodded. “Mr Lattanzis, I am still bound by Muskan tradition – and I do wish to find my father.”

Stefan breathed deeply and ran a hand through his short hair. Before continuing he checked that the door was shut. His brown eyes glistened as he said, “On the day of the first disappearance – Sangster and Sanson – there were only two off-world flights; one to Suffek, the other to Earth. A week later, Vidmar left for an alleged research trip to Suffek.”

“And you have only just made the connection.”

Stefan looked miffed. “I could hardly make it before Vidmar vanished. Why should I?”

Pas-Elno held up his hand. “Sorry.” He seemed haunted by the ghost of his father’s memory. “When do you go to Suffek?”

“Tomorrow,” Stefan replied gruffly. “And no, you can’t come. You are better employed here. Make a nuisance of yourself.” The investigator’s eyes narrowed. “You should be good at that.”

Pas-Elno offered him the briefest of Muskan smiles.

They were navigating their way to the registrar’s office when Stefan received a short call. He turned to Pas-Elno, as white as a sheet. Muttering an apology, he left him with the desk clerk and ran to his hovercar. Within minutes he was hurtling south at breakneck speed.

* * *

In a bay to the south of Tanberg a huge kelp dredger lay moored four hundred metres offshore. On a low headland, three people looked down at the remains of four male bodies, which were lined up next to each other on the gravel.

“They were caught up by the dredger,” the local police officer explained, “no more than an hour ago. Must have been underwater for weeks by the look of them. This one has a tattoo on his calf.” He kicked the appropriate leg. “Presumably a student at the university.”

Stefan bent to study the leg, making out the initials TU on the hind part of the left calf. Straightening up, he said, “Could be his own initials.”

The local shook his head. “No. It’s apparently a fad with some of the students. Lucky the fish didn’t nibble that bit.”

“Were they all naked when found?” Stefan directed his question to the captain of the ship, a squat man with a large, bushy beard.

The seaman nodded. “Nothing on them at all. Poor souls were held down by weights. Gave my crew the runs, I can tell you − in among the kelp as large as life.”

Stefan squirmed at the description, picturing the floating bodies twisting and rolling in the undersea forest; ghosts in a green soup. The weights were now piled tidily next to the bodies.

The dredger captain looked anxiously towards his ship. “I should be getting back. Any more questions?”

Stefan shook his head. “Not for now. We’ll contact you later.”

The captain left and they watched his hovercar clear the headland and ride the small waves towards the cavernous body of the floating harvester.

“No sign of struggle on the bodies?” Stefan asked.

“I don’t think so, but hard to tell, the state they’re in,” the local officer replied.

“I’ve got forensic on their way.” There was a pause and then he added, “Have you any particular interest in this?”

Stefan shrugged. “I don’t think so. I just happened to be at Tanberg University when your call came through.” Even as he said the words, he didn’t believe them.

The local didn’t believe them either and offered a loose grin. “Forensic will soon nail the idents, then we’ll know, eh?”

“Hope so,” Stefan mused. “How many students go missing each year?”

“Scores,” responded the local, “though we do trace most of them. They usually get bored and go for the big money on the dredgers instead of completing their course.”

Stefan left with a wave and drove his vehicle slowly back to Tanberg. The possibility drifted through his mind that these four bodies were connected to the four disappearances. Four did not equal four in this case, though.

Arriving back at the campus he returned to the registrar, thankful that Pas-Elno was nowhere to be seen. The less the Muskan knew about recent events the better. He asked for the names of absconding students and within a minute had a list of thirty-three in his hands. Twelve of them were female, which left twenty-one possibilities. Acting on a hunch, he asked the intrigued registrar how many of the twenty-one males worked in Sangster’s area. Five of them popped out of the hat. He requested their home addresses. Four of the five were from East Paludis. He also asked for a room at the campus. A sense of unease was slowly enfolding remorseless fingers over his darkening thoughts.

* * *

At two o’clock in the morning, Stefan received a call from the local officer he had met the previous day. As the officer told him the names of the students, the words became sad, shapeless forms that somehow made the room cold. He sank back onto his pillows and studied the list. Mikel Fischer – the one with the tattoo – he’d start with him. He punched a call through to East Paludis, where it would now be daylight. The screen suddenly sprang to life.

“Hello. Adele Fischer.”

“Mrs Fischer,” Stefan said. “I’m calling from Tanberg—” He was interrupted sharply.

“Is it Mikel? Have you found him?” Worry lines creased the face beneath her light blonde hair.

Stefan decided to postpone the pain. “No, Mrs. Fischer, I’m afraid not.” The faint hope emanating from the screen dissipated. “My name is Lattanzis, West Paludis police. I was hoping you could answer some questions for me.”

The voice faltered. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Stefan started his recorder. “When did you last see your son, Mrs Fischer?”

“About three months ago. He came home for a vacation.”

“Did he ever mention the name Sangster or Vidmar to you?”

To his surprise, she smiled. “Not the first one, but I have met Dr Vidmar. He came to visit about a year ago. Such a nice man.”

“Oh, for what purpose?”

“I’m not really sure. He just called in to see Mikel and me as he was nearby on business. Mikel showed him around where he was working at the time – during vacation, of course. Dr Vidmar was most interested.”

“And where was that, Mrs Fischer?”

“At the Saltzburg spaceport. Mikel had a part-time job as a caterer. Dr Vidmar was most interested in it, the technology and so forth.” She smiled weakly.

“He’s the dean of the university, you know.”

Stefan nodded and stared at the screen. “And he went to Mikel’s work place?”

“Oh, yes. They spent the whole afternoon there.”

“Can you remember the exact date?”

Adele Fischer frowned and closed her eyes briefly. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. My memory is not what it was. I do remember one thing, though; it was just before that dreadful crash − the orbitcraft that went down into the sea. I remember praying that Dr Vidmar was not on that flight. Thank God he wasn’t.”

Stefan felt a chill run down his spine.

“Was Mikel a good boy, Mrs Fischer?”

She looked defiantly proud. “He is a good person, sir. He wouldn’t harm a fly.”

Stefan suddenly felt tired. “Thanks for your help, Mrs Fischer.” He rang off, realising he had just spoken about the boy in the past tense, though Adele Fischer had seemingly not noticed. He hoped the locals would break the news to her gently.

Other, more sinister, thoughts sprang to mind. Could it be Vidmar, for some reason, who had tampered with the food of the orbitcraft crew, maybe even all the rations on that flight? It would have been so easy to use the student for access to the catering production line. He shook his head in disbelief. Perhaps he was racing too far ahead. He needed a motive. All the same, it made him more determined to find the dean, dead or alive.

* * *

As the ship descended to the arid and dusty plains of Suffek, memories of earlier times clouded Stefan’s mind. He recalled nostalgic days of sport, girls and camaraderie. Then his mother had been cruelly killed in a boating accident off the coast of Florida and, as she had been the prime income earner, life had changed dramatically.

Eventually, following two years of hand-to-mouth existence, he and his father had emigrated to Paludis in the hope of a better life. He had been nineteen years old at the time, and it had been a grand adventure, but two years later his father, still haunted by the tragic death of his mother, drank himself to the grave in the space of six months. Since then Stefan had devoted himself to his work, avoiding close relationships with any human from any planet. It was a role he had fostered.

He had returned to Earth only once since coming to Paludis. It had been a pilgrimage in search of his beginnings; an attempt to explore the cosmic volume where he had first been exposed to the signals of nature and the universe. He had been sadly disappointed. On Earth, there appeared to be a conflict between work and play, trees and concrete, hate and love, even life and death. There was no war, but there was no peace − at least for his kind of human soul.

The ship lurched in its descent and brought the agent’s mind back to the videophone call he had received just prior to leaving Paludis. He could vividly recall the voice of the local officer: “Lattanzis, that you? Thought you’d like to know the cause of death − well, not death exactly, I suppose. The kids all had traces of that damned sleeping capsule in their blood. Enough for a month, they reckon. They were drowned in their sleep, poor bastards.”

Stefan was angry. How could a person be drowned in their sleep? Not normal sleep, no way. The power of the sleeper frightened him, and the fact that it was on the open market scared the hell out of him. He was lost in thought as the ship’s invisible sensors felt the caress of the Suffek landing pad and brought the craft down in a cloud of grey dust.

* * *

Later that same day, Stefan sprawled on his hotel bed and listened, half asleep, to his recorder. On the day in question, Vidmar had stayed in the same hotel and had logged equipment into the Suffek spaceport stores. The dean’s research on Suffek had apparently only lasted a week, for he had then checked out and left for Paludis via Muskluna. According to the Suffek records, his equipment had followed him on the next flight. Quite what he had been doing on Suffek remained a mystery.

Stefan stared out of his viewport at the insidious murk that passed for Suffek’s atmosphere. It was not yet fully dark and a pall of greyness enveloped the panorama – dreary and furtive like the clouds that surrounded the spate of Paludis killings and disappearances. A few early stars twinkled ineffectively, as if trying to convey some kind of hidden message.

He doubted if this poisonous world would hold the clue to anything. Why, he wondered, would a university dean spend a week on this outcrop of rock and lethal gas? None of it made sense. Tomorrow, he would enquire at the mining company’s office, but beyond that there was little else he could do.

-8-

Stefan stared at the screen. Vidmar had stayed on Muskluna for a week following his arrival from Suffek, and joining him directly from Paludis had been four students.

Mikel Fischer’s name sprang out from the list to hit the agent squarely between the eyes. The three other names checked, too. This time four did equal four. So it appeared that the dean’s purpose was on Muskluna, and that Suffek had been a minor excursion or a complete diversion. Muskluna, however, was almost as dead as Suffek! Stefan sighed deeply and thanked the travel clerk, who rewarded him with a flashing smile and an exaggerated wink.

Strolling back to the main lounge, Stefan knew he had to try to discover what the Tanberg group had been doing during their stay. Presumably it was something worth killing for!

* * *

Later, fully suited, Stefan stood staring out at Muskluna’s ruddy terrain and a tremor of frustration ran through his body. All his primordial instincts told him the answer lay out there, somewhere in that forbidding wilderness. His hands slowly opened and closed as his eyes ran along the tops of the distant hills. Even though the records showed the dean and his students had returned to Paludis – four of them permanently so − he suspected that Vidmar had elusively found his way back to Muskluna. He also suspected that Michelle Sanson, Simon Sangster and Tak-Elno were with him.

Donning a suit and leaving the terminal had been only a gesture – a first step on the path to locating Vidmar. Stefan chewed his bottom lip. Vidmar and the students had hired a four wheeler for a week, returned it, gone home. Ostensibly that was it, but Vidmar’s presence was here. He felt it beckoning, almost leering at him, across the dead and dusty swollen hills of Paludis’s moon.

* * *

Clare Cavanna rubbed sleepy eyes as she waited patiently in line at Muskluna for Paludis immigration. There was quite a queue before her, and an even larger crowd forming behind. She shuffled forward, oblivious to the rising tumult of indignation. Out of the four possible entry points there was only one gate electronically active. Shouts of complaint began to ring through the air.

The building was like hundreds scattered around the occupied galaxy – full of cheap, durable furniture and a floor that was forever being cleaned. At set intervals around the walls, a multitude of automatic scanners and cameras kept a silent vigil. Pictures of cane-grass fields and kelp harvesters were the only decoration and the only indication this was Paludis territory. The noise behind Clare reached a crescendo as a further two gate lights blinked into life.

People scurried to the newly opened channels and Clare felt herself pushed hard from behind. In her weary state she fell like a decaying tree, crashing to the floor in a flurry of arms, legs and baggage. The human tide flowed around her until she found herself lifted gently but firmly by the arms.

A male voice whispered in her ears. “Come on, lady. Stay awake.”

For a moment, she was staring into deep brown Terran eyes and then they were gone. She sought their owner but he was lost in the crowd. A tear spilled into her eye. She already hated Paludis.

* * *

Clare grinned at Pas-Elno across her machine-made sandwich. They sat in a private corner of the refectory, away from the hustle of whirring machines and milling humans. During the three days since her arrival at Tanberg she and the Muskan had grown to be close associates, perhaps even friends. They were both strangers in an alien world and they both had something to prove. She liked his frankness, his boldness, and she sympathised with his feelings when he talked of his people and their imprisonment on the North-Eastern Peninsula.

It was the first time she’d been in contact with an alien and, though at first nervous, she had grown to appreciate their relationship. There was, somehow, an empathy of thought. Pas-Elno had spoken of his missing father and Stefan’s trip to Suffek. He had told of his determination to know the truth.

Now, as they sat together, Clare told the Muskan youth of her sad and broken marriage, her vision at sea and the reasons behind her solo migration. His eyes grew wide as she talked about the mysterious light that had entered the ocean.

“We have many things in common,” he said and ventured nothing more, but the shine never left his eyes.

* * *

On Clare’s ninth day at Tanberg, Stefan Lattanzis, safely returned from Suffek and Muskluna, paid Pas-Elno a visit. He found the native talking to a group of students in the corner of the gymnasium. The agent stood and watched for a while, noting the ease with which the young people conversed with the alien, obviously accepting him irrespective of his origins. He wished he had a video to record the interaction. Even without sound it made a fascinating study.

Pas-Elno saw him and, making his excuses to the students, strolled over to shake Stefan’s hand.

“So, the wanderer returns,” the Muskan said. “How are you?”

The agent grinned. “You mean how did I go?”

Pas-Elno sighed heavily through his back-tube but made no comment.

“Vidmar spent some time on Muskluna on his way back from Suffek,” Stefan continued. “He met four of his students there, students who were later murdered.”

The Muskan youth pouted, a strange expression on his reptilian face. “About the time Sanson and Sangster vanished, of course. Any more recent traces of Vidmar?”

Stefan shook his head. “Nothing.”

“What were they doing on our moon?”

Stefan shrugged. “They hired a vehicle and disappeared for a week. Then they returned here.”

Pas-Elno suddenly gripped the agent’s arm and Lattanzis was surprised at the strength of the alien. The Muskan’s eyes glinted fire. “You think they are up there, don’t you?”

“That’s a possibility,” Stefan replied. “They must have been doing something during that week.”

Pas-Elno smiled strangely. “I have never been into space.”

Stefan threw up his hands. “Just hold on a minute. Nobody’s going anywhere. We can’t charge off to Muskluna like a couple of berserk mavericks. That’s a big wilderness up there.”

Silence hung between them, a curtain of bitterness and anger.

“Sanson and Sangster,” Pas-Elno said suddenly. “We must look at their movements immediately prior to their disappearance. There must be something.”

Stefan grimaced. “Already done. A hundred times.” It was an exaggeration but it certainly felt like a hundred.

“Then I’ll do it,” Pas-Elno said. “Can I have your records?”

The agent nodded, still looking uncomfortable. The alien was so tenacious. But, after all, it was his father.

“Those students I was talking to,” Pas-Elno continued, “they all took part in the sleeping pill trials. Vidmar took more than a passing interest in the results. It was Sangster’s baby...” Stefan smiled at the use of the human expression, no doubt picked up from the students, “…but Vidmar, Sanson too, were more than just onlookers.” Pas-Elno’s face took on an almost ferocious look and air grated in his back-tube. “They think my father was used in the experiments.”

Stefan Lattanzis nodded grimly. “I think he was, too. I’ll get you those records.”

* * *

Later that same day Stefan met Clare Cavanna. Even before she saw the big Terran eyes, Clare recognised the voice and blushed with embarrassment.

“My ungracious saviour on Muskluna,” she exclaimed facetiously. “I really don’t believe it.”

Stefan grinned sheepishly. “Sorry I couldn’t stop. I was caught in the rush.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Clare.

Pas-Elno looked on, grinning wickedly.

Stefan studied her swiftly: undoubtedly Martian stock, hard to tell the age, slender, very beautiful in a wild way, somewhat sorrowful green eyes, superb red hair, which would have been better long.

“You’re very welcome,” he said. “Glad to see you made it.”

“Tell him about your star,” interjected Pas-Elno.

“Really, Pas,” she giggled. “What makes you think he’d be interested?”

“Try me,” Stefan said.

Clare told him, in a few poignant sentences, of her strange experience in the Pacific. The Muskan listened intently, striving to catch any details he may have missed at the previous narration. Stefan just stared at the eyes and the mouth, at the changing expressions upon Clare’s face. What she said seemed of secondary importance.

“Well?”

Stefan blinked, gathering his wits. “Who did you tell?”

“Oh, the usual authorities,” Clare responded. “I don’t think any of them believed me.”

Stefan smiled. “I believe you.”

He didn’t sound patronising, so Clare smiled back.

Pas-Elno nearly told of his own sighting, but once again held back. He would carry it with him a little longer yet.

* * *

That night, Pas-Elno dreamt of the star rising from the water. It rose high into the heavens and then swooped down upon the land, soaring and roaring above the heads of a multitude of his own people. One by one it drew the Muskans into its body until only he was left. It stood hovering and pulsating before him, and a huge mouth opened within its surface and the eyes of his people stared balefully upon him. He yelled in his sleep as the eyes blinked. The star vanished and he was alone.

* * *

The ships hung around the planet in hungry, menacing, silent orbit. There were five in total, the pinnacle of Earth’s military might in space, each carrying a crew of five who controlled an arsenal of deadly missiles and disintegration beam cannons.

Pluto filled their screens, with the sun a large star shining between the dwarf planet and its primary moon, Charon. Countless other stars, twinkling onlookers, filled the sky.

The commander of the Earth ships was somewhat disappointed. There had been no sign of an invasion force accompanying the first freighter to arrive from Paludis, and there had apparently been no maxel shift. The situation had been the same on all subsequent arrivals.

As he stared down at Pluto’s mottled surface, and nearby Charon’s grey and brooding terrain, he wondered about the information that had sent him on this fool’s errand. He had, in fact, only been given a scant briefing on what to look for, and was under the distinct impression that he was not alone in his ignorance. He firmly believed that his orders were the result of suspicion and fear rather than firm evidence.

A small beep rang in his ear and the crisp voice of his communications officer sounded loud and clear: “Message from New Mexico, sir. We’ve been ordered back.”

The message ran across the commander’s console in bold type: RETURN TO BASE. ALL FLEET. NO EXCEPTIONS. NO FURTHER DIRECT FLIGHTS TO AND FROM PALUDIS ALLOWED. CODE SENTINEL / WORLD MUSK / AGGRESSOR. END.

“Signal compliance.” The commander pursed his lips. Common sense at last.

A smile crossed his face.

The smile didn’t last long. A tremendous flash slammed through the nearest viewport as the adjacent ship evaporated to vacuum, countless carbon molecules scurrying into space over five and a half thousand million kilometres from home. The commander shrieked an order and the engines pulsed into life. The other three ships also started to move. Within seconds they were hurtling towards the Einstein-Rosen bridge, which opened directly to Earth orbit. No other explosion occurred. The commander gritted his teeth as the ship’s computers searched for the assailant. Nothing showed. Not a damned thing!

On the communications deck there was the faintest whisper of a recorded maxel shift, the merest nanosecond flicker on the screen.

* * *

Hours later, Alexander Stuhr sat once more with his colleagues. His face was ashen and his long fingers trembled slightly. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. His voice quivered as he spoke.

“The fleet at Charon has been attacked. One ship totally destroyed. The others got the hell out of there. No sign of any aggressor.”

“How attacked?” Lance Desally asked, assuming his customary praying mantis position.

Stuhr shrugged. “The ship just disintegrated − presumably the same as the hoverships.”

Charles Cheng frowned and said, “Only one ship destroyed, though.”

Stuhr looked at him, not understanding. “That’s right, just one, just five of our best astronauts blown to dust.”

Cheng held up his hand. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. What I meant is − how come the other four ships escaped? They could have taken all five, but they didn’t.”

“Christ! Who cares,” Desally moaned.

“Maybe there are not many of them. I think they may want to go back,” Cheng said. “They got here by using our own ships and they would have to go back the same way. Maybe they’re saying they don’t want to destroy all our ships, but they can if we don’t help them back to Paludis.”

Stuhr gasped. “You can’t be serious. The other ships escaped by their own actions. Even if you’re right, to hell with them.”

Cheng shook his head slowly. “If I’m right and we don’t help them, they’ll peddle more of their wares down here, don’t you think?”

Lance Desally nodded. “It makes a weird kind of sense − but all direct links with Paludis have been stopped.”

“Then we’ll unstop them. We’ll send one more.”

“Without informing the commander and crew of the reasons, I presume.” Stuhr looked even sicker.

“What choice is there?” Cheng said. “Let’s try to get the bastards out of our hair and back where they came from.”

“But why should they go back?” Stuhr queried. “Why destroy four cruise ships then return home? How do we know they’ll all go back anyway?”

“We don’t. We know remarkably little,” Cheng responded, “and that’s our problem. At least it will be some kind of gambit and we can’t lose anything by it.” He didn’t look at all confident, and neither did the others.

* * *

The next day, alone in his office, Desally punched the videophone scrambler, spoke a number, and settled back into his ergonomic chair. The screen flickered briefly to reveal a long, thin face with a suitably proportioned nose riding atop a small, dark moustache. The shoulders were bedecked by five shiny gold stars on each grey lapel.

“General Mitchell,” Lance Desally said, “is it fixed?”

The military man nodded grimly, said nothing.

“Don’t tell me the details − but what day is it?”

“In two days,” the general replied. “We broadcast a signal just in case they’re listening.”

Goose pimples rose on Desally’s neck and he swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m sure they are.”

Silence hung momentarily between them, each thinking how little they knew about this mysterious adversary.

“There’s one thing you should know,” General Mitchell said. “There’ll be over a hundred on board.” His face emanated harshness, a facade reinforced by his single-source desk lighting.

Desally’s heart leapt. “Passengers! Whatever for? Surely there’s no need for possible sacrifices.”

“Unfortunately there is every need. We don’t know the capabilities of this enemy. There must be nothing to raise suspicion. If they sense Anticipation is a near-empty ship, they’ll immediately be alerted.”

“Jesus!” Desally began to sweat. This was monstrous but even as the thought entered his mind he could see the logic. The flight had to appear normal. He nodded to the general and broke the connection. A hundred innocents! He felt dirty and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

Two days after take-off, New Mexico received a message from the interstellar transport Anticipation. It read: MAXEL SHIFT OCCURED ON FIRST JUMP. NO OTHER EFFECTS. CONTINUING. END.

Thirty seconds later, the ship exploded in a huge ball of nuclear flame.

The military interstellar Huntsman, tracking her quarry and just emerging from the Bridge, recorded the distant explosion. The captain glared at the screen. Apparently, the enemy were not concerned about going home just yet! Or had they sensed Huntsman on their trail?

Taking full advantage of the cover supplied by the destruction of Anticipation, he gunned his ship back to Earth.

Minutes later, he was confident there had been no maxel shift.

And then he wondered if it had been Earth who destroyed Anticipation. A few enemy for over a hundred humans. Surely not.

-9-

President Johansson tried to relax. He was at home, sitting in his huge, softly upholstered chair and staring blandly out of the large windows, thoughts occupied by the strange and annoying edict from Earth. His voice activated the blinds and the distant tall buildings of Kentucky were lost to view. The luminous study walls grew to a greater, compensatory brightness, highlighting the deep maroon pile of the carpet and the massive carved wooden desk from Earth.

The command that all direct flights from Paludis to Earth immediately cease, and that such flights terminate at Alpha Centauri, some four light years from the mother planet, where all cargo would be transferred to other interstellars, had contained not one iota of reasoning. Even using the bridges at priority status, the directive had taken three Paludis weeks to arrive from Earth. And any response would take the same going back! Resolution of the problem would thus take some time. Not that he had much say in the matter. Johansson sighed. What was four light years in well over a hundred and forty anyway?

The human space station of Centurion, effectively a minor planet built within the Alpha Centauri system over a period of four hundred years, was something of a mystery to him, indeed to all humanity save high-ranking military personnel. It was a huge habitat, tightly controlled, full of high-level security and technological paraphernalia. It was, in essence, the training and proving ground for Earth’s armed forces, hence a secret and enigmatic place. He suspected, also, that it was the source of most of the new weapon systems coming on the market. The thought that Paludis traffic was required to enter such an arena worried him greatly, in particular when he was denied the reason.

Not for the first time in his political career, he felt like a puppet in the hands of the Earth authorities. Yet he really had no choice but to obey. To refuse the request would have denied Paludis access to Earth markets and invite subsequent military intervention. For now, at least, he would have to comply with the seemingly illogical demand.

Sighing heavily, he slumped further into his chair. As if he didn’t have enough troubles, with Shean James about to launch a challenge to his leadership. Thoughts of the overweight industrialist and newly elected senate member filled him with despair. He lowered the lights and shut his eyes. God! He’d only been returned a year or so ago. Perhaps he should resign, let someone else grab the reins. Yet he was reluctant to do so, for he was leading the planet into a boom era, carefully balancing immigration with new wealth, managing to avoid dangerous economic overheating. But there was a new vigour about the people, a strain of vibrant, unleashed energy champing at the bit. Such energy frightened him; history told him what it could lead to.

He shut off the lights completely and sat in the dark.

* * *

The time had come. The three of them sat in Vidmar’s hemisphere partaking in what Michelle Sanson called the last supper. By general agreement they had decided that their initial sleep step would be for two months, their second for six months, and their third for a year, followed by others in multiples of years to be decided, but peaking at intervals of twenty years. The period between sleeps they’d agreed at a maximum of one month, which gave ample time for reconsideration. There were enough sleepers to cover the program twice over, plus some of the newer hundred-year stock which Vidmar had brought with him in case anyone was feeling adventurous.

The actual procedure for taking the sleepers had been troublesome to work out. If they had all been in the same hemisphere it would have been easy – a simultaneous affair. Eventually they agreed that Vidmar should take his pill in the presence of the other two, and then Michelle and Simon would return to their hemisphere and witness each other. Some trust was required but, as Sangster often remarked, there was nowhere to go − only the future. Thus, they sat and tried to enjoy the last supper.

The atmosphere was subdued as Michelle raised her glass. “To the future, gentlemen.” She looked at Simon. “New worlds and new conquests.”

They repeated the toast, a slight nervousness edging their voices. It had taken eighteen months to get to this stage and the obvious doubts were having their last fling.

Vidmar rose and looked at his watch, immediately feeling absurd. What did minutes matter in months and years, centuries even? “Let’s do it,” he said. “Two months. The first step.” He turned to the others. “Anybody want to check the news before we turn in?” It was an attempt at a joke but the other two took it seriously.

“Maybe in two months,” Sangster said limply.

Vidmar lay on his bunk and Michelle showed him the pill, coded at power three point one six, for one thousand four hundred and forty-five hours. Vidmar nodded and took the sleeper in his hand. A thin layer of sweat covered his brow. The entire scene took on the appearance of an ancient ritual.

Michelle and Simon donned their suits and turned the hemisphere’s life support system to minimum. Then they turned as one, to watch Vidmar take the pill. They dimmed the lights as the prone figure lapsed swiftly into unconsciousness. It was done. The two figures entered the airlock and eventually emerged to see Paludis hovering over the ruddy Muskluna landscape. They held hands and walked slowly to their own hemisphere.

The airlock door whirred shut and they were alone. Michelle removed her suit, then her blouse and slacks, panties and bra. She helped Simon remove his suit and clothes and they lay on the bed together. Love making came easy and, perhaps in an effort to delay their destiny, was more prolonged than normal. Eventually they succumbed to the inevitable and lay next to each other covered by a single sheet.

Each took a sleeper and simultaneously swallowed. Simon put his hand between Michelle’s thighs, and then all was lost to darkness. Michelle thought momentarily of Tak-Elno before she lost consciousness. He was in the third hemisphere, snug and sound, not due to awaken for another nine months − if Simon had got his calculations right.

* * *

They sat in the Earth Spacecraft Control tower, New Mexico, and waited in silence until the visitor finished speaking. The atmosphere in the room was like that in a court about to pass the death sentence.

Stuhr, Desally and Chang were frightened, trying to understand the awesome burden they all carried. The man who addressed them was young and seemed sure of his words. Only Charles Chang appeared at ease with the logic being espoused.

The proposition was that the invader was tagging Earth ships by tracking their hyperspace trails or ion emissions and using additional jumps, or some other stealth technology, at the journey’s beginning and end to remain invisible.

Charles Chang interjected. “When a ship is in normal cruise and another is in bridge hyperspace they are, of course, not visible to each other. Also, if a ship is entering hyperspace another, already in hyperspace, may contact it but only if it knows what its target’s intentions are at the beginning and end of its jump. Correct?”

The visitor nodded. “That, gentlemen, is the rub. Our interstellars operate on pre-coded information. Before warp is fully engaged there will be, perhaps, a two-second lapse before anything happens. Maybe these signals are being tapped.”

“Bullshit!” Lance Desally proclaimed. “They’d have to be quick.”

“I understand your scepticism, and it is only a theory. We ourselves could not perform such a task. But if they were following us in such a manner they would not have to know the way here − only the means to tap our codes.”

Stuhr grimaced. He thought the theory was a load of crock; the visitor’s comments were way off the mark. “But what about the maxel shifts? Doesn’t that suggest they are actually on board our ships?”

“For a brief spell, yes, it does.”

“Are we sure they are from Paludis?” Desally asked. There had been no mention of the sacrificial destruction of the interstellar Anticipation.

“We cannot be sure, but all maxel shifts were detected by craft emanating from that planet.”

We haven’t got a clue, Stuhr thought. Not a bloody clue.

The room reverted to silence. Clouds drifted across the windows and the room darkened to reflect their desperate moods.

* * *

They hovered beneath the milling surface of the strange planet’s ocean, fewer than before, knowing even prior to the Earthship Huntsman’s return that something was amiss. As the human interstellar vehicle eventually approached its planet, they sensed a huge loss among its circuitry and structure. The Earthship Anticipation, which had sought to return to their home, was dead and with it their colleague, lost in the evil deep void.

Some of their number had entered Earth silently; others, not so skilled, had left the faintest whisper on the human tracers. Around them the water turned golden; the first light to permeate those depths since the planet’s creation before the dawn of man.

If only they knew the stars. They tried to trace the Huntsman’s incoming movements in total, but there were too many deviations. The humans were being too insidious. They began to feel homesick and hung together in sympathy. From their closeness came strength and a pattern emerged.

* * *

Lance Desally was on the scrambler talking to General Mitchell. The general looked smug, seemingly oblivious to the recent loss of human life.

“You’re sure that Huntsman wasn’t tracked in?” Desally asked.

“Positive,” the general replied. “She warped off as soon as Anticipation blew and came back through cleanly. At no time was any maxel shift recorded.”

“So we’ve got at least one of the bastards marooned or destroyed out there.”

“If we’re right and they can’t navigate interstellar.” Mitchell scratched his moustache. “We do think it’s only one, though. The original maxel shift detected by Anticipation was very slight. If we hadn’t been looking for it we may have missed it.”

Desally nodded. He hoped the sacrifice was worth it. At least the crew of

Anticipation had been military; last minute replacements for the normal crew. God knows what they had been told. He was fairly confident the unknown enemy couldn’t navigate across space and that without Earth ships they were blind, at least across the vast distance between Earth and Paludis.

“What’s next?” Desally asked the general.

Mitchell shrugged. “We have to assume that some of them are still here, but they are almost like ghosts.” He paused and pulled again at his moustache. “However, we have had a victory of sorts, and now they’re aware that we know something about them. They’ll regroup and try to regain the initiative.”

Desally nodded, broke the link and sat in thought. He was sure they weren’t ghosts, however intangible and invisible they were to date. They were from Paludis and he hated that place and the powers it was gathering. Nuke the bastards. Human or not. Nuke the bastards.

* * *

Pas-Elno leant back in his chair and emitted a huge Muskan yawn. This consisted of widely opening both his mouth and back-tube and taking in air with a prolonged rattling sound. It was not a pretty sight − or sound. He closed and re-opened his eyes to stare once more at the reams of data piled up before him. Regret at even starting the task nibbled around the edges of his mind.

He was concentrating on the movements of Michelle Sanson in the few months prior to her disappearance. He had everything in print before him, as he had soon discovered his eyes disliked staring at computer screens for any length of time.

There appeared to be nothing unusual at all, other than perhaps the amount of time she had spent at the university. But even that was understandable given her government position and her interest in the commercial aspects of the sleeping pill.

He had scribbled a few notes on a pad and went over them again.

Sanson had been one of the envoys to Earth when the sleeper was first announced. She had been instrumental in arranging finance for the dredgers and factories. She had apparently befriended Simon Sangster in an attempt to learn more about the sleeper. In addition, she had been interested in Tak-Elno, his father. There had been a trip to East Paludis financed by her own department, where an interview with George Andrew had taken place. She had returned the same day.

Other than that, she had done most of her travelling between Spaceport and Tanberg. At least, according to the records.

Through his window, Pas-Elno could see a waning sun turning the gardens to a crimson mottled by an intriguing variety of moving shadows born of plants swaying in the gentle sea breeze. Beyond the gardens, the sky turned even darker over the coast, eventually merging with the blackness of the Great Southern Ocean. This country did not feel like home. He belonged to the colder northern latitudes, yet he was comfortable here and they were treating him well − perhaps to compensate for his father’s disappearance.

His wall screen suddenly flashed and Clare Cavanna’s face beamed out at him.

“Hi, Pas. Are you there?”

He walked over and palmed the reception pad.

“There you are,” Clare continued. “Where’ve you been all day? We expected you in the lab.”

Pas-Elno grimaced. “Research of another nature, Clare. How are you?”

She flashed her teeth. “I’m fine. Actually, getting to like it here.” She stared hard at him. “I’m about to stroll outside. Coming?”

Pas-Elno snorted in mirth. She was always doing this. She felt sorry for him, thought he was bored, lonely. He nodded. “Yes. I’ve done all I can. Five minutes?”

Clare grinned, nodded and was gone. Pas-Elno took one last disdainful glance at his paperwork then gladly left the room.

* * *

Pas-Elno found Clare seated on the steps outside the foyer as he came through the doors. A long black cloak was draped over her shoulders, shielding her from the rising zephyrs wafting in from the sea. He called her name and she rose and smiled.

They walked slowly to the southern reach of the garden and stood overlooking the ocean. Not far out, the lights of a dredger flickered on and off. For a while they were deep in thought and then Clare gave him a coy sideways look. “How is it going, your search for your father?”

Pas-Elno blinked slowly, then shook his head in the human gesture.

“Not well. I’ve been concentrating on Michelle Sanson today. The records show absolutely nothing.”

Clare nodded in sympathy. Her hair, now growing longer again, waved in the breeze. “She was a powerful woman. She’d know how to obtain false documents, every little detail.”

“She spent a lot of time here at the university,” Pas-Elno said. “After her trip to Earth, the most adventurous thing she did was an interview at Saltzburg.”

Clare laughed. “Pretty dull life being a finance minister.” She looked earnestly at the Muskan. “But there must have been other trips, other interviews, other places.”

Pas-Elno shook his head. “She was obsessed with Tanberg, and the kelp, over those last few months.”

“And she went to Saltzburg?”

Pas-Elno nodded. For some reason he thought of his star rising from the sea. If only he and Clare could see it together.

“Then try it.”

“What?” Pas-Elno murmured. He was elsewhere, somewhere on the North-Eastern Peninsula.

Clare grasped him by the shoulders and stared into his face. “You said she spent most of her time here − so the trip to Saltzburg was out of the ordinary. Not much I’ll grant you, but it broke the pattern. In fact, it was the only thing that broke the pattern prior to her vanishing.” She was willing authenticity into her words, but Pas-Elno did not look convinced.

She released her hold and spoke softly. “Try and find where she went and why. Stefan Lattanzis may already know.”

They watched the dredger until all they could see were its lights against a pool of rich darkness, then turned for the warmth of the buildings. Pas-Elno felt strange feelings for the human female as they walked together, similar but somehow different to those he felt for his mother and sister.

-10-

The city of Saltzburg dismayed and depressed Pas-Elno. How could the humans live in such a place! He had watched the sky grow sombre as the orbitcraft descended and had seen the tower blocks needling their way into the low-lying clouds. Beneath the carpet of moisture, a sprawling mass of asphalt and concrete was conspicuous by its absurdity, unrelieved by any natural form and seemingly devoid of anything remotely Muskan. Many of the buildings sprouted lights, but they only served to reinforce the gloom – to add a quiet, protesting insult to the spiritless injury.

As the transport tube swiftly bore them to the headquarters of Saltzburg Bauxite, it seemed to the Muskan youth that the eyes of every other passenger were trained upon his face. Next to him, Clare was dressed in police uniform and Pas-Elno had no doubt, but for this simple ruse, trouble would have ensued. After all, Muskans had no place in East Paludis at all. A newscast bulletin had explained to the local populace that Pas-Elno was ‘assisting the police with their enquiries’ and that his visit was officially endorsed by the authorities, but Clare’s uniform was a welcome addition to the charade.

With some relief, the pair left the tube and entered the reception hall of the mining company. Here the atmosphere was brighter, with strong lights suspended from the ceiling and artificial plants scattered across the marble floor.

“Am I the first Muskan to visit this place?” Pas-Elno asked as they approached the desk.

“Probably,” replied Clare laconically, then seeing the intensity of his expression she added, “Almost certainly.”

“I’m not surprised,” Pas-Elno said, glancing at Clare. “It’s a terrible place.”

Clare smiled, inwardly sympathetic. “The people here have been informed you’re on important government business. Try to act that way and enjoy it.”

The Muskan snorted through his back-tube. “A lie is a lie,” he said.

Clare looked at him and spoke softly as they reached reception. “I know. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

“Not before we check everything out,” Pas-Elno said gruffly. “Not before that.”

* * *

The current general manager was a silky professional who appreciated the neat fit of Clare’s police tunic and trousers. After insisting Clare go through every door first, he eventually left with a toothy smile, an ogle at her thighs and an offer of ‘the run of the place’.

Clare giggled. “What a pussy cat.”

Pas-Elno, other things on his mind, paced over to the wall screen controls at the desk. Clare grabbed a chair and joined him.

“Let’s see,” she breathed. Keying in the date of Michelle Sanson’s visit, she accessed the library data bank via the busy menu. Pas was impressed. She was obviously good at this.

“Quite a busy day,” Clare murmured as over thirty withdrawals fed across the screen. Suddenly, half way down the list, the name of Sanson leapt into view. “There!” she exclaimed. “Sanson, copy of Muskluna, grid area 179227.” She stood and stared at Pas-Elno. “Come on, brother. We got the run of the place. Let’s go get that map.”

Pas-Elno opened his back-tube and inhaled deeply. Now they were getting somewhere.

* * *

Unscaleable cliffs the colour of the inside of an Earth apple rose on both sides of the canyon. Upon the scarred and ancient walls, russet stains lay in patches as if the canyon had once been exposed to the ravages of a more voracious atmosphere. Between the monumental walls ran a vibrant river, sparkling in the early morning sunlight, and in this ribbon of silver stood a horse with a traveller upon its back.

The beast snorted and shook its head, slowly treading the icy water beneath restless hooves. It was still a little light-headed, recovering from the drugs which had recently released their hold upon its earthly, equine brain.

Stefan Lattanzis leant forward and rubbed his hand up and down his mount’s sweeping mane, endeavouring to massage some life back into its musclebound neck. Shielding his eyes against the rising sun he peered eastward, against the flow of the northern river. Challenging his gaze was the snow-capped peak known as Trenkesh-Naisom, which, translated from Muskan, meant mountain of no breathing. It stood ten kilometres high and had never been climbed, at least by humankind.

Man and horse were almost four hundred kilometres west of the peninsular barrier. A thousand kilometres to their west was the city of Lakeside, which stood at the southern edge of the great expanse of Northlake. It was from this remote and wild northern outpost that Stefan had hired his mount and vehicle, gently drugging the passive beast inside the wagon’s trailer. After making the animal as comfortable as possible, he had taken the controls of his caterpillar and set off eastwards for the foothills of Trenkesh-Naisom.

Now, with the terrain becoming even more rigorous, trailer and vehicle were abandoned by the river bank. Stefan waited only for the horse to fully recover before continuing his journey. Strapped to the saddle were a bulky saddlebag and an inflatable tent, while his location finder, wallet and torch hung loosely from his belt.

Although the location finder covered his area of interest, and the locality of his quarry was programmed therein, Stefan still found himself filled with trepidation as he heeled the horse forward. The beast whinnied and splashed, glad to be able to move again, then responding to a light pull on the reins, it left the river and scrambled up to a narrow ledge a metre above the water’s flow. They moved along this rocky path until, after a few minutes of awkward travel, Stefan saw the split in the cliff that he was expecting. He paused at the entrance and suddenly shivered. No more than two metres wide, the rift held little sunlight at this time of day and ran away, with a gentle upward slope, to a deep and unwelcoming gloom. Into this darkness, Stefan coaxed his mount and wondered, not for the first time on this impulsive mission, whether he was losing his sanity.

As the blackness closed in, thoughts of Clare drifted through his mind, and he recalled their single-sided conversation of two weeks ago. She and Pas were to visit Saltzburg – would probably have been there by now. It was a long shot, but at least they were doing something. They were, meaning he was, getting nowhere. He had excused himself and left the room, catching Clare’s eye as he went. She disturbed him somehow, and had looked hurt at his abrupt departure, but there was nothing more to say.

He dug his heels in hard and loose stones scattered behind the flaying feet of his steed. The noise of the river was gone now, the only sounds being hooves upon dirt, the breathing of the beast, and the staccato words of encouragement from his own lips. The walls of the fissure intermittently leapt to life as small lizards, white and green, scampered across its shaded surface. As the small creatures entered the darkest zones, they glowed incandescently from some hidden power within. Stefan stopped to undertake a curiosity sparked study of this natural phenomenon. There was so much of this planet that remained a mystery. Even after four hundred years, man’s ignorance prevailed, energies having been directed to plundering the soil and now, of course, the sea.

He rode on, alone in the alien wilderness of dark and moving light, ascending as time moved inexorably onwards. The cleft was almost twenty kilometres long, rose nine hundred metres and led, according to his map, to a high altitude plateau across which his quarry lay.

As noon approached, the sun showed itself above him, though indeed the walls of the rift had grown higher. Stefan hauled on the reins and raised his face, eyes closed, to soak up the welcome warmth. Within an hour, he would reach the plateau, and there he would feast to celebrate the end of the beginning of his journey.

* * *

The plateau was barren. It stretched outwards to the peak of Trenkesh-Naisom, bathed by a strong sun that shone from a characterless blue heaven. The snow on the mountain-top was a vivid contrast to the deep blue sky, and the jagged lower crags were purple in the midday light.

Stefan checked his location and his direction. He now wore goggles and a jacket over his green police uniform. The horse walked on, the only obstacles to linear progress being infrequent broad bushes decorated by scarlet leaves, and smooth round boulders which lay, like lost giant marbles, scattered around the plain.

Many times, as Stefan crossed the plateau, he saw large lizards sunning themselves on top of the largest boulders. On each occasion, he diverted the horse away from the creatures, in case they took exception to the stranger in their midst. They shone a dark yellow in the sunlight and lay, mouths agape, tails draped to match the contour of their rock, golden crests erect on their great reptilian heads. Stefan estimated the length of the largest at four metres. Not to be tangled with.

Shadows grew longer as the trek proceeded and Stefan knew, as the sun descended, that he would soon have to make camp for the night. He paused, stood in the stirrups, and surveyed the terrain. Unfortunately, as he approached the foothills, the boulders were becoming more numerous, like sentinels guarding the mountain approaches. Unmistakable silhouettes surmounted many and, as the agent drew up his hood, he dropped a hand to nervously finger the pistol at his side.

He had never felt more alone, never more forlorn, never more afraid. A cold sweat clung to his face making him shiver in the dusk air.

The light dimmed and the plain turned red. Strange hissing noises began to invade the air and dark shapes on top of boulders began to move. Heads raised and tongues stretched, claws scraped against rock. Stefan was caught in two minds – whether to ride like the wind or to pitch down for the night. Yet if he rode on in darkness, he would undoubtedly fall foul of the huge reptiles.

Initially, his eyes sought the widest open space away from the boulders with the intent of making camp as far from the lizards as possible. But in that situation, he reasoned, he would be open to attack from all sides. Better if he found an empty boulder and put his back to it. This he did with all haste as the surrounding panorama deepened to scarlet, wedging his tent beneath the overhang of an uninhabited rock. He then tethered his horse, and watched the finale of the sunset with his head poking out of the tent entrance, one hand resting on his firearm. He was part of a huge, shadowy stage of black and purple; a performer among still and moving pre-historic actors playing their parts under dimming floodlights and against velvet curtains.

His steed stirred nervously; Stefan knew there would be little sleep that night. Pulling a blanket across his back he heard the hissings and roarings of the lizards fill the air as more of them became active. A small rivulet of sweat ran between his eyebrows and down his nose. The twilight grew colder.

Despite all efforts to remain conscious, Stefan eventually fell asleep and dozed fitfully for eight hours. He awoke with a start as the first tenuous fingers of daylight invaded his shelter. Stretching awkwardly, he emerged from his cocoon.

A rubicund moon hung low on the horizon and a star scribed across the heavens. Somewhat fearfully, he looked to where he had tethered his horse and a wave of relief swept over him as he saw the mare’s ears flicker against the gathering clouds of the rising dawn. Suddenly he felt wide awake and stretched his hands high to the sky.

The silence was overwhelming, as pure as any he had ever known. The cacophony of the previous evening seemed forever lost in time, somehow absorbed by the collective mass of the rocks. The lizards had apparently vanished and he could continue his quest in safety.

Stefan took his breakfast under the splendour and warmth of the rising sun and gave the mare her concentrated rations. He then searched the immediate vicinity for signs of the huge reptiles but, save for a few scrapings in the earth, found nothing. They would be around somewhere, he mused, perhaps hidden in the shadows of the larger boulders. But now was no time to disturb them. Within minutes he was packed and saddled and on his way.

* * *

The foothills soared high around him, some hunchbacked, some craggy and sharp, but all dominated by the huge massif of Trenkesh-Naisom, where snow sparkled under a hazy noon sun. Stefan dismounted and clambered up a rock to scan westward over the plain he had just crossed. He checked his location finder for the direction of the rift on the other side, breathing a barely audible Yes! as the green arrow flashed in the required direction. His fingers typed in the word seer and the arrow turned red and swung to point over his shoulder. Dismounting the rock, Stefan consulted his maps and estimated the retreat of Serpentine to be no more than two hours’ ride away. He would be there by mid-afternoon.

* * *

Serpentine squatted on top of his favourite rock and stared down the hillside at the approach of the rider. The seer wore long lizard-skin trousers and a buttoned tunic tied at the waist with matted rope. With his high, wide forehead tapering down to a small weak chin, currently supported by his long-fingered hands, and long legs bent to support his crouching body, he resembled a human-sized mantis about to spring. He was completely bald and his head reflected the high sun as he rose to stretch his tall frame skywards. Far below, the tread of the stranger’s horse was resolute and the seer tried to force some joy into his soul at the prospect of company, but it was of little avail.

Lately, he seemed possessed by a sombreness the like of which he had never known before: something abstract and untenable was casting a dark shadow over his sensitive soul. He could feel it even now as the stranger started to ascend towards his lair.

The police had used him before and always rewarded well, so the videophone call of six days’ past had been no surprise. And the man below was on time, though that was of scant importance to him. He lived in isolation to erase the effects of an existence dominated by time and held no desire to be part of what he labelled the temporal and mechanical clime of man.

On Earth, Serpentine would have undoubtedly been called a freak, even withstanding the genetic variations that the human species had undergone since leaving the mother planet. He was amazingly tall, almost two and a half metres, his beanpole body topped by a triangular head with a small nose and mouth and large, soulful brown eyes. His eyes, he thought, were what gave him his power, but in truth it was more likely the circumstances of his birth.

Serpentine was, in fact, the only human to be born on Suffek, that planet of smoke and steam and human distress. At the time of his birth an electrical storm of such savagery had been raging that all power had been cut and his mother had undertaken the very rare event of delivery by completely natural means. Her screams had torn the impenetrable darkness, to disperse among the hung-over, dust-laden Suffek atmosphere and thence to the corners of the universe, the only sounds of their kind for hundreds of years. The intense ionisation of the outside air had permeated the room, filling the black space with a strong ozonic stench, and the first thing that the germinal senses of Serpentine had reacted to was the flash of white lightning that had sped through the skylight, and momentarily lit his place of birth. It was there, and then it was gone, highlighting his mother’s sweat and his own spidery frame.

Serpentine’s mother was from Centurion and, dispirited with that environment’s militant lifestyle, and finding herself pregnant from a single liaison with a stringy, yellow-eyed Cassiopeian, she had left for the welcome solitude of Suffek. There, unlike most humans, she had found some peace and stayed. She worked there for five years, raising Serpentine with love but little social interaction until, with his education in mind, they had migrated to Paludis.

The psychic abilities of young Serpentine became apparent by the time he was ten years old, but far from making him a celebrity, the rest of society, suspicious and rife with prejudice, made him an outcast.

However, by the time he was fifteen and already two metres tall he had helped the police on several occasions, enjoying the momentary plaudits and cocking a snook at those who feared him. Mostly he used his psychometric powers to locate missing people, usually students. Parallel to his psychic endowments, Serpentine developed a strong interest in the fauna and flora of Paludis and would often spend days on his own in the wilderness areas, far away from the cities.

Following the death of his mother when he was eighteen, and in the grip of terrible grieving, Serpentine made the biggest decision of his short life. He hated the city with its tall ring of buildings, the people and their mundane bigotry, the entire corrupt system and its pandering to the dictates of Earth. He perceived himself as a gifted human, ignored by society until his special gifts were required; and as a child of the Muskan Paludis, rather than of the planet his own race had forged. Thus, two months after his mother’s death, he left his old life behind and sought the peace of the wilderness.

Now, five years later, he lived in the foothills of Trenkesh-Naisom, comfortably domiciled and financially supported by occasional police work, supplemented by rare but lucrative private commissions. Totally self-sufficient in his simple nutritional requirements, he was content, other than for the recent dark shadow he saw in the Paludis sky and the sense of foreboding that accompanied it.

Serpentine dropped off the rock, walking with long strides up a stony slope towards his home. On his left lay a cultivated field, ripe with the efforts of his horticultural planning, and to the right of the path several trees bore maturing fruit. This was his land, his territory. Looking upwards, he saw his phone aerial rising incongruously to the heavens and, next to it, a large solar panel tracking the Paludis sun as it traversed the sky. He was lord here, he was master. He was powerful. It was beautiful country; a land of contrasting seasons, intense sunsets, of clean fresh natural air and pure mountain streams. It was part of him.

As he approached the entrance to his cave, his horse, loose nearby, whinnied a greeting, its tail thrashing the air. It was a huge shire beast, bred for work not for speed, and was accustomed to moving among the lizards of the plain and lower slopes. Serpentine ran his hand along its muscular flank and swung onto its back. He grasped the mane lightly and, clicking his tongue, turned the magnificent animal down the slope and towards his visitor.

-11-

Stefan gazed around Serpentine’s home with interest. The entrance, hidden behind a huge fallen boulder, had been high enough for the seer to enter without stooping. They had walked along a sandy floor inside a rocky tunnel lit by the luminescent glow of solar-driven pink crystals. Eventually, the passageway had opened out and Serpentine’s lair lay before them.

A soft breeze played across Stefan’s face, and he found himself intrigued by the interplay of colours within the warm, dry cavern. The seer, with an obvious artistic flair, had transformed his home by supplementing the natural rock formations with artefacts of his own creation in order to supply his basic comforts. Slender stalactites held pink crystals within large aluminium reflectors; sturdy stalagmites were transformed into tables or chairs, and on one wall a gently tumbling waterfall was a backdrop for what Stefan could only describe as transcendental artworks. Various huge crystals littered the smooth, sandy floor, and the initial effect had been to excite the senses but, as Stefan soaked up the whole scene, a strong sensation of peace reined in his surging thoughts.

Other than a swift formal greeting on the hillside, they had not spoken further on their way to the cave, and Stefan was bursting with questions. But he knew he must be patient, for the seer had a reputation of giving short shrift to those he regarded as intolerant fools.

Now seated on a bare but comfortable wooden chair, the agent stared around and saw one of the huge crystals suddenly begin to glow, emitting an intense green light.

“It’s periodic,” Serpentine said, as if that was explanation enough. “Every thirteen hours or so. It lasts about a minute. Quite a few of the crystals in this room do it.”

Stefan immediately wondered what the Spaceport city traders would do with such an object.

“They’d cut it into as many pieces as possible and sell the damned things,” Serpentine said. He looked hard at Stefan, his triangular head perched on one side and a strange smile playing on his lips.

Stefan felt a cold sweat break on his brow. Trying hard not to think, he stared intently at the crystal until the light faded.

“Are you at peace?” Serpentine suddenly asked, opening his huge brown eyes even wider.

The agent smiled nervously. He was still looking at the crystal and the question caught him by surprise. He thought for a moment and then shook his head.

“You might well not be,” Serpentine said. “Did you see the dark horizon in the sky?”

Stefan shook his head again. “It’s been a beautiful day.”

“Not the blue sky,” the seer said. “The shadow upon it.”

“Sorry. No shadow.”

“I make my own furniture,” Serpentine stated, changing tack abruptly, “and my solar panels cook for me.” He pointed behind him. “Back there, in a smaller cave, is the best water on the whole planet.” He raised his long arms to the roof, casting weird shadows over the floor. “Best in the whole universe.”

Stefan, somewhat amazed at the sudden switch from the philosophical to the apparently puerile, did not reply, but looked up to see the huge brown eyes boring into his own.

“Did you like the lizards?” It was a serious question spoken with vehemence.

Stefan hesitated. Was he being tested? “They were noisy,” he eventually replied.

Serpentine threw back his great triangular head and laughed. It was a strange, unnerving sound like the continuous hooting of owls, the small mouth formed into a perfect circle. “You came at the right time of year,” the seer said at length. “They are in the middle of the mating season. The largest males occupy the largest rocks to attract the females who emerge after darkness. Sometimes there are fights. You may find a dead body on the way back.”

“Would they attack humans?” Stefan asked.

Serpentine shook his head. “They’ve never troubled me − and they are herbivores.” He shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “I doubt if they’ve seen many humans, or natives for that matter. Would you like some tea?”

The change in topic again caught Stefan by surprise and he declined automatically.

The seer quickly smiled. “You misunderstand. I drink tea when I’m working. It relaxes and heightens my senses. Do you have the objects?”

It was the signal Stefan had been waiting for. “Yes. There are four; one for each person. Do you wish to see them now?”

“Not quite,” replied Serpentine, leaning forward with his hands behind his back. “Would you like some tea?” he repeated.

Stefan licked his lips. “Okay.”

“Excellent,” the seer said. “We must go to my study.” He rose and, gesturing to the agent, made his way to a dark alcove at the back of his cave. Stefan grabbed his bag and followed.

The alcove was small with barely enough room for the two chairs and the table it contained. Upon the table stood a large pyramidal candle, which Serpentine somewhat theatrically proceeded to light with a filament rod he took from the wall. Against the wall was a small stove, and upon the stove stood an aluminium pan full of water.

Much of the stony surface of the alcove wall had been removed to reveal purple crystals, which flickered continually in the candlelight. The floor was meticulously clean with recent brush marks caught by the twinkling flame. The seer bade Stefan sit, and they faced each other across the table.

“The objects.” Serpentine’s eyes stared directly into the flame, indistinct shadows dancing behind his head.

Stefan, relieved to have something to occupy his hands, fished in his bag and withdrew the artefacts. As he did so, Serpentine switched on the power to boil the water. The agent put the objects on the table and nervously slid them in Serpentine’s direction. There was a necklace, a book, the clasp from Tak-Elno’s robe, and an old watch strap.

“Ah,” the seer said as he caressed the clasp. “A Muskan. How unusual.” He gazed hard into the candlelight and rotated the article between his fingers, his eyes growing impossibly wide. “A male, I believe, resplendent in his robe but not, I feel, a grand elder.”

Steam rose from the pan, and Serpentine leapt suddenly from his seat, grabbed two cups from a small shelf, and filled them with water. Immediately a strong herbal aroma permeated the alcove, and Stefan deduced the cups had been primed in readiness for his visit. Serpentine placed the cups on the table then sat down again. “One minute,” he whispered.

The seer’s eyes closed, changing his appearance completely, and the large head started to roll from side to side. Stefan watched, fascinated, hardly daring to breathe and feeling totally out of place.

Serpentine became still and, opening his eyes, took a sip from his cup, indicating the agent should do the same. In the dim light of the cavern, the tea appeared an unappetising dark brown, and it was with some misgiving that Stefan took his first taste. The liquid was warm to his tongue and throat. Through the alcove entrance he saw a sudden burst of colour as another large crystal began to radiate. He felt peaceful, at one with this strange creature of Suffek.

Staring hard at the clasp, Serpentine opened his eyes wide again. “Let the image of this native fill your mind,” he droned. “Let him grow in your thoughts until he fills every cell of your brain. Let him expand to fill the void between the very atoms of your being.”

It came easily to Stefan; he felt all his corporeal senses clamour to belong to Tak-Elno, be Tak-Elno − and then all went dark as he became surrounded by a clinging void of viscous gloom.

“He is not on Paludis,” the seer was saying, his words tripping into each other in their haste to escape his lips, “of that I am certain. Yet where can he be – for no Muskan has ever left the soil of his birthplace. There is so much darkness around him − like the shadow in the sky. Is he dead, my friend, or does he invent the state? His soul is still lingering, unsure... unsure.” Serpentine’s fist suddenly dropped hard onto the table and the cups leapt in protest. “You bring me a puzzle, my friend, for this one is neither here nor there.”

The seer dropped the clasp and took the watch strap, sliding it between his fingers, then abruptly he flung it against the wall. “Do not fool with me, my friend,” his voice grated, “for that is of your aura!”

Stefan, too comatose to be afraid, nodded slowly and pushed the necklace in to Serpentine’s claw-like hands. The fingers grasped their new prey and the jewels shone brighter than the crystal walls, reflecting the candle’s flame in every stone.

“How bright they are,” breathed the seer, “and, by all that breathes and slithers, what power is here.” He held the necklace in front of his large chestnut eyes and its image glowed in the huge dark orbs. He suddenly held up one hand, a palm facing Stefan. “But wait, this one is also far away. Are they connected, my friend?”

Nodding mutely in a stuporous reply, Stefan saw Serpentine through a haze of linking colours. The seer took another sip of tea. “Come, my friend, drink and be one with the universe,” the seer implored. “Let your thoughts soar beyond the dark, dimensional barriers that hold you prisoner.”

Serpentine gathered all three remaining objects together in the middle of the table, where they shone innocently in the candlelight. He then placed his large hands over them and closed his eyes. Unwittingly, the agent found the images of his three quarries ghosting through his mind. Behind their frightful features the grey swirl and smoke of Suffek surged unceasingly, and from this strange mist the seer was born, a mysterious, spidery, crawling thing that beckoned with its mind. Stefan and the seer joined hands and their thoughts fused as one − and Serpentine saw.

He saw the smoke and grit of Suffek turn into the red dust of Paludis’s moon. He saw Muskluna in all its ruddy splendour and the unprovoked attack of man upon its face – cutting, carving, and splintering asunder the oh-so ancient rocks for a momentary gain. His face twisted with hate and he cried aloud with the pain, as if his own body had been ripped apart and he could feel a savage, primeval tearing at his heart.

The candle extinguished but the seer did not react. He saw three spirits hovering above the moon’s surface – lost, not knowing how to leave and not daring to return. Beneath them were three white circles; perfect geometry on a barren red plain, stark yet full of internal darkness. Suddenly Serpentine’s hand seized Stefan’s in a grip of steel. Across the table only his eyes were visible. “I see them,” he croaked. “They are in the heavens. But there is no sun.” Still holding the agent’s hand, he abruptly rose and, with surprising strength, dragged Stefan from the room, retracing their footsteps down the tunnel to emerge into the deepening dusk. The sky was showing signs of early stars and the wind whipped across their faces, challenging the induced stupor of the cavern. Below them the plains had already turned black and the countless boulders had coagulated into a slowly moving tide of creeping shadows.

Hands still clasped, Serpentine led Stefan to his perching rock. They climbed together and squatted, facing eastwards towards the rising moon. The grip did not lessen, as if the seer was afraid the psychic power would be broken if contact was lost. They sat immobile and silent, like statues at one with the rock. The sky grew more stars and the moon rose behind Trenkesh-Naisom. For two hours they remained so, until the moon was full in the heavens, then Serpentine emitted a shrill cry, pointing with his free hand to the ruddy orb as it hovered before them.

“I feel they are there,” the seer gasped. “West of the place of comings and goings, my friend. They are completely lost, hopeless, hopeless...” He raised his great triangular head to the moon and uttered a half-crazed, eerie cry. “There is a wickedness upon them, the death that is not yet death.” The grip upon Stefan’s hand became so fierce that tears leapt to the agent’s eyes. “There is a shadow over the place, dreadful, dreadful.”

Serpentine’s grip relaxed and the spell was broken. He pummelled the bare rock with his fists until blood shone in the moonlight. “It is too much,” he wailed. His head slumped forward and he was still.

Stefan sat in a daze until eventually he felt the cold night air bite into his body.

He had not understood all the words; only that they were up there and something dire was happening or going to happen. Yet, of course, he already knew they were on Muskluna, or at least strongly suspected it. He started to roll his head from side to side, feeling his mind awaken, then rose slowly and sorely to stand on Serpentine’s rock. At that very moment he felt strangely privileged to be there. He stretched, yawned and scrambled to the ground. There was an ache beginning inside his skull, which pulsed with every heartbeat. His mouth felt dry and the stubble on his chin annoyed him. Staring up, he was surprised to see the seer had not moved, so he called his name softly and then again, loudly. There was no reaction, only the rustle of a nearby animal. He hadn’t the strength to climb the rock just yet. God! He was so tired. Stefan turned and walked slowly in search of his mare.

* * *

Lying on his camp bed, Stefan stared blandly at the pink crystals as they meekly offered what illumination they could to Serpentine’s humble abode. If there was any auxiliary night lighting he had not found the switch and now, utterly exhausted, he was ready for sleep.

The short journey back to the cave had been torturous; the seer, only half conscious, draped incongruously across the bare back of Stefan’s horse. Serpentine had rambled incoherently most of the way and, on reaching the tunnel’s mouth, Stefan had proceeded to drag his long, awkward body to the safety of the lair. Once there, adrenalin depleted, he had resolved he could do no more, save make the seer as comfortable as possible. In all his life he had never felt so tired, in body or in mind. It was as if the blood within his veins had been replaced by some other more sluggish fluid, incapable of carrying any oxygen at all and so, with mind devoid of all feeling, Stefan slept.

The tantalising aroma of breakfast wafted across Stefan’s nostrils. His eyes shot open. Serpentine was standing over him, holding a plate. The seer knelt and put the plate next to Stefan’s elbow, grinning down at the bemused expression on his guest’s face.

“The day is young, my friend, and breakfast is served,” Serpentine said. “Only the best: bacon and eggs.”

Stefan groaned, rising on an elbow to survey the offering. “What the hell are bakenenegs?”

“Philistine,” the seer retorted. “It is an extremely ancient Earth custom. Long before tablets, injections and nocturnal feeding drips.” His huge eyes swam with amusement. “Actually, this is the Paludis version – lizard rump and newly laid lizard eggs – but, my friend, just as delicious.”

Stefan took the plate, stood and walked unsteadily to a stalagmite stool. “As long as there is none of your so-called tea.”

The seer raised his hands in mock horror then fished a small recorder from the pocket of his tunic. “Listen to this and then make your mind up about the tea. I’ll go and feed the horses.”

The recorder was left playing on one of the wooden chairs, and Stefan listened to it as he ate. Although the words were remarkable, for Serpentine could know nothing of his own investigations, they were, in fact, a disappointment. They were also full of darkness and fear.

As he swallowed the last of his meal, Stefan felt the fatigue leave his body and felt ready to tackle the return journey. He stood, stretched and inhaled deeply. Only then did he notice the map that lay upon Serpentine’s table. Sidling over and looking down, he saw the rugged contours of Muskluna, the spaceport of Del-Shangi and, to the west, a rough circle drawn, presumably by the seer’s hand. The recorder had stopped but he recalled the words – west of the city of comings and goings.

Returning silently from his chores and leaning on the wall, Serpentine observed Stefan bending over the map in the pink half-light. “They are in there somewhere,” he said abruptly. “Somewhere in that dust-laden, pock-marked territory.”

Stefan pointed at the chart. “May I have it?”

The seer smiled. “Of course.” And as if reading his guest’s mind, he added, “You must soon be gone. While the lizards drowse and the morn is still cool.”

Nodding mutely, Stefan asked, “How are you? You were well out last night.”

“That’s not unusual; quite normal in fact. The sourcing was very difficult. It’s the first time I’ve ever sourced off-world and the distance took its toll.”

The agent looked straight into the large brown eyes. “You really believe they are there, don’t you? Without the shadow of a doubt.”

Serpentine smiled his strange smile. “Shadows are always there, my friend. But I warn you – if you must go there, do so in haste. For if there is a shadow, it is over this planet and this moon.”

Glancing away, Stefan felt an eerie chill invade his mind and body. The seer was so sure, so dire in his warning. “Thanks for the help,” he said at last, and changed the subject. “The agreed payment will be credited to your Lakeside account.”

“It better be,” Serpentine said, “or I’ll change you all into lizards.” To Stefan’s relief the triangular face broke into a warm smile. “I am rarely in the city; the journey is tedious. It is merely my retirement fund.” He held out his hand and Stefan shook it. “I’d like to thank you for not using a copter in coming here.”

The investigator shrugged. “Rumour had it you wouldn’t co-operate with anyone flying in – that you detest such technological trappings. In any case, Paludis has few of the machines, and the police even fewer to spare.” He grinned. “I also needed the exercise.”

“Nevertheless, I thank you.”

Stefan gathered his belongings, and they walked in silence through the tunnel and into a glorious morning. The snow atop Trenkesh-Naisom sparkled brightly, and the plains below, clear to the distant horizon, reflected hues of scarlet, green and brown. The boulders and their dark umbras stood out like a child’s marbles on a multi-coloured carpet. Everywhere the morning was bright, yet still the seer frowned, and Stefan, perhaps still psychically linked by a final remaining thread, knew Serpentine saw the abstract shadow of some dreadful happening invading that vivid landscape.

With Stefan mounted on his mare, they shook hands again, and then they were separated as the seer swiftly turned and strode towards his home. The agent watched the strange gait of the tall, lonely figure, then, grasping the reins firmly, turned his horse towards the plain. It was only when he reached the boulders that he realised there had been no signs of damage to Serpentine’s hands following the seer’s vicious pounding of the huge rock the previous night.

* * *

On Stefan’s return journey, as he camped alongside his vehicle, he heard the hum of copters overhead. Glancing up, he saw two of the machines tracking swiftly eastwards towards Trenkesh-Naisom and a strong sense of dread gripped his mind. He shivered and felt a rather strange and overwhelming desire to be with Clare.

-12-

Shean James mulled over his intended cabinet as he bathed, coddled by warm water and scented soap bubbles. The surface of the water formed a moat around his shiny, protruding belly. One thing is for sure, he thought, there will be no damned females amongst them. The Sanson bitch had proved they weren’t to be trusted in positions of authority – too unreliable, much too unpredictable.

It was a relatively short time since Johansson had been re-elected but the Paludis assembly was beginning to realise stronger leadership was now required if the planet was to reap the benefits of its new wealth. The vote was tomorrow, and James was confident of rolling the incumbent president who was a fine man but lacked the vigour to make the planet the new centre of universal expansion. Independence from Earth was the key. Any fool could see the sleeper had become indispensable for further human exploration, and that made Paludis mighty indeed.

He drained the water and stepped into the drying cubicle. A minute later he was robed, and continuing his train of thought whilst sitting comfortably in his lounge. He needed strong men around him, men of action. He needed a stronger military fed by the new money. This ensured, Paludis would become the leading power in the universe. This was his dream – to be the centre of all things.

Moving through the French windows and into the garden, he stood and surveyed the morning sky. Bauxite mining had made him rich, given him three consecutive wives, God bless their alimonies, and also knocked spots off his health. However, today he felt good. The sun was shining, the cane-grass was starting to flower, and within a week he would be sworn in as president of the planet upon which he now stood.

He let the robe drop and stood naked in the garden. Those Earth bastards had ruined his health with their interminable meddling over price and schedules. But from tomorrow, they would rue the day.

He raised his first in the air and let out a triumphant scream of “Yes!” to the towering sky.

* * *

Alone, he drifted past the southern tip of Block Island and westward along Long Island Sound. Eventually, he made his way into East River and settled on the murky bottom. He was near the end of his life, so what he was about to do was of little consequence to him, but he knew the immediate effects on the creatures who had invaded his home would be painful. It was a surprise to find he had a conscience in such matters, for the humans had shown little compassion in their dealings on his mother planet. A wave of nausea swept over him and he lay down to rest. When darkness closed in above, he would make the connection.

* * *

The twenty-metre wave swept in all directions from East River: south across Long Island and over to Jamaica Bay, north and west to the Bronx and New York City, south to Staten Island. Nothing stood in its way. Buildings toppled and rubble gathered to give the rampaging water a vicious cutting edge. People were as nothing to it, and thousands upon thousands of screams filled the air, and thousands more were stifled before they were even born.

The explosion in East River had sent a rampart of water surging outwards, then sucked more in to take its place. The immediate energy release was enormous and the wall of death had been unforgiving. Later, as the salt water crept back to its rightful position, like a disobedient animal with its tail drooped between quivering legs, the image of thousands of floating bodies would live in the collective memory of the human race for eternity. On the low ground, where once had been parks and roads, noise and laughter, sirens and flowers, lay huge lakes littered with corpses. Some buildings remained, sentinels among the destruction, though lifeless and without use. It would take five years to renew the physical damage, and forever to forget the three hundred thousand who died. The cause remained a mystery.

* * *

High above the New Mexico desert, the three men watched the film in silence. No sound accompanied the pictures, serving only to reinforce the devastation. Water and destroyed buildings dominated their vision, and close-ups of bodies illustrated the human tragedy. They did not speak until the screen went blank.

“It has to be them,” Desally said hoarsely. “It has to be. It just can’t be natural. No way.” He dominated the rest of the discussion and within a day, Huntsman was risking oblivion and hurtling towards Paludis.

* * *

The interstellar ship, Huntsman, having slammed through several Einstein-Rosen bridges, sedately hove to in a higher orbit than it would normally have assumed. Below, Paludis lay bathed in a green mantle tinged with white at the polar caps. For the moment, the moon was hidden from sight on the far side of the verdant sphere that occupied most of the viewing panel. The ship was at full alert.

On board the spacecraft were a military crew of six and one civilian, Earth Envoy Vasquez. They sat in the control chamber with Captain Lanny Emminger and surveyed the world captured on the screen. Emminger was dressed in full regalia – a light green cotton suit with the badge of the Earth military at his throat. The rest of the crew wore the same style of suit, but in a prosaic grey with the collar closed by a magnetic clasp. Vasquez sported a white silk shirt and brown leather trousers.

As they stared at the viewscreen, it was difficult to believe that such a lowly populated, commercially orientated planet could be a threat to Earth. Yet the destruction at home had been horrific. The war, terroristic in its modus operandi, had started!

The captain stretched in his chair and turned to his communications officer.

“Send them the following,” he drawled, cupping his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Captain Emminger of the Earth-registered interstellar, Huntsman, and Envoy Vasquez, on behalf of the President of the United Earth Nations, respectfully request immediate audience with the Paludis president and his chief of military. This is in connection with the recently introduced flight restrictions to and from Paludis.” He grinned at his comms officer. “That should get them biting.”

Thirty minutes later, they received a reply from President James suggesting a rendezvous at Del-Shangi in twelve Paludis hours.

The captain smiled enigmatically. “Suits us fine,” he said. “Very appropriate.”

* * *

Shean James had rolled Johansson in a landslide, and all within a few months of Johansson’s re-election to the presidency. It was some achievement, something to be proud of, and now he was about to layer the icing on the cake by meeting an Earth envoy who, no doubt, had come to alleviate the ridiculous flight restraints recently imposed. He leant back as the shuttle manoeuvred for landing on Muskluna, and thought idly of the people he could now control.

Paludis’s moon was a kaleidoscope of red, yellow and black as the shuttle approached the staging post of Del-Shangi. A flock of silver domes met the eye as the craft dropped to within five hundred metres of the unrelenting surface and it was possible to make out ships of various sizes parked between the buildings like insects nestled among bright, round petals. The distinctive outline of an interstellar’s lander signalled the early arrival of the Earth visitors. Shean James grimaced. They had landed prematurely, doubtless to prove a point.

The shuttle settled adjacent to the largest dome, red dust playing around its ankles, and President James rose, heading for the exit, eager to assume his new role.

* * *

Emminger and Vasquez watched the Paludis vehicle descend, and now returned to the comfort of their lounge seats. A nervous waiter hovered nearby, ever alert for a signal. In an adjacent room, behind a locked door, they had set up the video of the flooding of New York.

The two Earthmen were a contrast in looks and styles. Emminger was powerfully built and of average height, with a huge mop of steel grey hair that matched his eyes. He was resplendent in his uniform and wore the full-dress cloak and ceremonial fur boots. Determination was written all over his face. Compared to Vasquez, he was a bull elephant next to a gazelle.

Vasquez was slight, brown-faced, with darting blue eyes and close-cropped hair, and was now dressed in the standard white suit of a high-ranking interplanetary envoy. He was a quick-witted man and possessed an aura of supreme confidence.

They talked little, preferring to flick through the plentiful magazines available on the wall videoscreens.

The room they occupied was seldom used, reflecting the fact that most top-level discussions occurred on Paludis, commonly at the president’s major residence in Kentucky. Shean James had deliberately chosen the busy terminal of Del-Shangi as it was the major enterprise affected by Earth’s ban, and it was the perfect insult to the Earthmen to be directed off-world. However, if the visitors were upset by the affront, it showed little as they relaxed awaiting the Paludis dignitaries.

Eventually the door hissed open and Shean James entered, followed closely by his military chief, General Jean-Claude Bourget, a tall vulpine man with the distant air of one whose mind was perennially elsewhere. The parties shook hands and, as the new arrivals prepared to sit down, Vasquez gestured towards the adjacent room.

“This way, if you please, gentlemen,” the envoy said. “We have something to show you.”

* * *

Shean James sat fuming as the video flickered to an end. He had no idea what this was about and, although the devastation he had just witnessed was horrifying, the problems of Earth were of scant concern to him. Envoy Vasquez leapt to his feet and light filled the room.

“What the hell was all that about?” Shean James grated. “What’s it to do with us?”

Captain Emminger returned the accusatory stare. “That, we believe, was caused by an enormous explosion in East River. Three hundred thousand people were killed, murdered.”

Bourget cleared his throat. “Most distressing, Captain, but what was your purpose in showing us the details of this most terrible event?”

Emminger glanced at Vasquez as the envoy sat down opposite James and Bourget. “Gentlemen,” the envoy said, “we have reason to believe the perpetrators of this foul deed originated from Paludis. We have reason to believe our own ships have been shadowed from this world. We have reason to believe not only the huge flood, but three destroyed ocean cruise ships are the work of terrorists from your world. What do you plead?”

Shean James leapt up, red-faced and white-eyed, and stared aggressively at the two visitors. “Preposterous bullshit! How dare you come here as guests and insult us with your, your...” he struggled to retain his calm, “… your perverse allegations.”

“We know for certain that the threat to Earth emanates from Paludis,” Captain Emminger stated. “Beyond the shadow of all doubt.”

James waved his arms in the air and walked to the window. “How could any person, any organisation from this planet, cause such destruction? How could they? We do not have the means, the technology to do such things.” He turned to Bourget. “Tell them, man. You’re the new military leader. For God’s sake, tell them we couldn’t do it.”

Bourget leant forward on the table. “It’s true,” he said. “We couldn’t. We have only a few interstellar craft, none of which could shadow your ships without being seen.” He blinked, as if suddenly hit by a thought. “We most certainly do not possess weapons of such ferocity as to cause the energy release we have just witnessed.” He shrugged. “It’s impossible.”

Emminger looked grim. “And I’m telling you, the aggressors are from here and we are not in the mood for lies. If it’s not official, then you better start looking for underground organisations.” He smiled contemptuously then added, “Or maybe it’s the bloody natives.”

Bourget sighed. “They are a low-tech society held in a peninsular reserve.”

“Find out,” Emminger threatened, “or what you see during the next twenty-four hours will be just a drop in the ocean.”

Shean James turned from the window, pale of face. “What d’you mean by that? Is that a threat?”

“You better believe it,” Emminger said.

Vasquez was looking alarmed. Emminger had said too much. “Look,” the envoy said, “if there are any more problems on Earth, any signs at all of further aggression, then we will not hesitate to act in our best interests. In the meantime, action will be taken to ensure no flights at all will originate from Paludis.”

“You already have such restrictions for Earth-bound flights. This is tantamount to war.” Shean James felt the whole weight of Paludis upon his shoulders. Presidency was not supposed to be like this. “What about the sleeper? You’re still going to need that.”

“The safety of Earth comes before further exploration,” Vasquez snapped. “As the cradle of our race, it comes before everything.”

My God, thought James, they actually mean it. He sat down heavily. Loss of the pill to exploration had tremendous repercussions – whole new colonies on the fringe of the great expansion would be isolated, all because some lunatic fringe was terrorising Earth. He felt weak at the knees. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s not us; it can’t be. But if there is an enclave of rebellion here, rest assured we will find it.”

“One more hostile act, just one,” Emminger warned, “and Earth will be upon this planet like a ton of bricks.”

“What the captain means,” Envoy Vasquez quickly added, “is that if you can’t sort it out for yourselves, we will sort it out for you, even if we can’t isolate the culprits.”

Shean James nodded. The meaning was plain enough. “I have every confidence in General Bourget and his team,” he said, fully aware of the general’s discomfort.

“Very well,” Vasquez said. “I suggest you and your party leave Del-Shangi immediately.”

The president looked ill, but nodded his affirmation. It was all beyond his understanding, yet it was obvious the visitors were deadly serious. He was overwhelmed by a feeling of total inadequacy, but by God someone would pay for it.

* * *

As the small group on Muskluna watched the film of the dreadful destruction of New York, Clare Cavanna, Stefan Lattanzis and Pas-Elno were boarding a shuttle flight at Spaceport. They had met two days earlier, compared notes, and unanimously agreed that an expedition to the Paludis moon was warranted. The only point of contention was where to look! As a result of their separate investigations, they had two distinct areas of the moon to search: a well-defined grid reference to the east of Del-Shangi, and a nebulous zone to the west, outlined on Serpentine’s map. Stefan, inwardly overjoyed to be with Clare again, had readily agreed to check the eastern reference first, admitting that it was based on firmer evidence and more likely to yield results.

In the hold of the lunar shuttle was an all-terrain hovercar, its maglev engine suitably modified for Muskluna’s reduced gravity. As the only vehicles for hire at Del-Shangi were cumbersome four wheelers, Stefan had pulled all possible strings to persuade the authorities to fund the transport of the vehicle to the moon. With a maximum ground clearance of nearly a metre, it was the swiftest mode of transport available. His fervent promise to return it in one piece had been met by equally fervent you had better glances from his superintendent. Even so, he harboured severe doubts whether the car would survive the unruly, serrated landscape of Paludis’s dusty moon.

Stefan’s reunion with Clare had been a little strained, and the kiss he had planted on her cheek a little tentative, but it did mean they were at least comfortable with each other. And for now, that would have to suffice.

The agent was more concerned about his native companion. He knew that Pas-Elno had felt immense relief at the prospect of some long overdue action, but the Muskan had also wished to see his mother and sister before they left. The family bonds were strong among Muskans and, despite the urgency of his quest, Pas felt the need for contact. Having confided these feelings to Stefan, the youth was obviously relieved when a video link to the peninsula wall was immediately arranged and he, his mother and his sister stumbled through an awkward five minutes of mournful, stultified conversation before long farewells were voiced once more.

As a sympathetic Stefan watched, Pas-Elno had stared, unblinking, at the dead screen for a full two minutes before bolting from his chair and racing to the safety of his sleeping quarters, red cloak flowing behind him like the flames of a wind-tossed fire. There he had flung himself on the bed and let the emotion soar through his body and tear at his soul until the rage was no more and his mind was clear and the ache behind his eyes was gone.

-13-

The landing on Muskluna was uneventful and Stefan disappeared to supervise the unloading of their hovercar. Clare and Pas-Elno used the conveyors and made their way to the hotel, which was essentially a large sphere set into the rocky ground of the moon, one-fifth of its volume lying beneath the surface.

Once their transport was safely parked, they spent what remained of their wake time nibbling off-world delicacies and mapping the route eastwards to the grid reference obtained from the Saltzburg computer. As they went through this exercise all of them felt a rising sense of anticipation as, in theory at least, they neared their quarry. Yet every time Stefan glanced down at the map, he heard Serpentine’s voice echoing through his mind. What would he say now? What scathing, vitriolic words would assail their ears if the seer saw them plotting a course eastwards, away from his designated zone? Stefan felt uneasy and impatient, fearful and excited. But he could not erase Serpentine’s mysterious dark cloud from his thoughts.

They rose early, breakfasted, donned their hired spacesuits and made their way to the hotel’s parking bay. At one end the huge doors were open like a theatre curtain. The sun was barely over the horizon, deftly giving birth to Muskluna’s long day. The various domes of Del-Shangi formed deep shadows over the red rock and shale of the moon’s surface.

“Walk outside,” Stefan said. “Enjoy the view. I’ll bring the hovercar out.”

Clare and Pas-Elno bounded through the gap and stood in awe. There was nobody else to be seen, the only other sign of life being the yellow port lights that shone from the rooms of other early risers.

Almost directly above them, Paludis hung in all its verdant splendour, half-lit by the sun’s bright rays, and set in a sky sprinkled with a few fading stars. Around Muskluna the terrain was lightening, the white sun topping the rolling hills – but it would not have the splendour of a Paludis sunrise. To their right, beyond the dome of the immigration building, a red beacon continually flickered on and off, beckoning in vain to a non-responsive heaven.

Stefan brought their vehicle out, the sleek, torpedo-like shape looking singularly out of place among the symmetry of Del-Shangi’s rotund architecture. As they battened down the gull-winged doors, the sun finally broke free of the ragged horizon and forced them to drop their visors. Stefan fed the pre-programmed guidance tube into the console, set the cruise control at forty kilometres an hour and palmed the engine to life. The car rose, spun uncannily like a compass needle, then gently wove its way between the buildings. Within ten minutes they were clear of the area and heading east.

Stefan increased the speed to one hundred kilometres an hour, Pas-Elno reclined full stretch in the back seat, and Clare watched the lunar scenery drift by. The flickering colours, the silence of their movement, the slight dust trail behind, even the unusual heavens, all served to reinforce the dreamlike quality of Clare’s state of mind. She closed her eyes but it didn’t help and she fervently hoped she was not going to be sick. There were eight hundred kilometres to travel and she had better get used to it. She tried smiling at Stefan through her helmet, knowing it was pointless, then gently bit her tongue and determined to enjoy the experience. Turning around awkwardly in the confined cockpit, Clare saw that Del-Shangi was already lost to them, hidden behind the rolling red slopes of Muskluna.

The car suddenly rolled to the right and dropped down a slope into a shallow valley formed by a swollen mosaic of rocky tiers. Ahead, the valley ran straight to the horizon.

“This is Determination Valley. We run along here for almost two hundred kilometres,” Stefan’s voice rang in her ears. “Then we drive out and head across the Sea of Rains. When we’ve crossed that, we’ll be two-thirds there.”

Clare bobbed her head in reply, and Stefan suddenly palmed a bright green switch on the console. “Paludis One to Del-Shangi base. We are just entering Determination Valley. Please mark.”

The response came immediately. “Del-Shangi to Paludis One. Copy and marked at nine hundred hours.”

“Thank you, Del-Shangi. Next call twelve hundred. Out now.” Stefan turned to check out Pas-Elno. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m well,” Pas-Elno replied, “but I don’t like closing my back-tube all this time. You should have special suits for Muskans.”

Stefan grinned. “I’ll check it out when we get back. The Sea of Rains is as flat as a pancake so we can push up to two hundred once we are out of the valley.”

They moved deeper along the natural cleavage, a white bullet reflecting red and ochre, sunlight flashing intermittently from the canopy. They were their nemesis – denizens of retribution, but to Stefan the capture of probable murderers was becoming secondary to solving the puzzle of why they were here at all.

* * *

They were now at the far rim of the Sea of Rains, well over five hundred kilometres from Del-Shangi. The hovercar was resting on the ground, its wing doors open and its passengers taking liquid refreshment through the access tubes in their helmets. Stefan had just communicated their position to Del-Shangi base and the time was ten past noon.

Ahead rose the highest peaks on Muskluna, the Apennine Ranges, which swelled four thousand metres into the moon’s sky. Several ancient clefts, old lava channels, ran through the mountains and at the head of one, Cassini Rift, lay their target at an altitude of eight hundred metres.

Stefan suddenly slapped Clare on the thigh and pointed outside. “Let’s stretch our legs,” he suggested, and all three scrambled onto the smooth red rock.

Underneath a vast sky, they stared at the mountains and at a dark shadow within the lower screes. Stefan pointed at the shadow. “That’s our target,” he said, “Cassini Rift. The mining camp closed eighty years ago but the buildings apparently remain intact. We should be there within two hours.”

Clare stretched her arms to the sky, admiring the intensity of the view. “It’s so beautiful,” she enthused. “So strong in colour, no haze at all, so peaceful.” She abruptly exclaimed, “Oh look! You can just see a trail leading to the hills.”

Stefan grunted. “Probably an old mining track, where they brought the ore out. Muskluna must be covered with such trails. Many of the haulers were fully automatic, no humans at all, plying to and from Del-Shangi.”

“Fantastic,” breathed Clare, “and somehow frightening. They must have been large machines.”

“They certainly were,” Stefan responded. “The largest would have been perhaps two hundred metres long – a train of identical skips hauled by a huge friction engine. There were no hovercars in those days. They couldn’t pull such a load even today.”

Clare bounced up and down on the spot, enjoying the ease of movement the low gravity gave her and trying to analyse why she loved the terrain. She gave up, content to enjoy the alien panorama for what it was.

Pas-Elno, after a few clumsy attempts at limb-bending, dropped back into the car. “Come,” he said impatiently. “We need to go. It’s my father out there.”

Suitably chastised, Clare and Stefan clambered into their seats, the doors hummed shut and they were once more raking over the sun-baked rocks.

Less than two hours later, having made easy progress along the ancient, worn track, Stefan nosed the vehicle over a rise and there before them, nestled in a natural hollow, lay the old mining camp of Cassini. Stefan frowned as he dropped the car to the ground. There was no sign of any other vehicles and the entire place appeared deserted. They could see five white domes – three large and two small – stark against the red shale and dark sky. Two skeletal rigs stood like sentries on either side of the buildings, forlorn in the bright sun. Clare bit her lip anxiously and Pas-Elno strained his neck to get a better view from the rear seat.

Stefan edged the car forward until he judged they were in full view of anybody who might be in the domes. There was no visible reaction. Cassini looked exactly like it should have – a ghost town, long ago mined out, sterile and useless.

The car rose and moved slowly down the hillside, a few loose stones rolling down before them, heralding their approach. Pas-Elno, slumped in the back seat, felt utterly devastated. He knew instinctively that his father was not at this place, that he had endured the discomfort of the human suit to no avail.

The hills around the dated mining encampment reflected bright russet as the car twisted through the workings and neared the domes, two of which were open to the bare Muskan atmosphere, their airlocks yawning, carelessly abandoned upon the desertion of Cassini. They left the car and trailed exaggerated footprints to the nearest open dome.

It must have been a dormitory. Several aluminium-framed beds lay scattered over a dusty floor. The walls were covered with heating matting, occasionally relieved by fading pictures of female humans of exceptional shapes, sizes and colours. A large communal shower zone was situated in the centre of the floor, the crude piping snaking upwards to disappear into a false ceiling, which had become warped with time. Numbered wardrobe lockers surrounded the shower cavity, ranging from one to thirty.

As Clare and Stefan moved silently around, Pas-Elno remained at the door, an air of total dejection hanging over him. The Muskan suddenly turned and made his way to an adjacent dome. The airlock was closed and, as he tried the manual lever, obviously locked. A dark shadow fell over his shoulder to rest against the wall of the building.

“Need a hand?” Stefan asked.

“It’s locked. Can we try your pistol?”

“Sure,” Stefan replied. “Stand well away, at least twenty metres. Over to the left there.”

Pistol in hand, the agent stepped to the left of the entrance and, aiming at about thirty degrees, fired at the manual mechanism. The area of the lock peeled inwards silently, and several pieces of shrapnel flew outwards, one catching his visor and leaving its mark upon the surface.

Pas-Elno rushed forward in large bounds and with some effort, opened the airlock’s outer door. Under protest, the inner panel released on manual and they entered the interior of the structure. There stood an array of machinery, illuminated by several large ports set in the dome’s high roof. A few long tables with accompanying chairs formed a circle around the walls, and in the centre, a power module rose to the ceiling to be fed, presumably by external solar panels. The overall impression was one of cleanliness and efficiency.

“There must be a large door somewhere,” Stefan mumbled, as his eyes drifted around the room. “Ah, there it is.” He wandered to the far wall and without much hope, palmed the switch. Nothing happened.

A sudden, high-pitched scream slammed into their helmets, shattering the dreamlike solitude of the old workshop. Stefan and Pas-Elno jerked involuntarily. Then they were racing towards the exit and onto the moon’s surface, desperately searching for Clare’s suited figure.

“Where are you, Clare?” Stefan gasped. “What’s wrong?”

Sobbing rang in their ears. “I’m at the other open airlock.” There was a pause and a sniff, then Clare added in a whisper, “Could you come, please.”

She was facing the outer surface of the dome as they approached, arms outstretched, leaning heavily against the wall, head bowed. She abruptly sank to crouch on her knees.

Stefan slithered to a halt beside her. “What is it, for God’s sake?”

Pas-Elno joined them, touched Clare gently on the shoulder and then passed through the airlock. There was sufficient light diffusing through the ports for the Muskan to see that the interior was the same as the other small dome – another dormitory with similar contents. He walked further in, stood directly under a port – and saw the bodies! There were two of them sprawled in the communal shower area, strangely paradoxical, bloated yet dried; the skin of their faces like aged cane-grass leaves. Next to the bodies lay two helmets. The Muskan youth knelt down to touch their cheeks. Flesh crumbled like burnt paper. There was no blood, long since evaporated and the entire scene portrayed a timeless decay. Neither of the figures was his father and nor were they, he suspected, Vidmar, Sangster or Sanson.

Pas-Elno called to Stefan. “Come and look.” He gave no further details, not wanting to ignite Clare’s imagination.

Stefan was there within seconds. He shuddered and then his police training took over. “Go back to Clare, Pas, if you would,” he said. “I’ll take a closer look here.” The Muskan left and Stefan switched off his intercom, then slowly turned the head of one of the corpses so its eyes looked to the ceiling. Despite the facial distortion it was possible to see that the eyes were purple, the eye sockets almost square. The body was Magellanic, third generation at least. Its partner in death was the same. It was impossible to be certain there was no physical injury, but none was immediately evident.

The agent rose to his feet. In all probability, the Magellans had been killed by the simple act of opening the airlock before they were helmeted. Their murderer would have been on the inside, fully suited, and had, no doubt, watched their agonising deaths. The Magellans were notorious and ruthless mercenaries who propagated their ranks by cloning. Distaste of the species was rife among the more conventional human universal populace. Stefan wondered how long they had lain like this, unable to decay normally in what passed for the Muskluna atmosphere. He switched his intercom back on and Clare’s angry voice assailed his ears.

“I want to go back now! This place is dreadful. I hate it!” She was right. There was nothing here. They must return to Del-Shangi, recuperate and then head west to Serpentine’s zone.

"I'll quickly check the other domes and then we'll go," Stefan replied. "Go back to the vehicle."

After a few minutes Stefan returned to the hovercar. The other domes were of no interest. Cassini was a strange, haunted place, and one he wanted to be rid of.

* * *

They journeyed back to the Sea of Rains, and Clare found her eyes closing as the harsh sun moved slowly around the sky. Stefan reasoned they would be across the plain in good time. He had already called Del-Shangi base via the satellite link. The small law enforcement group at the base had expressed disappointment at the Cassini events, as they had been ready to spring into action given the signal from Stefan. It was rare that criminal activities occurred on Muskluna and arrests were even rarer. There had, however, been no interest in the dead Magellans. It was, they said, well before their time.

Stefan was concerned about his colleagues. Clare was obviously upset by the discovery of the bodies, and tears were not far away. She was quiet now, morose at the failure of the journey, blaming herself for being naive enough to believe the Saltzburg computer. It had undoubtedly been tampered with, perhaps by Vidmar himself on his subsequent visit to East Paludis. Stefan had been relieved that the last two domes did not reveal any further bizarre secrets, just more equipment and a separate refectory area. He sighed and raised the speed to three hundred kilometres an hour.

When they were almost through Determination Valley, Pas-Elno stirred in the back and asked, “How long before we get to Del-Shangi?”

“Nearly there,” Stefan answered. “But we’ll need to rest before heading west.”

“We must be mad,” Pas-Elno commented. “That must be an even worse bet − if that’s at all possible.”

“Maybe,” Stefan countered grimly, “but you didn’t meet Serpentine. There’s something about him. In a way, he’s very special.”

“I know,” Pas-Elno said. “Some of our grand elders are made so. They say they are tuned to the universe, to the other dimensions. They say time is a concept of our minds, a barrier that can sometimes be breached.”

For some reason, a vision of two copters racing over a river valley entered Stefan’s mind and he intuitively knew his initial sighting had been an illusion induced by Serpentine’s tea: a warning, a glimpse into the future. With a sad heart, he also knew that by now the aircraft had more than likely fulfilled their mission.

Stefan nodded to himself, then suddenly palmed the emergency brake.

Reverse thrust screamed, the sound slamming into and echoing from the surrounding rocks. The car slowed and dropped, the undercarriage drawing sparks from its titanium reinforcing strips as they slid to a halt.

They were less than ten kilometres from Del-Shangi. The short horizon in that direction was lit by an expanse of voluminous and appalling light. Seconds later, a swirling tower of darkness soared upwards carrying an expanding plume of grey cloud. It covered the sun and nightfall came early. Stefan palmed the beams and could only stare as the sudden brightness of the nearby orange and red rocks served to highlight the awesome disturbance in the distant sky.

Clare mumbled, rudely awoken from her reverie, then yelled, “What’s happening? What’s going on?” Seeing the forward skyline, she hit the console with her fist. “What the hell is it?”

“It’s Del-Shangi,” Stefan whispered. “An explosion.” It was an explosion, his mind told him, but his eyes had seen such things before, albeit on video. But never like this – a flash and the infernal cloud, already rising to orbit. A fusion device – deliberate. It was no accidental detonation that towered before them. His thoughts spun and his hands wouldn’t work. Despite the suit air conditioning, sweat rolled down his jowls and trickled onto his neck. Was this Serpentine’s darkness encroaching upon their lives? His mind turned again like a Ferris wheel of emotions. Shelter! They must reach shelter.

Pas-Elno mewled pitifully but said nothing. To him, the sky was dead. Stefan started the car and ran it slowly forward, eyes peering ahead for some kind of natural shield. The lights illuminated an outcrop of rock on the left of a lateral rift, and the agent guided the vehicle towards its protective lee. It was a fairly small ridge, some eight metres high, which spilled gently into the valley. As the car snuggled beneath it, the sun’s rays somehow broke through the deadly pall of dust and transformed their surroundings into a scarlet grotto.

The sun fought for ascendency, and the dark tower reflected the part glow from Paludis, taking on an ephemeral, ghostly appearance. It was twenty-thirty hours.

Stefan palmed the radio. “Paludis One to Del-Shangi base. Mark please.” A barrage of interference assailed their ears and Stefan repeated the message. There was no reply and he deadened the panel. Next to him, behind the dark protection of her visor, Clare was as white as a sheet. Her voice sounded small in their artificial world.

“That was nuclear, wasn’t it?”

Stefan didn’t answer at first. His thoughts were preoccupied with their immediate predicament should the moon base have been completely destroyed. “I believe so,” he said eventually.

“Why?” Clare asked. “Who would do such a terrible thing? All those poor people.” She swallowed hard as a feeling of nausea threatened to overcome her.

“I know,” Stefan remarked quietly, realising that Clare had not yet comprehended their own situation.

Pas-Elno stirred in the back. He had been sickened by what he had witnessed of the human world – both at the Cassini camp and just now, if indeed Del-Shangi had been deliberately destroyed. He did not understand it and he did not want to know the reasons. All he felt was the need to find his father and be reconciled with his family. “What do we do now?” he asked Stefan.

The suit’s shoulders heaved as the agent shrugged. “Be practical,” he suggested. “We must stay here until morning, then we’ll have a look. Maybe there’ll be a ship from Paludis once they know what’s happened.”

Clare’s voice quivered as she asked, “How much air do we have?” She suddenly became hot and felt her heartbeat pumping in her ears. Taking a deep breath she put her hand on the console as if needing to have something firm beneath her fingers.

“Plenty,” Stefan answered, trying to sound cheerful. “Enough for three days easy. There’s bound to be a ship by then.”

Clare’s pent up emotions swamped her mind. Stifled sobs filled the helmets of Stefan and Pas-Elno. She wanted to run away into the night, to yell at the stars. The image of the two dead Magellans tormented her. Purple eyes, purple moods: dying like that, in the middle of nowhere, on a no-good moon for a no-good cause. She saw her own head lying in the dust, forsaken and lost forever.

There was a pressure on her hand as Stefan suddenly gripped it. “Sleep. Let’s sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”

They sat awkwardly in their cocoon, behind their meagre shield, as seconds later particles from the explosion hurtled past. Behind them, rocky witnesses to the awful destruction remained silent, whilst ahead the mushroom tower turned and twisted malevolently as Muskluna slowly rotated in time.

-14-

Stefan slept fitfully and awoke at six to find that Clare and Pas-Elno had changed places. Clare was now draped along the back seat and Pas-Elno snored gently in the front. The temperature gauge on the console read minus one hundred and twenty. Looking up, he saw the sun in a clear sky, carefully released the door latch, and ensuring that he did not disturb his companions, stepped out onto the surface. He stretched and walked around the outcrop to observe the valley entrance.

He reasoned that much of the explosion debris would have reached escape velocity and dispersed into space. Amongst that debris would be atoms of human bodies and whilst he was afraid, he was also angry. Ensuring his visor was down, he stood and squinted to the horizon, then returning behind the outcrop, sat down on a convenient boulder, took out the map and studied it with some thought.

On leaving the valley, Stefan determined, they should make their way behind the Juba Ranges up to Mount Sinai, whereupon they could survey Del-Shangi. It was a tortuous route but, in the circumstances, the safest. He ran his finger down the map. There, eight hundred kilometres to the west, was Serpentine’s marked zone. He returned to the car, closed the doors and gently awoke his cohorts.

* * *

It was 1200 hours when Stefan finally brought the hovercar to rest near the summit of Mount Sinai, north of Del-Shangi. At times during the ascent he had engaged hover only, and they had dismounted to guide their precious transport over the most arduous terrain by hand.

They left the car and walked over the marbled rock to the top of the ridge. Three thousand metres below, where Del-Shangi once had been, lay a crater around five kilometres in diameter. At its edge, a ridge of fused rock sparkled in myriad colours, reflecting the intense sunlight. Beyond, the sky still held traces of dust trailing out to the west. There was no sign of the presence of man; nothing to show, no beacons, and no domes. Del-Shangi had vanished. Even the crater could have been the outcome of a natural event. It was difficult to believe that not much more than twenty-four hours ago a thriving metropolis, a place of comings and goings, had stood in the valley below.

Stefan put his arms around Clare and Pas-Elno and gently walked them back to the hovercar. They stood for a while until Clare whispered, “So what now? What happens to us now?”

Stefan reached inside the car and turned on the emergency signal. “We can stay here and wait. Or we can continue to Serpentine’s zone.”

“Wait!” Pas-Elno snapped. “Wait for what? There’s nothing here anymore. They won’t come looking for survivors. Why should anyone come?”

Stefan held up his hand. “Okay. I understand how you feel. Humans are stupid, eh.”

“Not stupid; crazy!” Pas-Elno snarled into his headset. I don’t particularly want to die here. I don’t—”

“Stop it, both of you!” Clare cried furiously. “It’s not helping. Whoever did that to Del-Shangi isn’t about to let anyone look for survivors, even if they were mad enough to try. There won’t bloody well be any!” Again, she felt tears were near and foolishly tried to wipe her eyes through her visor. Upset and afraid, she slid into the car and sat rigidly whilst Stefan and Pas-Elno looked at each other.

“Serpentine,” Stefan said simply and they entered the car together. The vehicle rose and they headed down the north-western slopes of the Juba Ranges to the plain below. Once there, Stefan and Pas-Elno exchanged places and the car nosed west towards the centre of the seer’s designated area.

* * *

As they travelled, Clare pined for the feel of the wind on her skin, the warmth of the sun, the splatter of raindrops on her face. She pictured the wide northern deserts of Australia, the serene hills and valleys of Paludis, the fetching verdancy of the seascapes as the gentle tides ebbed and flowed. She felt the caress of sand as it trickled, anxious to please, through her fingers. She imagined the lush taste of ripe fruit quenching the thirst in her mouth. A bird rustling in the undergrowth, its mate crying in a nearby tree. A wild dog baying in the moonlight.

Then she looked around, and it was all gone. She felt totally and utterly trapped, encapsulated in a pressure suit, which in turn was imprisoned by a dead and useless world, the horizons of which curved indomitably around her – as impenetrable as any prison wall. She closed her eyes, becoming oblivious to the motion of the car.

* * *

Shean James paced up and down his office, face twisted with hate and thoughts of vengeance. General Bourget watched in alarm as his president’s fist suddenly slammed against a wall.

“Those bastards. Those slimy bastards. How could they do that to us? At least they could have warned us – given us time to evacuate. Two thousand people extinguished just like that.” His eyes turned appealingly to Bourget, and the general was surprised to find there were tears. “It’s not as if we were responsible for New York.”

Bourget shook his head. “No, sir, we were not.”

“What can we do, Jean-Claude?”

Bourget took a deep breath. “We can only ensure our own forces are under control, that there is not, so to speak, a maverick power amongst us.” He blinked rapidly. “All military and civil forces are alerted and a thorough investigation is already underway. All Paludis organisations will be fully vetted. No stone will be left unturned.”

As he listened to the clipped tones of his military aide, James found no succour. “And meanwhile those bastards can strike at will – watch us and hit us. I hate to think what will happen if Earth sees more violence.”

“Our military are on alert,” Bourget stated. “We have made great strides, but we are as yet distressingly weak compared to Earth and Centurion. We cannot hope to repel them if they launch a full-scale attack against us.”

James moaned. “This is ridiculous. We’ve not done anything.” He sat down heavily and stared morosely out of the window. In his mind, he saw the walls crumbling around him. Tomorrow they would search the peninsula. The entire concept of the natives being responsible was utterly ludicrous – yet it was one of the stones to be turned. It was always possible they were hiding something, even some rebel human enclave, within their bounds.

The room became silent until the videoscreen blinked. Bourget palmed the reception panel. The screen came to life showing an obviously excited communications officer loosening the top button of his tunic.

“Yes,” Bourget said impatiently. “What is it?”

“Message from the Huntsman, sir,” the officer replied nervously. “Reading as follows: Be aware further atrocities against Earth will warrant further action. Until further notice, no flights will leave or arrive on Paludis. Contradiction of this order will also warrant further action. Out. That’s it, sir.”

“Thank you,” Bourget said coldly and cancelled the screen.

“Orders, bloody orders,” James muttered. “And who are they to talk about atrocities? Who do they think they are? What do they think we are?” He looked at Bourget. “This will ruin us, ruin Paludis.”

Bourget frowned, feeling sick, and could offer no reply. They were helpless, not in control.

The president sighed deeply. “How many armed ships have we got?”

“Only three. Two more when they’re refurbished.” Bourget looked hard at James. “We cannot fight a war, sir.”

No, we cannot, James thought, but we can try to take out the Huntsman – if we can locate her. He dismissed Bourget and sat in contemplation. The irony was that in five years, Paludis would be all powerful; a planet with a strong military built upon the back of the magical sleeper. He was damned if he was going to be thwarted by a pack of lies.

He walked to the screen and phoned the Chief of Police. “Get me that freak of a seer,” he instructed. “The one they call Serpent Man, or whatever. Bring him here and do it fast.” He broke the connection and sat watching night fall through the window, observing the lengthening shadows creep over the lawn, watching the sky turn red and then black. If any soul on Paludis had somehow attacked the mother planet then he would have them hung, drawn and quartered in public. That thought brought the only pleasure of his day.

* * *

By noon the next day, everyone on Paludis was aware of the destruction of Del-Shangi. The newscast reporter was a picture of sobriety as he read the prepared statement:

“Yesterday, at 4am Spaceport time, the transit city of Del-Shangi, on the moon of Muskluna, was destroyed by a single nuclear blast. The entire population was killed. The perpetrator of this action, an Earth interstellar named Huntsman, is now believed to be holding a far orbit off Paludis. The unwarranted attack followed a meeting between President of Paludis Shean James and Earth representatives, at which Paludis authorities were accused of several attacks on Earth, causing over three hundred thousand deaths. Despite strenuous denials by our president the attack on Del-Shangi proceeded, without warning, to prevent further flights from Paludis to Earth.

“Paludis authorities are currently searching for any subservient terrorist organisations that may have undertaken the alleged attack on Earth, though it is believed that it could not possibly possess the technology to undertake such an attack.

“Activities will also include a thorough investigation into the native Muskan community on the North-Eastern Peninsula.

“Following this bulletin, there will be a panel discussion covering the economic consequences ensuing from the elimination of our interplanetary trade.”

The majority of the population were initially frightened by the news, but fear soon turned to anger. It was inconceivable that Paludis could launch such an attack on the mother planet. There was no motive and they did not have the military power. The whole concept was ludicrous. And what if Earth suffered further attacks – what would happen then?

Almost overnight, fed by intense dread, committees and groups were formed and Shean James found himself lobbied from all sides. Do something; go to Earth; build up the military; come clean; invite Earth to take control. He sat in his office with the videophone disconnected and took his heart tablet. Surely they had found the seer by now.

* * *

The hovercar was a wreck. Covered in dust, and with several areas of damage from when either Stefan or Pas-Elno had lost control, their transport bore little resemblance to the pristine vehicle that had left Del-Shangi, the occupants holding such high hopes. It was 1300 hours on the second day since leaving Mount Sinai and according to the map they were within Serpentine’s zone. The sun was getting low in the sky; daylight would soon disappear.

Clare was dozing in the back, breathing shallowly to conserve air. Stefan was driving, sore eyes gazing out over the monotonous, sun-baked landscape, lips dry with thirst. Next to him Pas-Elno intermittently checked the map, a finger tracing their location as they drifted onwards.

Stefan longed to leap from the car, discard his suit like an unwanted carapace, and run swiftly over the solid earth. In his dreams, he would sprint across the chequered moonscape, and then ascend to soar effortlessly over the lunar mountains, espying fresh water lakes and teeming game parks. But then he would plummet earthwards, shrieking insanely, to plunge into the icy darkness of an infinitely deep, watery grave where strange carnivorous marine creatures with impossibly large teeth snapped at his arms and legs. He would wake, lonely and afraid, to stare blandly at the alien apparently in deep sleep beside him.

It was a living nightmare of incessant sun and shifting shadows, of imagined voices and the searing image of the nuclear cloud. Was there nothing but death to look forward to?

He now drove by instinct, relying on the Muskan to give direction and speed, while dust trailed behind them like a ghostly, squirming worm, old parts dying, and new ones short-lived. And ahead, forever, the rolling orange hills and valleys.

“Sezza O Sezza!” The ancient Muskan curse rang around the cockpit and Stefan instinctively braked, slewing the hovercar into yet another minor rock collision.

“Shit, Pas!” the agent exclaimed. “What the hell...?”

Pas-Elno had already released the canopy and hurtled outside. He struggled up the adjacent bluff and stood triumphantly on top, waving his arms. Where does he get the energy? Stefan thought, grinning despite their predicament.

“Sezza O Sezza!” Pas-Elno yelled again. “I saw a sign, a white bird in the sunlight. Garn is alive on Muskluna. Come and see, my friends.” He beckoned to them frantically, and Clare and Stefan left the car to scramble up beside him.

“Oh, my God!” Clare exclaimed, for there in the crater to their left lay three intact white domes and, significantly, a four wheeler. Two other vehicles, wrecked and obviously abandoned, lay further away.

“No matter where you go I will find you,” breathed Stefan, recalling the words of an old song. “If it takes a thousand years.”

“I saw the top of a dome as we ascended the last rise,” Pas-Elno explained. He looked intently at the other two, wiping dust from his visor. “It’s them, I know it is.” They slithered down to the hovercar and stood around it, hardly daring to enter lest the spell of the discovery be broken. Then, as one, and without speaking, they took their seats. Stefan palmed the engine and the car rose once more.

“If we travel a little further,” Pas-Elno said, “we should be able to enter the crater through a partial break in the wall.” He scrutinised the map. “About two kilometres along.” Memories of his father drifted through the Muskan’s mind, and he recollected observing the carving of the cane-grass stem, his parent totally engrossed, oblivious to threatening storm clouds. And when the rain came, Pas-Elno had been gathered under one arm and carried home to where Brel-Elno was preparing their food. They all touched hands before eating: thanks to Garn for sustenance.

The car suddenly lurched, and Pas-Elno imagined a bright light streaking into the sky, trailing slivers of water, each reflecting the Muskan moon, hundreds of them, a thousand. An aching tugged at his heart and he recognised fear and trepidation conducting the tune.

* * *

They abandoned all caution on approaching the domes, for their main requirement now was sustenance and the continuation of their own lives. All the same, Stefan kept a watchful eye out for movement, his pistol under his hand. Clare and Pas-Elno prayed silently to their own separate gods.

The domes appeared newly refurbished and the four-wheeler bore the name of a current Del-Shangi hire company now, of course, inexorably extinct. There were six spare breathing cylinders in the abandoned vehicle’s cargo bay, together with a canister of purified water and some glucose tablets – enough to support them for another week or two, even if they couldn’t access the domes, assuming they could remain sane that long.

Clare nervously examined the airlock of the nearest dome. It was, as she expected, totally different to those at the Cassini encampment. In fact, there did not appear to be an opening mechanism of any kind and despite her efforts the outer door remained stubbornly immovable. Afraid of making further noise, she turned to find Stefan at her side.

“There’s no way in,” Clare said dejectedly.

Stefan followed her gaze to the airlock and smiled grimly. “There will be a key,” he said, “of one kind or another.”

Pas-Elno, meanwhile, had found the same problem at one of the other doors. Imprisoned within his suit, his frustration grew with every passing second.

Stefan returned to the hovercar and checked their emergency beacon. He also ensured the solar panel was tracking correctly. Turning, he saw both his colleagues had dropped to the ground, backs against their respective buildings. They were just staring at the red dust between their feet.

“Okay,” Stefan called to them. “Let’s check who’s home.” He made his way over to Clare and pulled her upright. “No moping,” he ordered. “This is a winning team, remember?”

Stefan slammed the butt of his pistol three times against the airlock door. Holding his breath, he turned off his intercom and carefully placed his helmet on the surface of the dome. Not a mouse stirred within. Again he struck and listened. Pure silence, not even a footstep.

Stefan reasoned the four-wheeler was parked adjacent to the dome of their principal quarry and left his assault on that particular airlock until last. There was, however, no response from any dome. They stood, helpless, lost for actions, as the sun dropped lower in the sky.

“What about using the pistol?” Pas-Elno asked.

“Too risky,” Stefan replied. “One hole through the inner door or skin and the pressure’s gone – and so have the occupants.”

“As long as it’s not my father,” Pas-Elno said.

Stefan gave him a quizzical look. “Maybe, but do you want to choose the airlock?”

“If we manage to force the outer door, could we open the inner one?” Clare asked.

“Probably,” Stefan replied. “The inner one’s more than likely keyed from the inside, but as long as we can see the mechanism...” He shrugged imperceptibly within his suit.

“Then let’s try the hovercar,” Clare proposed nervously. “If we can push on the middle of the outer door it should bend in and break the lock, or at least reveal its parts.”

Stefan managed a grin through his visor. “Worth a go. Who’s driving?”

“I will,” Clare volunteered. “You two guide the car onto the door, and I’ll gently increase the thrust.”

Clare made her way to the car, looking strangely forlorn, and settled into the seat. Red dust rose as she engaged lift and guided the vehicle towards the dome. Stefan and Pas-Elno grasped the car body and manoeuvred the front corner onto the airlock door.

“Engage thrust slowly,” Stefan grated through clenched teeth, as he dug in his heels against the twist of the vehicle.

The car’s engine whined and, beyond the thrusting bumper, Stefan saw the door begin to compress inwards. “More thrust,” he yelled to Clare. “Slowly does it.” The external lip of the door began to curl outwards. Dust suddenly surged upwards, obscuring their vision. Pas-Elno switched on his helmet light and Stefan followed suit.

Abruptly the car jerked, as if caught in a gust of wind, and the investigator released his hold. “Back off!” he screamed at Clare. “Take her out!”

Panicking, Clare engaged reverse, and shot backwards in an uncontrolled slide, cannoning into another dome. Her head whiplashed, and her helmet caught a savage blow on the seat support, but before losing consciousness she managed to cut the engine. The vehicle ground to a halt in a melee of dust. Deathly silence overtook the scene.

Then Stefan was moving towards the car, calling Clare’s name. She lay slumped over the intercom, obviously unconscious – or worse. There was nothing he could do. They just had to find a way into the dome.

The agent returned to the airlock to find Pas-Elno with his fingers forcing the bent rim of the door. Thankfully, the dust was subsiding.

“How is it? Let me see,” Stefan said gruffly, bending down to investigate the door’s locking mechanism.

“There’s something there,” Pas-Elno said. “We need to prise the door some more.”

“Get me the tool box from the car,” Stefan ordered. “Quickly.”

Pas-Elno returned, then left again, saying, “I need an air change.” Stefan checked his own status. Christ! Ten minutes to go. He took a pin driver from the tools and started to peel the aluminium sheeting back from the lock mechanism. His suit became a greenhouse as sweat soaked his body. Where the hell was the Muskan?

As if in answer Pas-Elno called out. “I’m changing Clare’s air.” God, thought Stefan, I could have left her to die. He willed himself to cool down. Take it easy – think things through.

Ten centimetres of the mechanism lay revealed. A small circuit board was wired to a solenoid wherein lay the bolt. Sound activated, perhaps. They would have never got in. He changed tools and carefully short-circuited the electronics. The bolt popped from its housing and the outer door slid sideways then jammed, as its deformed edge caught in the surrounding frame. No matter, they could get through.

Pas-Elno was suddenly beside him, waving a small cylinder in the air. “Suit sealant,” the Muskan said, “in case the outer door won’t fully reseal.”

A shrill sound rang in Stefan’s ears: the air warning signal. Pas-Elno heard it over the intercom. “Go change,” he said. “Now. I’ll check the inner door.”

The sun was sitting on top of the highest mountains when Pas-Elno entered the airlock cavity and searched for the inner door’s emergency lever. There! It lay directly in the middle of the door. Could it be locked from the other side? Probably.

“Come help me with Clare.” Stefan’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

They carried her limp body through into the cavity and propped Clare up against the wall – her head down, her knees buckled to touch her helmet. Stefan fervently hoped there was no spinal damage. They emerged into a sharp and glorious sunset to gather the rest of their essentials, long shadows aping their every move.

There was little room for manoeuvre as they once more entered the airlock. As best he could, Stefan closed the outer door behind them. There was only one gap where light still entered and Pas-Elno sprayed suit sealant into and around it, watching the foam expand and harden under the meagre lights of their helmets. They turned to face the inner door.

Only now did they fully consider the possibility that death could be seconds away. In all likelihood, their forced entry would have fully roused the occupants, who would be armed and waiting. Stefan turned off his light, motioning the Muskan to do the same. He could still feel the sweat clinging to his skin, cold and clammy upon his back. He gripped his pistol with both hands and crouched low to the floor.

“Keep down to the side as much as you can,” Stefan whispered. Then, “Okay.

Open it.”

Pas-Elno adjusted his stance and felt for the lever. Everything was pitch black.

His strange position opened his back tube, uncomfortable inside the suit. Gradually, the door opened.

-15-

The airlock door slid open to reveal a complete absence of light. It was pitch black. If someone was aiming a pistol at them, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Taking a swift, deep breath, Stefan darted through the gap and, crouching low, snapped on his spotlight and ran it around the interior. Nothing appeared to threaten.

“It’s safe,” he called to Pas-Elno, and within a second sensed the Muskan youth beside him. Unbidden, they trained their lights in unison around the building. There was something on the other side – a bunk perhaps, with an occupant. Before Stefan could stop him, Pas-Elno was running over, all caution forgotten.

The agent heard a strange gasping and then the Muskan’s voice, full of emotion: “It’s my father, Tak-Elno.”

Stefan turned and dragged Clare clear of the airlock cavity, then searched for a light switch. The dome glowed yellow and he closed the inner door.

There was a small control panel near the airlock, presumably for the environment, an equally small cabinet next to it and various small tools flung in a heap beneath the wall. The only other article of note was the bunk.

Stefan shook his head. “What the hell are those doing here?” He checked the dome’s air then carefully took off his helmet, savouring a long, deep breath.

Pas-Elno, still helmeted, was trying to raise his father, shaking his shoulder and then gripping his hand.

Walking over, Stefan pulled him away and signalled for him to remove his helmet. “Take it easy. Let’s examine him properly – after we’ve settled Clare,” he said.

The Muskan glared, as if holding back a retort, then replied: “You settle your own, I’ll see to mine.”

Stefan raised both hands in the air and returned to Clare. He removed her helmet and gave her a neck shot from his medicine pack. Colour crept back to her cheeks. Christ help them! She could have died out there. It was not a thought he liked.

A murmur came from her lips.

“Easy now,” Stefan said calmly. “You’re safe. Just don’t move.”

Her eyes focused on his face. “What—?”

He touched her hair. “Rest.”

Pas-Elno was at his side. “I can’t rouse him,” he said. “It’s as if he’s drugged.”

Stefan nodded and as he did so, a strange thought passed through his mind. My God! Could they really have tried it? He rose from Clare, approached the wall cabinet, and slid the door open. There were several tubes inside, arranged vertically, each holding small capsules of a different colour – red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet. “Like the rainbow,” whispered Stefan.

Each tube had a number, one through six, and carried the unmistakable image of the university arms. Pas-Elno recognised them from his sojourn at Tanberg. “Sleepers. Definitely sleepers,” he said. He looked sad-eyed at the agent. “Surely they don’t work on Muskans?”

“I’m sure the ones we use don’t,” Stefan replied. “They must have developed different ones for your people.”

“Using my father for their experiments,” Pas-Elno groaned, “and for what purpose? Why did they do it and why bring him here?”

The agent shrugged. “We won’t find the answer to that until we find the others.” He looked once more at the pills. “Do you know what the numbers mean?”

Pas-Elno nodded. “They’re power based. Number one is ten to the power of one – ten of your Earth hours. The second, ten to the power of two – a hundred hours or about four days. Number six is for well over a hundred years.”

“There’s a number three missing,” Stefan said, doing a quick mental calculation. “About six weeks.”

“No, wait,” Pas-Elno said. He walked over and studied the capsules then shook his head. “Not six weeks. The pills in tube three cover the full range – from three to three point nine.” He looked again. “Three point eight is missing from this tube.” He paused for no more than a second. “About nine months.”

“God help us,” Stefan groaned.

The Muskan youth turned and walked back to his father, followed by Stefan.

Tak-Elno lay on his front in the traditional Muskan sleeping position. He was covered by a single sheet, and his head was turned to one side so that his back-tube was open to the air. Stefan wondered at the strange alien hue of his skin, perhaps a paler green than normal.

“At least you appear to have a means of survival,” the human murmured. “Until someone hears our distress signal.”

“And you?” Pas-Elno’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

“Clare and I have no choice. The sleepers here are presumably not fit for our metabolism. We’ll have to get into the other domes.” A nightmare. It was a crawling nightmare. “There’s no food of any sort here and in any case I doubt whether the environment will support three of us for long at normal respiration.”

“You realise we don’t know when they took the sleepers?”

Stefan nodded grimly. “You bet. The last thing we want is being under when Sanson and Sangster are wandering loose. We’ll have to use the lower types in stages.” He turned to his companion, a strange look upon his face. “Unless, of course, we kill them.”

Pas-Elno stretched his arms high in the air and offered a swift, silent prayer to Garn. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t be taking any of the humans’ filthy pills unless he really had to!

* * *

Serpentine perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair and regarded Shean James with an air of indifference. His hands were clasped around his knees and he had removed his sandals in an act of defiance towards the Paludis president. The seer had not enjoyed being snatched from his bed in the early hours of the morning, nor being forcibly taken into the presence of the planet’s ruler. And as for James’s proposition – well, that was preposterous, the act of a madman.

Shean James wore his ceremonial robe to receive Serpentine, as if attempting to emphasise his authority over the seer who, of course, recognised only the man beneath the uniform.

“Well, soothsayer, what do you say?”

Serpentine raised his head and spoke with contempt. “I say no.”

James raised his eyebrows. “The task is too hard for you?”

“Too hard or not, will not be known, for the task will not be attempted. The end purpose has no sense.”

“You are on the side of Earth?” The president peered askance at the seer.

“Sir, you would deem such to be treacherous I am sure, and thus I am on no side – if sides there have to be.”

“Ah,” said James, “a sitter upon fences.”

Serpentine shrugged. “If I were to find you the Earth ship, and you were to destroy it – or,” he glanced slyly at the corpulent robed figure, “be yourselves destroyed – would that be the end of the matter?”

“Earth would never be sure of what transpired,” James countered. “The end of Huntsman would be sudden and cataclysmic – as one of our empty ships invades its very molecules. There could be no culprit as there would be no evidence, and there would be no messages, and our revenge would be extremely sweet – the revenge of Paludis.” He looked fiercely at the seer, growing red in the face. “The rewards for all involved would be bountiful.”

“I have no need for rewards,” Serpentine said, looking wide-eyed at the ceiling, his bony fingers playing with the cord that tied his tunic. “And you would have to explain a missing ship.”

James hit the table with his fist and his face crumpled, growing redder still. “There will be no missing ship on our records. Earth has no idea how many ships we have.” He gazed at the seer with contempt. “What are you, some kind of freak; no needs, no feelings? Some kind of pretentious mystic?” He crossed the room and looked straight into Serpentine’s face. “We’ll see if you have any precious feelings or not. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll tell us where the whole bloody Earth fleet is, never mind the Huntsman.”

Serpentine returned the president’s gaze steadily. “I don’t think so.”

James whirled away and palmed the intercom. “Bourget,” he rasped, “we have a traitor to deal with. Send up the militia.” He turned and glowered. “I hope you like prison food.”

Serpentine smiled. “My needs are few.” Taking the initiative, he suddenly rose and walked to the window. The stars were just bursting into the night sky, surrounding the Paludis moon with pinpricks of white light. Somewhere out there was the Huntsman. Could he have sensed her? Dismissing the thought, he turned to James. “You should be careful,” he said. “You have a dark zone in your aura. Very dark.”

James scowled. “Bullshit. Keep those thoughts to yourself. It’s your own health you should be worried about.”

Footsteps sounded from outside and the president palmed the door switch. Two uniformed guards stood framed in the door, awaiting instructions. Shean James looked at Serpentine as if trying to sense some weakness in his stance. “Take him away. Zone A. Nil by mouth. Injections only.”

They left, the door closed, and James stood in the seer’s footsteps, peering into the developing night. The sight of the moon, apparently unblemished and hiding its terrible wound, sent his blood pressure soaring. He crossed to his desk and took a pill from the drawer. Sweat broke on his brow and he flung his robe to the floor. Shit! What a mess! Tomorrow they would ransack the peninsula – use just enough force to ensure the natives would feel fear – just enough to promote co-operation from at least some of the ugly bastards, and see if they were hiding anything amongst them. He laughed out loud. Lizards and wizards. Things that go bang in the night. “A dark zone in your aura,” the seer had said. Well, maybe it was time to resurrect the ancient art of torture on Paludis. Maybe just this once.

* * *

As the president mused such thoughts, bonfires were burning on the slopes outside the peninsular wall. Flames from numerous fires licked the dark sky, and around the glowing, sparking cane-grass stems, thousands of belligerent humans gathered. They had swept north from the towns and cities of West Paludis like frantic wasps to the honey pot, anger and fear in their hearts. The only words around the fires were of vengeance, the only mood, darker than the night itself. For there could only be one culprit, and blind passions rarely see the light.

* * *

As the world went mad, Brel-Elno and her daughter lay on the floor of the temple with their arms stretched skywards. Around them, thousands of Muskans did the same, covering the floor from wall to wall with a sea of raised hands. Most were women and young children, though a few of the older males were also there.

In the pulpit, the Great Elder spoke fierce words that stemmed from centuries of ritual. A resonant humming rose gradually from the lips of the congregation until its pitch found the natural frequency of the roof and the entire building reverberated with powerful vibrations.

Beyond the walls of the temple, a further mass of Muskans covered the vast ramp, and a large proportion of the male population was strung around the shore of the peninsula, each within sight of the next. They ran from one end of the wall to the other – a living chain surrounding the entire coastline. Nobody occupied any of the other buildings, and all those around the shore stared impassively out to sea, as if uninterested in what lay behind their backs. Dawn rose from the eastern sky.

* * *

The ransacking of the peninsula was instigated from the enclosing ocean. Three ships, with three thousand heavily armed militia on each, approached from the south and beached a kilometre from the wall. Green uniforms swarmed ashore through the sparse Muskan line. No contact was made, no word spoken. No arm was raised in defiance.

As the sun’s rays swept beyond the peninsular wall, the dissident human horde awoke and stretched and gathered strength from each other, the anger within their breasts growing with every passing moment. Ill-tempered from lack of sleep and an almost catatonic fear, they seethed, two and three deep along the wall, and howled mob vengeance at the natives. Inside the control room the guards eyed their monitors nervously. The most vociferous elements of the crowd were massed around the central doors, where fists and feet rained abuse upon the solid aluminium portal. The patrol car paced the top of the barrier continuously like a caged animal, occasionally threatening with a whirr of its turret. At the ends of the wall, the more adventurous entered the sea, deliberating whether to swim around to the other side and wreak their justice at first hand. Some, burdened by the hatred and prejudice of centuries, swam with difficulty to the end of the wall, staring in disbelief at the thin line of Muskans that disappeared into the distance as far as their tired eyes could see.

The high-pitched whine of a copter suddenly rang through the air and the machine hovered over the wall and the sea of upturned faces. A large man, swarthy with red hair, his ample green robe encircled by a wide black belt, shook his fist at the sky.

“Sod off, you lizard-loving bastards,” he bellowed, belligerent face turning purple with rage. “Go and sort out the slimes over there.” He threw his hand at the wall and then kicked the door. Others joined in, venting their fear-born anger at the insect-machine overhead.

A strong metallic voice filled the air, powerful enough to overcome the cacophony below: “Return to your vehicles. The military are, at this very moment, searching the Muskan peninsula. You can do no good here. Return to your homes.”

The copter tilted and flew to the southern end of the wall, dropping over those people in the water and forcing them back to land. Repeating the procedure at the northern end of the barrier it then flew back to the aluminium portal. The crowd below had quietened but had not dispersed.

While the main party of troops searched the empty Muskan homes, a group of one hundred formed at the base of the temple’s ramp. A strange humming penetrated their protective helmets and all eyes were on their commander. The nearest troops saw sweat form on the commander’s brow as he talked to control. Then he switched his unit to amplified external and faced the natives.

“We have no wish to harm you,” the commander announced to the Muskans on the ramp, “but we have orders to search your temple. Please part your ranks and let us through.”

The commander looked up at the ramp nervously. It seemed a long way to the top. There could be no doubt that if his troop advanced, bloody violence would ensue. But suddenly and miraculously, the sea of native bodies divided like a curtain, starting from the bottom, and he could see clearly to the temple door. He looked at the faces of the nearest Muskans and read nothing. He made his decision.

“Troop, you will remain here,” he transmitted over the intercom. “You will all lower arms.” He moved alone into the alien throng.

The walk up the ramp was nerve-racking. Muskan faces showed no emotion. The commander sweated profusely. As he neared the top he felt, without looking, the native ranks close behind him. He stared inside the temple.

“Troop, stay down,” he transmitted, as he saw the mass of bodies carpeting the floor. Momentarily the humming had stopped, but now it started again, rising to a crescendo to beat through the protection of his helmet. Shit, this was impossible! He just couldn’t bring them up here – not without a complete massacre – and there were women and children inside the temple. He had never felt so isolated in his life. He turned to the nearest Muskan, his heart in his throat.

“When does this end?”

The native, an old man showing the skin cracks of his age, looked at the commander with his strange alien eyes.

“There is no end. It will always be.”

The commander turned to survey the sea of faces behind him. What would happen to him if he did not search the temple? What would happen if he did? The humming was giving him a headache and he felt the beginnings of nausea invade his stomach. The world began to spin and he leant heavily against the door frame of the temple.

* * *

Serpentine hung naked from one ankle, his head almost touching the floor. He was able to take the weight off the aluminium ring by thrusting with his arms onto the earthen ground, until his aching muscles gave way and the searing pain returned. Furled skin and blood formed a glutinous circle just above his ankle bone. He had been left so for three hours.

Initially the pain had grown with every passing minute and then, as nerves and brain adapted, had started to wane. His mind focused on other things, attempting to thrust continuous waves of tranquillity through his body. Eventually he thought of the Huntsman and grew cold.

The seer saw the three-legged spider in a dream. It was covered by icicles, dangling from a silver thread and twisting in the cold wind. The sky was black, the insect a grey-white with dark, beady eyes and barely visible among snowy canyons.

He awoke with a start and there was frost upon his nose. The blood covering his ankle had frozen. The guards had placed food on the floor so that he had to swing and stretch his arms to reach it. The pain from his leg ran through his entire body with every movement.

“Tell us,” they had asked him six times. “Where is the Earth ship?”

He hadn’t known then and he hadn’t replied. But now, as he drifted inverted in a semi-conscious state, he thought he did know. But would he tell? Probably, as I have no wish to die, he mused, but not just yet. Not quite just yet.

* * *

Huntsman lay surrounded by ice. She had phased colour to white and stood like a three-legged spider amongst the ice-floes and mountains of the Paludis northern polar cap. High up on the control deck the shutters were down and Captain Emminger and Envoy Vasquez had their heads together.

“Are you sure?” the envoy asked. “Nothing at all?”

Emminger nodded. “Quite sure. The mole’s dropped off the face of the planet. All our deployed satellites are working; we’ve got the entire surface covered. No sign whatsoever.”

“Could there be a malfunction?”

“Almost impossible. The transmitter was implanted in the spinal cord during PMC. It can’t be removed and would still function even after death.”

The envoy frowned deeply and sucked in his cheeks. “We need the genetic information she has. We can’t complete our process till we have it – and we don’t have time to put someone else in at Tanberg.”

Above the ship, the Paludis moon invaded a maroon sky.

Envoy Vasquez dimmed the control deck light and raised the shutter enough to view outside. Ice sparkled in the growing moonlight, spreading to a reddening horizon, and a few early stars dotted the heavens. He turned to his companion. “They won’t find us here, will they?”

Emminger shook his head. “Not a chance now we’re down. As long as we’re not too noisy. Need to keep the signals down.” He gestured out at the evening sky. “They’ll be looking outwards – if they’re searching at all.”

“Hope so,” the envoy whispered. “Hope so.”

Two decks below, Signalman Jorgensen had left the Huntsman’s receptors focused on the fifth and final satellite they had booted into orbit before dropping to the Paludis polar cap. There was nothing coming back – not a thing.

Jorgensen did not know the full details of their mission, only Emminger and the envoy knew that, but it was blatantly obvious they were not here for the benefit of Paludis’s health. They’d already shown that. He would never forget the look on Emminger’s face as he’d launched the missile. Power! The bastard loved power. Jorgensen shivered in the warmth of the signal room. He was mighty glad he was not an inhabitant of Paludis – human or indigenous. What had he overheard the weird envoy say to Emminger? “Domineering little turds” or words to that effect – not exactly diplomatic. “Upstarts,” Emminger had responded, “wanting to run the whole shooting universe with their damned sleeping pill. As if we’d let that happen.”

As if indeed, Jorgensen mused, his eyes half closed. He had seen the flooding of New York, along with the rest of the crew, and they had been told Paludis was responsible. He had heard Emminger had been chosen for this mission because he’d had relatives there. What was the ancient saying? Two bad deeds...

A faint bleeping came from the console screen, upsetting his complacency. Jorgensen’s eyes shot open and his right hand automatically jumped to the control panel. The mole? He jerked forward, saved the signal co-ordinates and locked the receptors as a matter of instinct. The signal was very weak, but the co-ordinates came up on the screen and Jorgensen stared in disbelief. Off planet! He started to sweat. A spaceship? Escaping? Impossible for a ship to have left the planet without him knowing. He felt Emminger’s hands around his throat. Engaging Track, he saw the co-ordinates didn’t change, weren’t changing. The mole seemed frozen out there in space. He gazed once more at the screen, kept gazing for a full minute, left his chair, turned out the lights and opened the blinds. Looking at the twinkling patch of sky, he saw an almost full Paludis moon, low on the horizon.

“Unbelievable,” he whispered to himself. “The mole is on the moon.” Then he laughed. There was a nursery rhyme there somewhere. Jorgensen gripped the window ledge. They’d just blasted the only city on the moon, hadn’t they? Left it as barren as primeval Suffek. He left the blinds open and fumbled his way back to the chair. The receptors must have caught the signal as the satellite passed between Paludis and Muskluna – something of a miracle. But surely the fusion blast would have destroyed the implant as well as the human carrying it! Which could only mean that the mole had escaped to the moon after the explosion – completely undetected by his receptor array. Jorgensen felt ill. Emminger would have his guts.

Of course, he thought, as he sat there in the gloom, I could forget the whole thing. It could be an eternity until everything lined up again, and nobody would be any the wiser. He looked at the co-ordinates once more. They registered a small change as the moon had shifted position. A feeling of power ran through him. Only he knew the mole’s location. Not even Emminger knew.

Jorgensen palmed away at the control panel, zooming in, searching out, overlaying Muskluna’s swollen red surface from the ship’s database. There it was! The mole was west of the doomed city of Del-Shangi.

-16-

Shean James hurried down the fortress corridor, ceremonial robe billowing behind like the deranged sail of a de-masted schooner. It was 2 a.m., and the guards were long retired. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, mind in turmoil and seething with rage. The militia were incompetent fools, too fearful of inducing death upon the stubborn seer. Well, we would see. He would interrogate the traitor himself – give the fool seer one last chance.

The walls of the old passage were slightly damp and the way ahead was poorly lit. The fortress had been built over three hundred years ago, both as a prison for rebellious natives and as a safe haven for their human captors. It had not been unknown in those ancient times for bands of Muskans to invade the settlements and engage the human colonists in fierce combat. Dead bodies would be found at dawn and swiftly disposed of. The fortress had offered some protection but was a cold and forbidding place and bred a surly type of keeper who grew to hate both Muskans and humans alike.

As the Paludis president neared Serpentine’s cell, the air grew damper and he instinctively wrapped his robe tighter around his ample body. It was definitely colder in this zone of the complex – the keepers had chosen well.

A green light shone through the gloom ahead, signalling an occupied cell. James approached the entrance and paused, alert for any kind of sound. The door was designed as an acoustic sink, such that any sound produced by the cell’s occupant would be immediately apparent to the keepers. All was quiet. James shivered and an icy drop of water landed on his neck. He glanced down to where an aluminium knuckle-duster with long vicious spikes adorned his right hand. Gritting his teeth, the president of Paludis opened the cell door.

Serpentine swung from the rope, twisting slightly as a zephyr ran in from the passage. The eyes of Shean James widened, and a strange cry sprang from his lips –for the seer was covered from head to toe in a cocoon of ice! Small flecks of light danced off the body as it caught the meagre output of the cell’s only globe. James suddenly felt faint and he grasped the door frame for support.

All the frustration of the recent days boiled to the surface as James strode forward. He raised his right hand and flailed madly at the ice that covered the seer’s inverted body. He felt his fingers grow numb as he rained blow after blow upon the frozen mass, sending shiny slivers falling to the floor. Strange sounds rang around the cell, as with every blow the president became more demented.

As he raised his arm for the thirteenth time, a savage pain struck him in the chest. His left hand leapt to his throat in an effort to release the clasp of his robe, and the pain grew heavier, sliding down his arm. He gasped for air and flung both arms around Serpentine’s body for support. The cane-grass beam, from which the seer was suspended, creaked and finally snapped like a twig, and both bodies fell heavily to the ground. Serpentine’s cocoon fractured like glass, and the naked body of the seer rolled onto the floor. Shean James lay still and unconscious. The eyes of the seer shot open.

* * *

Serpentine moved furtively through the fortress tunnels clad in the robe of the President of Paludis. Other than a dull ache in his bruised and battered ankle, now bound by strips of presidential cloth, he felt fine. Twice he took wrong turnings, but eventually found his way to a drier and lighter part of the complex. Thus far, he had not encountered any guards.

He found a lift and ascended to ground level. To his surprise, it opened onto an exposed, stone-flagged courtyard bathed by a crescent moon. A light shone through the port of a circular stone keep on the far side, illuminating several small bushes. He scrutinised the peripheral wall for an exit but found none. How long would it be before Shean James was found?

As a cloud drifted across Muskluna, Serpentine estimated the height of the wall at four metres. Too high to scale, even for someone of his height. He crossed the courtyard, cautiously approached the port and peered inside. A uniformed guard sat with his back to the window, and beyond him stood a bank of videoscreens set into the wall. The room was otherwise bare.

Serpentine’s brain worked feverishly. There had to be another way out of the courtyard. He sat down beneath the window and crossed his legs, holding both hands to the clasp of the robe. Closing his eyes, he quietly focused on the recent movements of Shean James, then let his mind guide him around the enclosure. At first he only saw the elevator. Then crude underground stone steps wavered before his eyes, as if he was seeing them through rippling water. Somewhere among the flagstones there was probably a trap door! Moonlight bathed the scene once more and, for a second only, Serpentine saw the footprints of the president crossing the flagstones. Just as swiftly they vanished. He walked to where the ghostly treads had originated, crouched low and surveyed the ground.

The flags all appeared the same, but as he ran his large, sensitive hands across the ground he felt that one slab, placed next to the wall, was unlike the others. It was undoubtedly artificial. His eyes searched for a trigger, thoughts returning to the president. Surely they had found the body by now. There could be no doubt his own life would be worthless if he were recaptured.

His attention turned to the wall. It was bathed by sullen moonlight, and he found the switch almost immediately – another false stone, well disguised among its neighbours. Standing away from the artificial slab he pushed the stone in the wall, and with the merest of sighs, the flagstone dropped and moved aside to reveal steep, craggy steps falling into darkness.

Serpentine descended carefully, not bothering to search for the closing switch.

He walked along a short passage that was illuminated by blue globes, and then found himself ascending to eventually face a normal-sized aluminium door. Despite his enforced stillness of mind, he could not help but recall the president’s ghastly blue face as he lay upon the floor of the cell. Somehow, he knew the discovery of the body was imminent.

The seer put his ear against the door and then palmed the switch. Nothing happened. It was obviously locked, probably by touch code. Again he pressed his ear to the door, then taking a step back summoned all his strength into his right leg and kicked the door savagely just above the switch pad. The resistance to his kick was surprisingly small, and the door swung open. Serpentine crouched and held his breath. There was no reaction from the other side.

Beyond the doorway lay a long, grey corridor with several other doors leading off it. As the seer warily but swiftly walked along, he saw that every door was numbered. Half way along, however, was an opening marked Elevator. Serpentine slipped through and palmed the control. The sound of the lift whirring into action rang along the passage. He looked anxiously around, then stepped inside. One of the switches said Vehicle Park and he hastily triggered it.

The few hovercars in the vehicle park were the sombre grey type used by the Paludis militia. Beyond them, through an opening, he could see stars twinkling in the night sky. He ran swiftly to the vehicle nearest the exit ramp, slid into the cockpit and feeling hopeful, palmed the starter. The engine remained dead. A siren began to wail. They had found the president! Just ahead of him an automatic door started to descend.

Serpentine leapt from the car and hurtled towards the exit, diving through the narrowing gap before the heavy doors slammed shut. As he did so, the roar of a heat gun pierced the night and shards of molten aluminium splattered onto his neck. Fighting pain from his many wounds, the seer ran into the darkness, ducking and weaving like a maddened animal escaping the tyrannous jaws of an ancient predator.

* * *

Shean James struggled to consciousness with a niggling pain beneath his ribs. The room was small, mostly green, but with the standard high ceiling of a hospital ward. As his head cleared, he noticed the electro-magnetic healing chamber that covered his chest. Sudden panic surged through his mind. That could mean only one thing. They’d given him a heart transplant – and without his permission!

His fingers pressed the summons pad and a small, pale-faced medic appeared to materialise by his bed. The man was completely bald and instantly reminded James of the dastardly seer.

“Mr President, sir,” the medic piped. “How are you feeling?”

“What the hell have you done to me?” James grated. “And where the hell am I?”

The medic took the question literally. “We had to give you a new heart, sir, and a few new prime arteries.” He put his head on one side and looked askance at his patient. “We took the opportunity, sir, to also remove some of your surplus body weight. You’ll feel much the better for it.”

Shean James groaned. “I was fine how I was.”

“You almost died, sir.” The medic perched on the edge of the bed. “In fact, you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Sure, lucky,” James replied. Images of Emminger, Vasquez and Serpentine drifted through his mind, adding torment to his hapless condition.

“Time to sleep, sir,” the medic said, and palmed a switch at the foot of the bed. The president returned to a state of complete and welcome oblivion.

It was two days before Shean James awoke again. This time he felt no pain and immediately summonsed Bourget to his bedside.

“What happened to the seer?” he asked.

The general cleared his throat, looking a little unsure of himself. “I’m afraid he escaped Kentucky. We’re fairly certain he stole a car.”

James turned his face to glare at Bourget and caught hold of the general’s jacket, despite the confines of the healing chamber. “I want him found and killed on the spot, Bourget. I want his head delivered to me on a plate. You understand?”

Bourget nodded. “Every available patrol car and copter is searching. We’re confident we’ll find him.” He glanced around the room nervously. He hated hospitals and the aura they emanated.

James dropped his arm but continued to stare at his military chief.

“On a plate, Bourget. Nice and neat.”

* * *

On Muskluna, the light was starting to fade. Stefan and Clare had left Pas-Elno with his father and were checking the airlock of one of the other domes. It seemed identical to the one they had already breached, no doubt voice-coded for access. A repetition of the previous forced entry was out of the question as their hovercar was a wreck, unless, of course, they could use the four wheeler in some similar manner. The risk, however, was enormous. Death seemed but a stone’s throw away as they stared in frustration at the gleaming metal door.

Then abruptly they were in a changing world: a world of swirling ruddy skies and distorted imagery. A dark red dust cloud cloaked them and the ground beneath their feet started to shake, as if trying to rid itself of their presence. Earthquake! Stefan immediately assumed. Clare sought the solidity of his arms and they stood clinging to each other, thoughts a cocktail of fear and despair.

As suddenly as it had begun the ground tremor ceased, and the foraging dust settled down. Stefan saw the shuttle for the first time.

“Look at that!” he yelled to Clare. “They’ve found us!”

They were still holding each other, and Clare offered a silent prayer of thanks as she made out the outline of a spacecraft berthed beyond the dome containing the two Muskans. Strong lights sprung from the vessel’s hull and it now dominated their view; a large cigar-shaped, insect-like monster about to devour the food scraps that were the domes. Dust settled further. Green Paludis was riding the sky.

Clare felt a sudden pain at her temples and cried out. But it was soon gone and she ignored Stefan’s anxious glance.

The shuttle sat there unmoving, as if weighing up the situation. Somewhere in its great belly a door must have opened, for two suited figures dropped to the moon’s surface. Stefan noticed, with alarm, that they were armed. The suits were not like his own.

The figures approached, weapons raised. A buzzing in Stefan’s ears signalled a frequency search. Then came a cold, hard voice: “Raise your hands. Step towards us.”

Stefan and Clare obeyed, and they were herded in the direction of the shuttle.

The agent took a swift glance towards Pas-Elno’s dome and saw the airlock remained shut, the Muskan youth having resealed it following their exit. Either Pas-Elno was oblivious to the intrusion or, more likely, judged it wiser to stay inside. Almost before they knew it, they were inside the spacecraft, the airlock droning shut beneath them.

“Remove your helmets.”

They did so, as did their captors. Both young, almost identical, radiating confidence. Only then did Stefan notice the Earth insignia on their suits. An Earth ship, not from Paludis! Fear began to gnaw his innards again. The two captors were looking at Clare strangely.

“This way.” One led off and the other gestured Clare and Stefan to follow, then brought up the rear, weapon at the ready.

They walked into the bowels of the insect.

* * *

Clare stared at the man across the table and frowned. She had been separated from Stefan, and now sat in a small chamber, which contained a bunk, two chairs and a semi-circular table set against a wall. The decor was a monotone grey, the man’s uniform light green, and his hair and eyes were the colour of the room.

“Do you regard yourself as lucky?” Emminger asked, raising one substantial eyebrow.

“You mean – am I indebted to you?”

Emminger smiled but did not reply.

Clare took a deep breath. “How did you find us?”

“We found you, that’s all that matters.” Emminger was aware of the ambiguity of the statement, but offered no further explanation.

Clare stared at the captain, contempt flowing from her eyes. “I presume you are responsible for what happened at Del-Shangi?”

Emminger visibly bristled. “We are not here to discuss Del-Shangi or,” he added pointedly, “the destruction on Earth.”

Clare paled. “What d’you mean?”

“Enough!” the captain barked. “You are to return with us to Paludis.”

“As a prisoner?”

“That rather depends on you.” He looked at her strangely, rather like the two guards had done earlier. “You were at Tanberg University, you were involved with the production of the sleeper, and you worked for us, did you not?”

“No, I bloody well didn’t!” Clare snorted. She started to yell. “How d’you know about me? What is this crap?” She stamped her foot hard under the table.

Emminger raised his palms in a gesture of appeasement. “Easy now.” Suddenly he leant towards her. “Believe me, you were working for us.” An ominous smile leapt to his face. “You are Martian born, Earth-bred, are you not?”

Clare felt tired, so very tired. “Where’s Stefan? What about our prisoners?”

“Prisoners!” Emminger laughed. “According to Stefan they were hardly under your control.”

“And Pas-Elno?”

“Everything is as you left it. Nothing has changed out there.”

“Except we appear to be prisoners,” Clare responded defiantly.

Emminger’s face grew stern. “You are our interest. At a time like this the others are not important.”

Suspicion suddenly flared. “What do you want from me?”

Emminger abruptly rose. “Let’s leave it till we get back to Paludis.” He left the chamber and the door clicked shut behind him.

Clare stood slowly and palmed the door switch. There was no response.

* * *

Stefan stared wide-eyed at Envoy Vasquez. “You’re telling me that Paludis has attacked Earth?”

Vasquez nodded. “The technical evidence is overwhelming.”

“But logically, how could they?”

The envoy shrugged. “Something, somewhere is illogical.”

Stefan shook his head. “I’m a police agent, used to dealing in logic. I can’t believe any of this.”

“Our ships were followed to Earth,” Vasquez said. “Certain events ensued.”

“But Paludis, for God’s sake! We’re probably the most backward planet in the universe.”

Vasquez held up his hand. “Except for the sleeper, of course.”

Stefan nodded. “Except for the sleeping capsule.” It was becoming a curse, a thing of evil.

Silence hung between them, and the agent could hear the hum of the shuttle’s power plant – idling, purring, like a beast about to spring. He looked at the envoy. “What about the people out there in the domes? They’re murderers, for whatever reason, and need to be brought to justice.”

“Of course,” Vasquez confirmed, “but there is no apparent haste. Did they partake of the sleeper?”

“We believe so,” Stefan said, “though we can’t be sure they all did. Pas-Elno is conscious, of course. He came with us. We should at least bring him in.”

“A strange tale,” Vasquez remarked. “Do you know why they are here?”

“No, I don’t. But I know people have been killed to get them here.”

“To sleep, perchance to dream,” the envoy intoned, his eyes momentarily losing their avid alertness. He had often thought about the sleeper and the uses to which it could be put: hibernation to await a brave new world, punishment for those who enjoyed this one.

“You had trouble opening the airlocks?” The alertness was back, dangerous.

Stefan nodded.

“I’m sure we have sonic feedback keys on board. Should be no problem.”

The agent looked relieved. “You’re very kind.” God forgive me, he thought as he said the words, these people probably bombed Del-Shangi.

A short time later, Stefan stood outside one of the locked domes. He was alone, and in one hand he held the sonic feedback key given to him by Envoy Vasquez. The agent had wondered if he should firstly return to Pas-Elno, but saw no reason to once more break the foam seal before confirming that the key worked. He pointed the device at the airlock and touched the trigger. A red line danced and waved on the small screen built into the key. The line changed to green and Stefan pressed the button to activate the airlock.

Before he could enter, all hell broke loose yet again. The ground shuddered and his vision of the dome was instantly obscured as the lights from the shuttle were extinguished. He pivoted swiftly, and even through the twisting turbulence of the dust storm he could make out the shuttle’s thrusters rising into the air. Christ! he thought. They can’t be going! “Bastards!” he yelled over the intercom. “You slimy Earth bastards.”

When the dust had settled, the shuttle was a mere pinprick in the heavens. Switching on his helmet light, Stefan glanced around, the thought that they may have also abandoned Clare running through his mind. It was not to be. They had taken her and left him!

He turned to the open airlock. Through that small portal lay his entire future. He took a step forward.

* * *

Serpentine closed his eyes and laid his head against the seat rest. In the seat next to him sat a young female, her hands around her knees. She stared morosely through the canopy; red-rimmed emerald eyes in a very pale face. She had extremely long black hair and her make-up was running wild over her cheeks. They were parked deep in a forest, six hundred kilometres north of Kentucky. The nearest road was two hours’ drive away.

The seer was deeply ashamed of what he had done, but there had been little choice. After fleeing the fortress, he had wended his way through the back streets of Kentucky using every bit of shelter he could find to give his racing heart some respite from the arduousness of his flight.

Copters had intermittently whirred overhead, spotlights piercing the darkness, resembling aggressive fireflies in some huge underground cavern. As Serpentine had gradually distanced himself from the fortress, the copters intruded less, and the seer turned his thoughts to a swifter means of escape.

He let his mind guide his feet, turned left, turned right when bidden to do so. He summoned shelter into his aura, sought guidance from the stars. He became a chameleon driven by latent Suffek-born power.

The girl had been leaving accommodation in the outskirts of town, perhaps departing a lover or leaving for an early shift at work. There had been nobody else around.

With the moon low over the rooftops, the sun yet to stir the horizon, the girl had approached the hovercar. As she had raised the canopy, Serpentine had bundled her inside, clamping a huge hand over her frail and startled face.

“No noise, please,” he had said quietly. “I have no intention of harming you.”

She’d turned huge, frightened green eyes upon him, which almost immediately had shed tears. He had almost stopped then, even before it had all started, but he knew the future and bade her move over to the passenger seat.

“Start the engine,” he’d said and, as she had nervously palmed the switch, the fear on her face had moved him to say, “Don’t worry. This is a just cause. But we must get out of here.”

They’d left the road as soon as possible, and, as dawn broke, sheltered in a disused bauxite quarry. Copters had swooped overhead, and once they’d heard another hovercar and voices close by, but they had remained undiscovered. Thereafter, they’d travelled at night – over fields and down valleys and very rarely using the car’s lights. At sunrise they’d hide among the trees or under cliffs, and stretch their legs with a wary eye upon each other, then sit and doze until darkness came. Occasionally the sound of a copter would return, and the girl’s eyes would shoot skywards, searching the gloom, as if expecting immediate release from her captivity.

They didn’t talk much. Serpentine recounted the truth as far as he understood it. He talked of the destruction of Del-Shangi by the Earth warship and his torture at the hands of Shean James. He also told the girl that the planet was undergoing changes and that she was playing a role in the metamorphosis. She didn’t look like she believed him.

On the third day, when they were a thousand kilometres from Kentucky, Serpentine caught a young burrow lizard and, inside a hillside cave, they ate ravenously over an open fire.

The girl’s name was Selma El Fadil; she was a nurse on the gynaecological ward at the Kentucky hospital. She had an interest in genetics and a passion for ancient literature. She had never been off-world, having lived all her life in Kentucky. An ordinary girl, Serpentine thought, caught up in extraordinary events.

After the meal she cleaned the seer’s ankle wound, now encrusted with a foul ring of scabs, and loosely bound it for protection. She had a tender touch and Serpentine found himself admiring her gentle, elfin features.

“After this is over,” the seer said, “you must return to your hospital.”

Selma laughed for the first time since her abduction. “I don’t really heal the wounded. I help make babies, remember.”

Serpentine looked at her with his huge brown eyes. “You must return to the hospital. You will see.” Selma looked at him strangely and then turned away.

At no time during their clandestine journey to the north did the seer give any indication of their route or direction. He did not know if she could read the stars and at no time did she enquire of their destination. The least she knew the better, for if she were to fall into the hands of the militia, she would undoubtedly be tortured in an attempt to learn his whereabouts.

As they rose at sunset on the fifth day of their flight, Serpentine looked northwards and discerned the distinctive peak of Trenkesh-Naisom dominating the skyline. He had long since decided to approach his lair from the east, which meant a steep and strenuous rocky climb by foot for two hours or more. He had also no doubt that there would be militia posted there awaiting his return. And what of Selma? What was he to do with her?

-17-

Bourget waited forty-eight hours following the president’s return to duty before informing him of the fracas on the peninsula. Shean James was now taking afternoon strolls, and certainly looked fitter than he had before his operation. Obviously his new heart had taken well, and with the accompanying weight loss, he looked years younger.

The eyes, however, are unchanged, mused the general. They could not change. They would always be the same and were, after all, the mirrors of the soul. At least this preoccupation with the accursed seer had taken the focus away from revenge on the Earth interstellar. Heaven knows where that would lead.

“There is something you need to know,” Bourget announced as they paused at the edge of the lawn and looked over a majestic valley filled with young cane-grass as far as the eyes could see.

Shean James took a deep breath, testing the skin weld within his chest. “As well as the cock-up with the seer,” he said glibly, not mincing his words.

“We’ll get the seer, sir, don’t you worry.” Bourget frowned and wished he was a thousand kilometres away. “This is concerning the search of the peninsula.”

“Oh,” James responded, “I thought we didn’t find anything.”

“No, we didn’t, nor did we expect to...” The general hesitated. “There was an incident; an unfortunate incident.”

“Unfortunate?”

“Near the holy temple of the Muskans.”

James sighed. “Oh, yes?”

“The natives were at prayer—”

James interrupted. “I thought they were posted around the shoreline.”

Bourget nodded. “Most young males were, yes. But there were many at the temple. A large multitude, in fact.”

“And?” The president looked quizzically at Bourget.

“The temple was jammed full – and there were thousands more on the ramp leading to the great entrance.” The general glared against the sun as two copters raced their way over the valley tree tops. “One of our squads approached the temple and its commander persuaded the natives to let him through to the top of the ramp.”

“Did he indeed?” James said.

“Once there, what with the noise and the heat – and possibly from fear, he passed out and lost radio contact with his squad.”

“What noise?”

“Praying. It’s very hard on human ears, even wearing a combat helmet.”

The president nodded. “Fascinating.”

“When the troopers lost contact they naturally thought the Muskans had harmed the commander.” He looked at James through narrow eyes. “The squad stormed the ramp.”

James swore, then asked, “What were they carrying?”

“Short range heat guns, for the most part. Deadly at close quarters. By the time the leading group reached the top of the ramp there were a lot of casualties.”

“God Almighty,” James groaned. “Have the news people got hold of it?”

“Of course. But it’s not got off-world yet, as far as we know – the Earth embargo ensured that.”

“Be thankful for small mercies,” James said, well aware of the irony of the situation. “If the Earth authorities hear of it, they’ll crucify us. You’ll be gone and so will I.”

Bourget nodded. “I know.”

They started to walk back to the buildings, feeling the breeze at their backs, watching dead leaves scuttle across the lawn.

“At least the incident appeased the rabble at the peninsula wall,” Bourget said. “For the time being.”

The president scowled. “How many fatalities?” he asked eventually.

“Thirty-four troopers, some from their own weapons, some from falling over the edge of the ramp.”

“Muskans?”

Bourget swallowed. “Two hundred and thirteen dead. More apparently severely injured. The grand elders were outraged.”

“You don’t say,” James responded. “And all for nothing.”

“All for nothing,” Bourget echoed.

“Earth bastards. It’s all their fault.”

“The irony is,” Bourget added, “the commander came through it all completely unscathed and explained everything later. It was all just an appalling mistake.”

“It was that, all right,” the president murmured. “Another bloody balls up.” He turned to the general. “No more press, Bourget. Not one word. It never gets off this ball of rock. Never. You understand. Never!”

Bourget paled and nodded.

* * *

They had left Selma’s car under the cover of bushes at the foot of the ranges. Serpentine had decided, at least for the time being, that Selma should remain with him. In fact, in his own strange way, he was growing quite fond of her, and as they perched amongst the severe and soulless rocks of Trenkesh-Naisom’s rocky screes, the seer thought of the future and what it could bring.

His days had been full of dreams, bizarre and apparently meaningless, but swamped by the overpowering imagery of Paludis and Muskans and crystalline green seas.

Sometime, somewhere on the journey northwards, he had sensed what he must do next. He did not know whether the dreams purported to show the past or the future. It may not have been important, but he must talk to the grand elders.

At night, as they had travelled, they had discussed Selma’s release, eventually agreeing that she could not return. Her identity would be known, her domicile watched. If she fell into their hands, anything could happen.

Serpentine knew, of course, that she did not necessarily believe him, but somehow, looking into those sad green eyes, he thought that she did. He realised Selma had been drawn into the fire that beset Paludis, and return to the cold, clinical hearth of everyday life was now impossible for her.

He felt she had shed her doubts on the final day of the journey.

“Why should I believe you?” Around the fifth time of asking.

“I have never told an untruth in all my life,” Serpentine had replied, gazing at her intensely with his large brown eyes.

“But you steal cars,” she’d said mischievously.

“Without you, without your car, I would now be dead. As dead as all those people at Del-Shangi.” He’d unashamedly used the connection, though it was tenuous in the extreme.

He’d made her feel ashamed.

“How can I go back,” she’d said, “if what you say is true? They would hound me all the hours of the day.”

“They would torture you,” Serpentine had said, “until you revealed where I was.”

She’d looked shyly at the seer, intrigued by the shape of his head, the intensity of his eyes, the power of his presence. “I don’t know where we are.”

“Perhaps I should tell you, in case you do fall into their hands.”

“No,” she’d said quickly. “Don’t. I don’t need to know – not yet.”

Serpentine had smiled and the eerie bond between them had grown.

“What about your family?” He’d known the answer though, before she’d replied.

“No family, well – just Kris, my brother. He’s on—”

“Mars,” Serpentine had finished for her. “You are both from Earth?”

Selma had nodded. “I came here for the work. Earth is so stagnant.” She’d shrugged and her long black hair had rippled like a waterfall. “So sluggish.”

“Your parents?”

“Earth ancient stock. Never been off the mother planet. Kris and I are the first.”

“Ah,” Serpentine had jested. “You’re a trailblazer.”

Selma had smiled. “They don’t believe in space travel – back through generations. Thought Earth was adequate for mankind – as it was for them.”

“Maybe they’re right.”

She’d shrugged again. Amazing. Her hair was amazing.

* * *

So now they were halfway up the slopes – and a team, as closely knit as the Suffek atmosphere. Nothing to go back to, she’d said. Babies were made automatically anyway; she was a mere nursemaid to a computer. Yet behind it all, Serpentine felt, behind all the bravado, something else lurked, sad and forlorn and dark. His mind switched tack and he thought about the task ahead:

Lying between the mountain ranges of Trenkesh-Naisom and the long-isolated sliver of the North-Eastern Peninsula was the vast marshland known as Lens-Farnetis. The approach road to the peninsula wall skirted the south-eastern edge of the marshes, clinging to the coastal rocks as if fearful of slipping forever into the dark and threatening mire. From the road, Lens-Farnetis spread north to the coastline, where the silent green morass of earth and water met the Northern Sea with a handshake of coastal sand dunes. The road was the umbilical cord that held the peninsula to continental West Paludis.

The nature of their destiny seemed gripped by his daydreams, and often, he admitted, the wakeful machinations of his tortured mind. He was full of strange thoughts, heavy and brutal, and not to be wrestled with for any length of time.

Serpentine lowered himself to the ground and sat quietly, head in hands, letting his mind grow still. To approach the barrier wall by car along the coastal road was out of the question, and to try to cross the marshes would be a folly of equal magnitude, for the vents in the car would clog and leave them stranded and sentenced to certain death. Steed was their only chance. He would trust the noble beast’s senses to take them across the treacherous slime. Only now did he realise why his dreams had called him to the slopes, to Trenkesh-Naisom, to his lair. Then let it be so. He breathed deeply and let his silent meanderings drift to the past:

Lens-Farnetis was written in the Cane Scrolls as the place of creation of the Muskan people. Here it was, among the water and the earth, that the first of the race had walked proudly upright; where Garn had given them the freedom to make of the planet what they willed, for their good or for their evil.

From Lens-Farnetis they had spread south, west and eventually east across the Amity Ocean in vessels sculptured from cane-grass stems and driven by sails hung from beautiful curved hulls.

Over time the two continents were lost to each other, for the ocean currents were unkind to those who attempted the return journey. After three hundred years, the great age of exploration was over, and Garn, or the Muskan collective conscious, or the grand elders, forbade the exploitation of the seas. And so it was for one thousand more years – until the age of the humans.

* * *

Selma and Serpentine sat perched on a rock overlooking his lair. It was dawn, and they were grateful for the growing warmth that permeated the morning air. They had taken a breakfast, as usual, of spring water and raw lizard eggs, relieved that the arduous climb was over.

Below, the seer could make out a copter nestled among the rocks near the entrance to his home. There was no sign of human life, no smoke, no movement. He assumed they were inside his cave and seethed with anger. Their very presence despoiled the crystal chamber!

Serpentine scanned the terrain for the noble shire and eventually he located the beast placidly feeding on a grassy knoll three hundred metres from the copter. As he drew his eyes away, the seer caught a flash of light as the rising sun reflected from a burnished surface near the horse.

“Stay here,” he said to Selma and instantly was gone, moving swiftly down the hillside he loved and knew so well.

He approached the horse with care, and even from some distance could sense the despondency in the animal’s stance. Another gleam of light shone from the ground. The seer stopped, uncertain whether to approach closer. Hexagrammic sensors! Had to be. He made out an array of six highly sensitive instruments surrounding Steed, which, if crossed from the outside, would send signals to the guards or set off some kind of protective munitions. Serpentine sat down and studied the cave entrance. There was still no sign of life. He turned his attention to Steed. If the system was two-way, the shire would also set off the alarm if he ventured beyond the pattern’s perimeter.

The seer stood again and searched for other sensors. He found four more, enough for him to form the complete pattern. He raised his triangular head to the sky and a single high-pitched whistle pierced the air. Steed heard it immediately and started to gambol towards Serpentine, but stopped almost at once, his huge forelegs pawing the ground in frustration. A clear whinny escaped his lips and his huge head tossed from side to side.

“Right, my friend,” Serpentine whispered, “I hear you.” He cast a glance towards his lair, but evidently the guards were heavy sleepers. He made his way back to Selma, noting the darkening clouds over Trenkesh-Naisom.

“We await the storm,” he said simply when he returned.

-18-

The storm broke mid-afternoon. Sheet lightning zipped across the sky before the rain came, and when the clouds were swollen, dark and angry like a gale-tossed sea, the water fell vertically, creating an infinite pattern of linking craters on the open ground.

Serpentine and Selma moved carefully down the hillside seeking scattered rocks for cover, their soaked garments offering little protection of their own. The rain formed a liquid curtain and they could not see the cave or the copter. The seer prayed that the guards were safely inside, intent on keeping dry.

Steed was standing forlorn and bedraggled in the incessant downpour. As they slowly approached, the shire raised his head and peered through the gloom.

“Stay here,” Serpentine directed, then walked up to the nearest sensor. Next to the sensor was a puddle. Selma watched in fascination as the seer stood in the puddle – it was like a ballet in slow motion performed on a watery stage.

The seer coaxed Steed nearer. The horse was obviously nervous and tossed his head continuously, pausing then taking another cautious step.

Serpentine held out a hand at arm’s length to where he judged the system field to be. Steed pressed forward slowly, head raised, his muzzle a metre away from his master’s fingertips. The fingers beckoned and the soft muzzle stretched closer: half a metre, ten centimetres and then three.

Man and horse were abruptly engulfed by a crackling blue light and Selma gasped with horror. The seer’s fingers grasped the mane of the beast and electricity flowed down his body and into the puddle, leaping to earth with a life of its own. Serpentine and Steed fell together, gaining ground outside the hexagrammic zone, and Selma, once frozen to the spot, ran forward with tears in her eyes. She felt responsible for this, for the obvious pain, the futility of it all.

Steed, to her relief, stood slowly and whinnied softly to himself. Serpentine was on his hands and knees, his triangular head held low, water running down his bare neck.

“Get me on the shire,” Serpentine gasped. “Quickly – or we are lost.”

Selma, adrenaline pumping, grasped his shoulders and helped him to his feet.

She guided him to the horse’s flank and somehow hoisted him on top. She just stood there – it was still a ballet: unreal, dreamlike, to the music of impacting raindrops.

“Move,” the seer rasped. “Get up here.”

The sound of an engine entered the score and Selma, finding strength from somewhere, leapt like a gazelle onto the shire’s broad back.

“Come on, Steed,” Serpentine whispered into the beast’s ear. “Let’s go.”

Hooves moved, picked up pace, scattered gravel. Up the scree, finding rhythm against the pull of gravity.

The drone of a copter and then a light, searching the hexagrammic zone, looking for footprints. Hopeless in the rain.

The seer knew the way and they found another cave, dry and safe as the copter whirred overhead. They remained on Steed’s back as the horse just stood there, relishing the comparative comfort. They didn’t move. Night came.

* * *

The second dome had contained no surprises. Richard Vidmar was inside, surrounded by various computer components and even a few antique paper books. Stefan had searched for sleepers, eventually locating a batch under the dean’s bunk. Several appeared to be missing, none for more than a duration of six weeks.

Stefan shivered, as if trying to rid himself of the harbinger of doom, which seemed to cling tenaciously to his shoulders. Standing outside again, he suddenly decided to contact Pas-Elno before entering the final dome, and switched on the suit intercom.

“Pas. Can you hear me? Put your helmet on.”

Initially there was no response then he heard the Muskan’s voice. “Where have you been? What’s happened?” Faint, like it was blowing in the wind.

A sigh of relief escaped the agent’s lips. “It’s fine.” He decided to tell an abbreviated version of the truth. “A shuttle landed. I’ve got a key for the domes.”

“Shuttle! Where from?” Then after a second: “I’m coming out.”

“No!” Stefan responded sharply. “Stay there. Don’t break the door seal again. It’s too dangerous, and it’s dark out here now.”

Stefan heard Pas-Elno curse under his breath. “Who’s with you, Stefan?”

The agent bit his lip. “Nobody, Pas. They took off again. They left us.”

“They what!” Pas-Elno screeched.

“Just hold on, Pas. Don’t take any pills. I’m entering the third dome. Give me five minutes.”

“Resnan humans,” the reply came back. “What are we into here?” Then after several seconds. “I’m not going anywhere. Be quick, Stefan.”

Carefully negotiating the airlock of the third dome, Stefan swiftly grasped his firearm and crouched in the open portal. Everything was in complete darkness. He ran his helmet light around the dome and then found the internal light switch. He saw the bunks immediately, located against the far wall, and walked over to where Michelle Sanson and Simon Sangster were sprawled incongruously together. Helpless. They look so helpless. He fingered the butt of his pistol. Perhaps he should blast them now, deliver his own instant justice. Turning away in disgust, he looked around the rest of the dome; a cabinet by the airlock, initially unseen, glinting strangely, alien and dissonant even here. Stefan approached slowly, peered closer, squinting. Jesus! What is this? He checked the dome’s air and removed his helmet.

He got as near as he could to the cabinet without losing focus, stared through a lucent blue screen into a small tank that held... what? A minute passed. An extraordinary sight – embryonic, not human, perhaps more Muskan. Definitely alive!

Stefan’s lips suddenly curled and he recoiled in horror. Impossible! Revolting!

He was looking at what looked like a hybrid human-Muskan foetus. Despite the bizarreness, he found himself drawn closer again.

The form was now discernible: human face with a high brow, Muskan nostrils and mouth, back tube, a strange pink-green luminescence to the skin. Strangely enough, not unattractive on closer inspection.

A sudden thought surged upwards from his gut. God! Tak-Elno was the only Muskan close to these people. Could this be his child? And the mother? He whirled round and knew he was staring at her. How could they possibly do this?

Momentarily, he had forgotten his own problems. How could this child survive? He laughed inexplicably, and the sound echoed uncannily around the dome, like a bird trying to escape, knowing it didn’t belong. Perhaps he really should blast them all, child included – for what future did any of them have?

Yet he now knew the future had irrecoverably changed. He called Pas-Elno, voice charged with emotion.

* * *

Stefan watched Pas-Elno’s reaction to the embryo with clouded interest. The youth frowned in the particularly expressive Muskan manner, furrowing his brow into a sea of folded flesh. Then to the agent’s surprise, a smile gradually stole over his face.

“Resnan humans,” Pas-Elno said. “Tem folinek ki-tel sazza dirtog jod.”

“And what does that mean?” Stefan asked.

Pas-Elno growled through his back tube. “It means nothing surprises me anymore.”

The Muskan studied the embryo further as it floated in its opaque green fluid, somehow pitiful, yet also frightening and alien. He could not help but feel for its loneliness.

“You realise that your father is probably its father,” Stefan said, realising how strange the words must sound to Pas-Elno.

Pas-Elno grunted and ran his hand over the tank’s transparent walls. “At Tanberg,” he said, “there was much talk of the way humans are produced outside the body. There was never full agreement on its merits. The male reproductive organ has long since become redundant in the creation of your species, it seems.”

Stefan grimaced. He was not an expert. “We use male tissue from the testes injected into an egg. There are genetic banks all over the universe.” He gestured at the tank. “This is something quite different though. How they managed to splice the genes...?” He looked at Pas-Elno. “You don’t seem all that surprised at what you see here.”

“You took our land, you took our language. Now perhaps you take away our birthrights.” The words were said quietly with no hint of anger.

The agent changed the subject. “We need to decide what to do; where to sleep.”

“I don’t like it in here,” Pas-Elno said. “I find it... disturbing.”

“Agreed,” Stefan said. “We’ll go back to Vidmar’s dome.”

“We must take my father there, also,” Pas-Elno insisted. “With the airlock seal as it is, I would be happier if he was with us.”

“Fine,” Stefan said. “We’ll put him in Vidmar’s suit and carry him across.” He looked at the Muskan. “We’ll get through this, you’ll see.”

Pas-Elno didn’t answer, but walked to the airlock, releasing the inner door. He would almost be happy, he thought, to drift into sleep.

Twenty minutes later they stood safely in Vidmar’s dome, having moved both Tak-Elno and his bed across to their new place of sleep. To Stefan, it increasingly resembled a morgue, a place of stillness and a place without soul.

The time was ripe for decisions and uncertainty hung in the air like thunderous rain clouds over a mountain, threatening, but unwilling to release their deluge of water.

Stefan looked at Vidmar and Tak-Elno, wondering if they dreamt, realising he had a certain dread of this enforced sleep. “So let’s decide how we do this,” he said to Pas-Elno.

“First,” the youth said, “let’s lock the outer door, so the other two can’t enter should they wake before us.” He walked across, momentarily disappearing behind the inner door, and Stefan heard the audio fuse being released.

Stefan pursed his lips. “They’ll know we’re here, of course,” he said as Pas-Elno returned. “Once they see our damaged vehicle.” He sat down heavily on the edge of Tak-Elno’s bed and shook his head slowly. “I’m really not sure how to go about this.”

“How long can humans go without food?” Pas-Elno asked.

Stefan looked up sharply. “Why do you ask?”

The Muskan nodded towards Vidmar. “We could tie him up – so when he awakes we’d be safe until we awoke.”

Despite their predicament Stefan broke into a grin, dispelling the melancholy that seemed to have permanently invaded his face. “You amaze me sometimes, you really do,” he said. He walked over and gazed down at Vidmar’s recumbent figure. “It might just work at that.”

Pas-Elno joined him. “Sezza! He’ll get quite a surprise.”

“A week,” Stefan said. “If we sleep in periods of a week.” He looked at Pas- Elno. “We must ensure there are no sleepers anywhere near him. We cannot have him taking another pill.” Smiling, he added, “You better unlock the door again. There’s some cable in the car we can use.”

* * *

Steed stood at the brow of a hill and Serpentine surveyed the marshes and plains below, endeavouring to make out the route they could take to the North-Eastern Peninsula. Selma sat behind, grimacing against the aches that racked her body.

The sky was clear, but haze hung over the horizon, threading the marshes of Lens-Farnetis with its vacuous fingers. Behind them lay tors of granite, high-altitude trees and a patchwork of lichen-covered ground. The altitude lent a chill to the air, and Steed whinnied impatiently, anxious to descend to the warmth of the plain.

Serpentine kicked his heels gently into the flanks of the huge shire. The horse took three paces forward and then unaccountably stopped. The beast’s ears sprang back and one of his immense forelegs started to paw the ground. Selma added her vocal encouragement as the seer kicked again. Steed stood his ground. Serpentine, knowing the horse always acted with good reason, scanned the immediate territory.

“Something out there, my friend?” he whispered gently.

The shire nodded vigorously, mane drifting in the noon breeze. They stood motionless for some seconds, the horse’s ears now searching like radar antennae.

Three green-brown shapes hurtled from the cover of the surrounding rocks and the seer yelled, “Move, Steed, move!” The shire bucked in fear and started down the slope. The shapes ran swiftly and clamped sharp teeth on the horse’s hind legs. Steed screamed, faltered and toppled over. Selma hit the ground hard.

Serpentine managed to land feet first and instinctively grabbed a rock. He didn’t throw it but held it hard in his grasp, like a hammer. A shape veered towards Selma’s prone body, fast and sleek, teeth bared. Another of the shapes left the shire’s leg and scurried round, looking for the shire’s throat.

Scavengers! The ferocious predators of the Paludis mountains. Dog-sized with long jaws equipped with deadly rows of teeth. They were reminiscent of ancient Earth dinosaur raptors and just as deadly.

The seer leapt and stabbed savagely at the head of the scavenger that was about to seize Selma in its jaws. He heard a satisfying “thunk” as the rock hit home. Then the other two lizard raptors were circling, rattling their throats, jaws dripping with Steed’s blood. The rock in the seer’s hand felt totally inadequate.

There came a rush of air and one of the scavengers staggered – an arrow through its heart. It collapsed and its companion barked strangely before another arrow took it through the neck. Serpentine froze, cold sweat on his brow, not knowing what to expect. The shire was still down and the seer eventually turned and knelt by the beast. The skin on both rear legs was badly torn, folded like cloth, bone beneath, blood oozing. Serpentine gently arranged the skin back into place and tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands.

“Let me do that. See to your companion.” The high-pitched voice came from behind, and Serpentine turned slowly.

A huge lizard stood some twenty metres away, tongue flicking lazily in and out. On its back, holding loose reins that ran through the reptile’s mouth, sat a youth carrying a crossbow. The lizard was a plain-dweller, gentle humps undulating along its back, tail sweeping in an arc as long as the body. Yellow eyes bore incessantly into Serpentine’s, wary yet confident. Its feet were enormous, half a metre long. The skin was predominantly grey-green with patches of brown around the eyes and the humps.

The youth issued a command and Serpentine was amazed as the lizard sank to the ground, allowing its rider to slide off. An unlikely pair of rescuers!

The seer went to kneel by Selma, testing her pulse and breathing.

“How is she?” Serpentine turned and saw the boy standing close. He was dressed in a grey tunic tied by a red sash around the waist, which identified him as a member of the Natural Order sect. Oh well, he could live with that.

“She’ll be fine,” Serpentine replied. “She missed most of the action.”

The youth walked over and looked down at Steed. The shire’s eyes rolled as he sought to view the newcomer.

“We need to stop the blood,” the boy said. “Wait a moment.” He ran to his mount and delved into a small saddle bag, withdrawing a transparent jar. The lizard raised his great head and hissed gently at him. Returning to Steed, the youth smoothed paste over the horse’s leg wounds.

“It’ll stem the flow – and keep the flies off,” he explained, looking sharply at Serpentine, blue eyes beneath almost white hair. He walked over. “My name is Joby.”

“Serpentine,” the seer responded, and they solemnly shook hands beneath the sun. Selma stirred, and the seer gently raised her head. “Don’t talk,” he said. “You’re a little concussed.”

Joby fetched water and Selma sipped tentatively, feeling as if every muscle in her body was on fire.

“The wounds need binding,” Joby said, glancing at the horse, “and he’ll need rest. You are welcome to return with me to my home. Give him five minutes then gently coax him to his feet.”

Serpentine smiled. “Fine,” he said, “and thank you for our rescue.”

Joby shrugged. “You’re very welcome. It was good to test my crossbow skills.” He retrieved the arrows from the scavenger corpses and then bent down, inspecting all three. Choosing what appeared to be the fattest he carried it by the tail to his mount and tied it to the saddle.

“Dinner,” he called over his shoulder, by way of explanation.

Joby led them southwest, a little way back up the mountainside. He sat with Selma on top of the rolling green back of his lizard mount, while Serpentine led Steed slowly in their wake.

“However did you train this beast?” the seer called out once, as they crested a small hill leading to a shallow valley below.

“Oh,” Joby replied, “I’ve had her from an egg.”

The seer shook his head and followed the massive tail down the hillside.

* * *

Joby lived with his mother in a mud brick home built against an embankment. Nearby, a sparkling stream, which ran enthusiastically through the shallow valley, fed the ears with pleasant tinkling, splashing sounds. Around the house a few Earth cattle, kangaroos and hens roamed freely, feeding off the luscious grass, no doubt descendants of the gene bank initially brought to Paludis. Further down the valley, small crop fields were ready for harvest.

As soon as they arrived Joby’s mother, Marta, put Selma to bed. Selma looked pale and something was obviously paining her. New clothes, including a Natural Order tunic and trousers not unlike his own, were thrust at the seer, and Serpentine was glad to be rid of his filthy presidential robe.

Marta was a short, stocky, talkative woman with a round, unlined face which, Serpentine suspected, belied her real age. Later, it was Marta who broke the news concerning Selma as they relaxed after the evening meal.

“She’s bleeding,” Marta said, fingers nervously toying with her red sash as she returned to the dining area.

Serpentine looked up sharply. “Bleeding! She’s wounded?”

Marta appeared a trifle embarrassed. “No. Not a wound.” She looked anxiously at Joby. “She’s had a heavy discharge – a miscarriage, I think.” She then cast a sympathetic glance at the seer. “I’m sorry.”

Serpentine blinked. “I knew there was something, something dark upon her mind.” He suddenly realised the implication of Marta’s look. “You misunderstand. The child would not have been mine. We have known each other but a few days.”

“Is the lass recovering?” Joby asked, showing the concern that should have come from Serpentine.

“She will do, in time,” Marta replied. “We’ll leave her now till morning.”

Serpentine’s thoughts churned. To have a child in such a way was becoming – uncommon – except, of course, for members of the Natural Order sect. The girl must have felt something of a reprobate in Kentucky, especially working where she did. Would she have become an outcast? Is that why she had stayed with him? A feeling of guilt suddenly swamped him. If he had not taken her, the miscarriage would not have occurred. He made his excuses and left the room.

Outside, the moon was climbing a blue-black sky and stars were multiplying even as he watched. A roo approached and observed him through liquid eyes. He noticed a scar on its tail, perhaps the result of a scavenger attack. Something had guided him to Selma on that dark Kentucky street. There had been a reason they had met. Tomorrow, Serpentine decided, he would treat Selma like an ancient queen.

Following breakfast the next day, Joby took Serpentine into the back room of the house and ceremoniously held aside a heavy wall hanging, one of Marta’s colourful creations, to reveal a circular hole in the wall. The opening led directly to a rocky tunnel. The youth went through with a torch and the seer followed, stooping to avoid contact with the pitted roof.

After a few minutes of measured progress, the tunnel opened out onto a large cave within which stood three pillars of the most beautiful crystal Serpentine had ever seen. Each minaret was positioned, it appeared, at the corner of an equilateral triangle and rose from the sandy floor like a miniature castle to almost touch the roof. In the centre of the resplendent crystals was a perfectly round, flat stone that reflected a black lustre under the light from Joby’s torch. Serpentine approached the nearest pillar in awe.

It was opaque and rose like a pyramid in steps from the floor, each tier fused with green capillaries, which transformed the reflected torch-light into innumerable miniature rainbows.

“Quite breathtaking,” the seer whispered. “Who put these structures here?”

“These tunnels were discovered by humans over three hundred years ago,” Joby responded. “They’re catalogued in the library archives at Tanberg and Kentucky. At the time – and for obvious reasons – they were classified as a Muskan religious site.”

“Which they are not,” Serpentine said. “They are too far away from the sea to be associated with Garn.” He ran his hand over the crystal, thrilling to its cool, smooth feel.

Joby smiled. “It’s been estimated this cave system is over two million years old, the crystals two thousand.”

“They were brought here, placed here.” Serpentine could feel the power of the crystals gradually etching into his mind. “They were used for...” He turned to Joby, raised his eyebrows, staring with his huge brown eyes, “… what?”

“Watch,” Joby said. He took the torch and placed it, beam shining upwards, at the centre of the round stone. He then stepped back and put his hand on the seer’s arm. “Watch,” he repeated, “but do not move.”

For some seconds nothing happened, but then Serpentine saw the light from the torch waver and extinguish, leaving them bathed in the meagre green light from the crystal pillars. To his utter amazement, the torch shimmered and disappeared. Momentarily, Serpentine felt the cave walls spin and ghostly images from his past appeared above the round stone: his mother’s waif-like form, sad and forlorn, his first school tutor entreating him to meditate upon his powers, a police agent he had helped to locate a missing child. He felt a pressure upon his arm, and the images were gone, swirling, diminishing to nothing.

“Are you all right?” Joby was asking.

The seer nodded. “What’s happening?” he enquired weakly, feeling as if he were drowning in a mire of impervious psychic vibrations.

“It’s fine,” Joby said. “Don’t worry. Perhaps I should have told you. Come with me.” He grasped the seer’s tunic and guided him around the crystal pillars to where another tunnel opened onto the cave. “Look, there is the light.”

They walked down the tunnel to where the torch stood on a round stone, identical to the original one in the cave, its luminescent beam stretching to the roof like a transparent yellow stalagmite. Serpentine was transfixed and, for some reason, felt a shiver of fear dance down his spine.

Joby stepped forward and took the torch from the stone, spraying its light back down the tunnel. “Let’s find some sunshine,” he said. “Too long in here makes me nervous.”

-19-

They made their way back through the cave and the house and sat together on a boulder overlooking the stream. The day was warming, the sun rising over the eastern end of the valley, and Serpentine turned his face to the sky, feeding off the radiant heat, stilling his mind.

“It’s a strange place,” Joby said for want of an explanation. “Wonderful, but strange.”

“Yes,” Serpentine responded, still haunted by events in the cave. He felt disembodied, light-headed, not, at that moment, a part of the valley at all. Something had grabbed hold of his consciousness and sent it up to the scudding clouds, floating among the countless incorporeal spirits of universal life. He turned his head to look at Joby. “What was its purpose, do you think?”

Joby shrugged. “Maybe for religion, like the archives say, or maybe it was some kind of experimental arrangement.” He looked uncomfortable, as if he was regretting showing the cave to his visitor. “My father was killed by scavengers two years ago. He believed the Muskans found the property of the crystal by pure chance.”

The seer nodded. “I’m sorry you lost your father. He was probably right. But to transport and array the pillars would take some intelligence, some inspired motivation, not to mention a measure of analytical capability.” Serpentine shrugged. “It is strange. The natives were classified as primitive, even at the time of the wars. As for two thousand years ago...” He took the torch from Joby and turned it in his hands, studying the surface as if expecting to discern some flaw. “Did you see anything else in there?”

“I saw the torch disappear, that’s all. Did you see more?”

Serpentine frowned, furrows climbing to his hairless scalp. “I’m not sure. I may have done.”

They sat in silence, relaxing, massaged by the sun’s rays, watching the animals graze.

“Are there more such caves?” Serpentine asked eventually. “Anything more in the archives to suggest such sites were widespread?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Joby replied. “Nothing on our records at least.”

“Was there no attempt to study the crystals?”

“Perhaps they tried to understand and failed,” Joby said. “Perhaps they decided to bury it all in the mystique of the Muskan religion. Much more convenient to do that than admit the Muskans were not quite as primitive as first thought. In any case, this site appears to be the only one and whatever was here has been long since forgotten by both the Muskan race and our race.” He sighed and gazed wistfully down the valley. “It was a long time ago.”

Serpentine nodded. “Hostilities were still rife three hundred years ago.” His mind was churning. How, he wondered, could such a discovery be hidden away in archives, trodden on by frightened officials? Then again, the climate of the times was unknown to him. No doubt, in times of war, they would have had their reasons. “And you,” he said to Joby. “How did your family locate the cave?”

“From my father’s studies at Tanberg – before he joined the Natural Order. He met my mother and used his knowledge of the archive material to explore and settle here. Both my parents had inquisitive minds in those days. My mother was born of the Natural Order, had been reared in their beliefs, and living here was easy for her.” Joby smiled. “Eventually, I was born and it was me who actually discovered the cave – looking for rock lizards, as small boys will do.” He looked steadily at the seer. “We have not disturbed the cave and we have not told anyone about its rediscovery – with the exception of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Serpentine said simply, “but why did you show me?”

“It’s been in our hearts to tell someone for many years,” Joby answered. “I – we – thought you were the right person.”

Serpentine closed his eyes and felt an intense warmth bathe his eyelids. “How many of you are there? Of the Natural Order, I mean.”

“On Paludis, a few thousand, mostly on this continent. Many more universally, of course.”

The seer breathed deeply. He felt some empathy with the Natural Order – he led a similar lifestyle himself – but their ideas on natural birth and the raising of animals horrified him. As far as he knew, his mother would have been one of the last humans outside the Order to give birth naturally, in appalling circumstances, and he had little sympathy for those who wished to continue the practice.

Many of the members of the Natural Order were descendants of ancient Earth farmers – humans who had raised crops and animals directly from the land. Eventually, with lifestyles made redundant on Earth by disease, sterile soil and technical advances, their ancestors had left the solar system and continued their traditions on new worlds. The vast majority of food was now grown artificially in controlled laboratory conditions away from the vagaries of planetary weather systems. The trend had ultimately spread to humans who, for the last thirty years, had been produced outside the womb. Serpentine simply could not understand the urge to opt for natural birth. Like most humans, he regarded it as inefficient and, no doubt, extremely painful. He was, however, fiercely proud of his mother. One of a dying breed, he thought cynically. She had been a maverick, an aimless and pointless rebel. But the members of the Order were different. When asked why they chose such a way of life they would shrug and say that it was natural.

The seer stretched his arms to the sky, finally banishing the aura of fear and darkness, ostracised by the heat of the sun and his own earthly thoughts.

“I must see Selma,” he said abruptly and left Joby with a swift turn of heel.

Joby watched him go. In a day or two he would be gone. And me, too, he thought. Maybe I will be gone, too. At least for a short while.

* * *

The seer sat on a small stool by Selma’s bed and studied the ripple of her hair as it ran in dark drifts across the pure white pillow. Her eyes were closed but he knew she was awake. The window blind was pulled half way down, leaving the room in a meagre light that emphasised the perfect bone structure of the girl’s face. She really was very beautiful. Despite everything, he smiled to himself. The spirit of his mother was alive and well!

He held a forefinger in the air and gradually lowered it to touch Selma’s brow. Her eyes remained shut but a faint muscular tremor around the corner of her mouth signalled that she knew he was there.

If the child had lived, Serpentine thought, would it have been born on a wild stormy night with lightning threshing the sky and thunder rolling like drum beats, or would there have been peace, save, of course, for the prattle of gossiping tongues.

For the first time since his mother’s death, he sensed he felt something for a woman. It wasn’t love, nor was it pure pity for this sprite of a girl, it was something in-between, indefinable and, for him, totally new.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered down to her, running his finger along her eyebrows.

She smiled up at him without opening her eyes. “Weak.” Her words were weak, too. “Empty inside.”

“You must rest,” the seer said, “until you are fully mended.”

Her eyes suddenly shot open and took him by surprise. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you.”

“No,” he said, “you had no reason or requirement. I took you prisoner, remember.”

“Ah,” Selma smiled faintly, “so you did now.”

A brief silence hung between them until Serpentine asked the question which he could not deny his curiosity.

“You have a husband or not?”

“Oh, no,” Selma responded quickly. “Neither in the flesh nor in the genetic bank.” She turned her head to look towards the window and Serpentine saw a tear well in the corner of her eye.

“A lover then,” he said wistfully, “and you reverted to the natural state.”

To his surprise she laughed. “A lover, oh yes, a lover.” More tears sprang to her cheeks and the seer saw the anguish in the gentle face.

“I’m so sorry,” Serpentine ventured. “I have no right to ask such questions.”

Selma drew her hand across her face. “It’s all right.” She looked at him, eyes tearful and red. “At least, perhaps, you care.”

Yes, the seer thought, I care. He grasped her hand, small and cold between his fingers. “No more questions, I promise.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be leaving,” she said and closed her eyes again, seemingly banishing the pain in her face.

He squeezed her hand. “Yes. Tomorrow I will be leaving.”

“Joby will go with you.”

Serpentine nodded. “Joby may go with me.” He glanced down at her. “And you will stay here with Marta and rest. I think you will enjoy that.”

Selma smiled. “I will. I will enjoy that.”

“Regain your peace of mind,” the seer said, “and I will return for you.” He talked to her continuously then for a full five minutes, before bending down to kiss her on the forehead. How strange: his prisoner, his comrade, his kindred spirit. He walked to the door, turned and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Brel-Elno sat cross-legged among the maize crop and thought, as always, of Pas and Tak. The sun was high in the sky and she held a woven umbrella above her head for protection. Her dress and sash were covered in dust and she was tired.

Since the incident at the temple, the mood of her people had darkened. It had been hundreds of years since the humans had taken Muskan lives and the taste of death was bitter in her mouth. At least the invader had been prevented from violating the temple. The grand elders were preaching that the massacre was a sign, a portent of the nearing times of change. She opened her back tube and took a deep breath, savouring the fresh peninsula air.

She didn’t know whether Pas and Tak were still alive and had implored the grand elders to contact the human leaders. They had met her anguished pleas with requests of their own – for patience. Only her fervent religious beliefs had prevented a complete loss of composure. At one time, in desperation, she had stood at the water’s edge and contemplated rounding the barrier and trying to contact the humans herself. But she could no more enter the water than fly to the moon. What had driven Tak to such an act?

So here she was, working hard, raising her daughter on her own, preached at by the grand elders, often ostracised by most of her own race, tired and – yes – lonely. She slammed the palm of her hand into the crumbling brown soil and gazed at the sky as if she hated its vast, bland brightness. She saw the human bridge, brighter than normal today, hovering high up like a nesvin-cra. Garn! How she hated it.

In the temple, the grand elders had told of the destruction of Del-Shangi, of the way the human invaders were being punished by their fathers for their sins.

She had seen the dead at the ramp, their gaping mouths and staring eyes, smelt the stench of burnt flesh. Even from within the temple the noise had been terrible. Thankfully, the human marauders had left the temple in peace, presumably having lost the heart to disturb the mass of worshippers, and no doubt alarmed by their own casualties. But Sezza O Sezza – if it had gone the other way – if they had invaded the holy precincts of Garn’s house! What evil would have been perpetrated?

The ring of Muskans around the peninsula’s coastline had been devised by the grand elders. Ostensibly an act of defiance, a living wall of incorruptible flesh, no matter the provocation. But provocation had not arisen and the tactic of the grand elders had kept the more aggressive young male Muskans from grouping and confronting the human troops. For the best, Brel-Elno thought. For the best.

She sighed: a low rumble in her back tube.

But since that day, after the invaders had departed, not finding what they sought, she’d seen the grand elders use the spilt blood and the deaths to their own advantage. They had spun words over the tragedy, colouring it, kneading it like dough, invoking the ancient prophecies. The incident at the ramp had been their Del-Shangi, their turning point. The one who was to come would come, and their lives would change forever.

A copter droned overhead and broke her thoughts. Oh Pas, oh Tak. Will I ever see you again?

* * *

Clare swam in a sea of green and white, the pain at the back of her neck excruciating, as if a white-hot needle was penetrating her brain stem.

She lay in a medchamber on the Huntsman. A console flickered in the corner of the room, its engine humming as they downloaded information from her period at Tanberg. Tears glinted in the corners of her eyes, not so much from the suffering, but from the feeling of betrayal that swamped her senses: her enforced betrayal of this beautiful planet and the betrayal of herself by the people who had sent her here. Even beneath the pain and mental anguish, a virulent anger stirred in Clare’s breast. How dare these people do this to her? How could they use her so?

The chamber was dimly lit and Clare was dressed in a white robe fastened at the waist by a green rope with golden tassels. Her head had been shaven to take the supplementary electrodes of the neural sensors, and it was supported on a brace which contained a short-wave connection to her implant. A drip-feed tube entered her left arm providing nutrition on this, her third day in the medchamber. She had not slept during this time and dark rings were spreading under her eyes. Her hands and bare feet were tethered to the bed.

As if on command the pain abruptly stopped and Clare felt strangely elated, her body apparently floating, free of its chains, above her berth. She saw herself fleetingly, a strange, unrecognisable creature, ethereal and helpless. Then all too soon the exhilaration ceased, and tears flowed as her shoulders shook with emotion.

“The girl weeps well,” Emminger said. He closed down the videoscreen and turned to Vasquez. “She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“When will we know we have the right information?” the envoy enquired.

“Soon,” Emminger replied. “Before nightfall, I think.”

“And the woman? What do we do with her?”

The captain laughed. “Take her back to the moon, maybe.”

“Does she know that we left her comrades there?” You did, Vasquez thought, not me.

“She doesn’t know,” Emminger said. “She may, however, suspect.”

“Strange, is it not,” Vasquez mused, “that Earth’s domination of the worlds may rely on that woman’s brief time at Tanberg and what she learnt there?”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” Emminger scoffed. “If I’d have had my way, I’d have nuked the whole damn planet, not just Del-Shangi.”

Oh, you would, too, the envoy thought, praying that whatever secrets Clare Cavanna stored in her mind had been successfully transferred to the console. Heaven help Paludis if they had not! He smiled at Emminger.

“But it’s a nice world, don’t you think?”

Emminger didn’t answer but strode from the room.

In the next chamber, Clare finally found sleep.

* * *

Shean James studied himself in the full length mirror and scowled. Whilst he had felt better and looked trimmer since the operation, there was still an air of melancholy assailing his thoughts which continuously threatened to destroy his well-being. In truth, the burden of his office was getting to him. He had anticipated a life of power and ease, women to choose at will and all the benefits normally associated with the life of a president of a planet that grew stronger by the day. Reality, however, was somewhat different. Earth had effectively declared war against Paludis and he could not do a damn thing about it. In fact, he was scared out of his mind!

And now there was another decision to make. Paludis could continue to dredge the kelp and produce the sleeper only to fill their own storehouses, or they could cease production entirely, throwing hundreds of thousands of people out of work. It was a presidential nightmare. He sighed into the mirror and studied his eyes, brighter than they used to be, but still tired.

He had already called the copters back, incompetent fools that they were; and the seer would have to wait for another day. The Huntsman had not been found but he felt within his bones that she was still lurking out there somewhere, ready to strike again should it be required.

Severe protestations concerning the destruction of Del-Shangi had winged their way to Earth but no acknowledgment had been received. So be it, he thought, as he rubbed his eyes fiercely in an effort to keep awake. He crossed to his favourite chair and slumped into it. God! His stomach was growing again, he was sure of it.

There was no point, he deduced eventually, in making pills to stock the storehouses of Paludis. It would have to stop. If this wretched business ever ended, it would not be wise to have a glut of the infernal things anyway. So what would the people do?

Almost before the question had completed one lap of his brain, he had the answer. By God! It was obvious. Earth was the aggressor, everybody knew that. This planet had a right to defend itself. They would save and scrape and work hard and preach and train and do whatever else it took – for the defence of Paludis. They would build a mighty force to repel the Earth criminals and the archives of Tanberg would be scanned for all manner of weaponry and armaments. The people would have a cause – a just one at that – and a good reason to work for little or no pay. It was not what he had dreamt of but one thing was for sure – it was the only way he was going to survive.

* * *

Morning mist hung over Lens-Farnetis in opaque drifts of scattered cloud as Serpentine stood and looked towards the barrier wall. Nearby, Joby, still astride his lizard mount, yawned and stretched his arms skyward. The lizard flicked her tongue in and out and scanned the terrain with huge yellow eyes, ever alert for the threat of scavengers.

It was eight days since they had left Joby’s home and during that time the seer had come to appreciate the huge reptile’s ability to find firm ground through the marshes. On occasion nesvin-cra had dropped from the air and clacked their huge beaks but they had never ventured dangerously close to the travellers. Nesvin-cra, which translated to fire-tongues on account of the acidic properties of their saliva, were similar to the Pteranodons of prehistoric Earth and frequented Lens-Farnetis in large numbers. The morning skies were rarely free from their raucous cries.

Serpentine and Joby were near the northern coastline, well away from the peninsula access road and about a kilometre from the wall.

“Leave your beast awhile and stretch your legs,” the seer called out, rubbing his hands together to ward off the dawn cold.

Joby slid down and squelched towards his companion. “This is the first time I have seen the barrier,” he said, staring into the rising sun. “It looks so – so alien, as if it does not belong.”

“It certainly does,” Serpentine said ruefully. “I have not seen it before, either, but have read much about it.”

Joby stared up at the seer. “How are you going to breach it?”

“I truthfully haven’t thought,” Serpentine responded. “And once breached, how to contact the grand elders? I can hardly approach the nearest Muskan and ask!”

“Sal can swim,” Joby said, referring to his lizard. “She could easily get us round. I’m sure only our feet would get wet.”

The seer looked sceptical. “Your lizard can swim?”

“Oh, yes,” Joby replied. “All high plain-dwellers can swim. Every year the northern rivers swell with the rain and the lizards have their annual wash.”

Serpentine chuckled. “Their annual wash?”

Joby nodded seriously. “It’s true. They migrate to the northern deltas, the deluge comes and they swim, in their thousands. My father first took me when I was six.” His eyes shone with youthful enthusiasm as he recalled the excitement of that initial encounter. “The noise was tremendous. My father told me it represents a ritual cleansing prior to the mating season. When they have swum, they make the trek back to the high plains. They must have been doing it for thousands of years.”

Serpentine could see it in his mind: muscular flesh trampling the earth, snorts and bellows and jostling, yellow eyes rotating skywards searching the clouds, nostrils flared testing the wind. God! How he loved the natural savagery of this world. Yet as he studied Joby’s face he wondered if it was all about to end – for the darkness that had surrounded the moon was now invading the Paludis skies.

“Swimming it is then, my friend,” the seer said, forcing a smile. “Around the northern end, I think. Let us hope for a calm sea and a moonless night.”

The urgency was upon him again, throbbing through his veins, cajoling his mind with its incessant needling. Later, he’d stand on the shore and pacify the waves.

-20-

Clare was not in pain but she recalled it easily enough: the time in the medchamber, the agony emanating from her cortex. She sat on the edge of the bunk and studied herself in the hand mirror so kindly provided by Captain Emminger. God, she looked terrible! There were shades of darkness under her eyes, her hair was mere stubble and her face was deathly white. At least she had stopped crying. That had been as hard to endure as the mind scan, for she must have wept continuously for half a day.

They had not told her where she was but she sensed she was under real, not artificial, gravity. As she could not recollect experiencing a bridge crossing she was probably on Paludis.

She was now dressed in a purple robe with a white waist sash, so the crew of the ship must have changed her clothes as she, most certainly, had not. She did not feel sexually molested but frankly, in her present state of mind, had no real way of knowing. Downloading did that to a person: disorientation, emotional distress, bodily malfunctions. They were all part of the after-effects.

Clare could barely remember Stefan and Pas-Elno, but they were there, floating around inside her head like ghosts from a long-distant past. They were elsewhere on the ship, she supposed, no doubt as bewildered as herself. She lay down on the bunk and closed her eyes, determining to ask about them as soon as possible.

There was a gasp of air from the door and the one they called Jorgensen stood there, his stocky frame silhouetted by the corridor light. In one hand he held a container.

“Something to drink,” he said, walking into the room. Clare sat up, swinging her legs onto the floor, eyeing him warily.

Jorgensen sat on one end of the bed and offered her the container. “I’m the one who saved you,” he said, smiling nervously. He had grey eyes, a faint trace of hair on his upper lip.

Clare stared at him, trying to stay alert. “Are you now,” she said.

“I picked up your signal from the moon – from your implant.”

“I’m so grateful,” Clare responded sarcastically.

“Pity about your hair,” Jorgensen said. “It was very beautiful.” He looked into her eyes. “So are you, still.”

Clare felt her hands begin to shake. “I think you had better go,” she said.

He reached out, touched her shoulder. “Very beautiful.” His hand slid down her arm, on to her hip and thigh, stroking through the cloth.

She tried to rise, but her legs were too weak. His hand ran between the folds of her robe onto her naked thighs, then slowly up her leg, gently caressing. Clare tried to scream but she hadn’t the strength. She grabbed his hand through the cloth, suddenly terrified at how weak she was. His fingers were fighting hers, probing, and she groaned as his lips sought her breasts through the robe.

Then he was gone, leaving her prone on the bunk, and Emminger stood there, his expression one of total fury. Jorgensen, red-faced, dashed for the door and vanished.

“Where’s Stefan?” Clare asked feebly.

* * *

Serpentine looked inland. The moon was still hidden among the clouds and there was no apparent way up from the beach. Nearby, the slow swishing of Sal’s tail in the sand was the only sound. Joby was on her back watching the seer’s every move. “I’ll stay with you if you wish,” the youth said. “Sal can find her own way back.”

“Thanks for the offer, Joby, but you should go home now. Take care of your mother; look after Selma for me.” Serpentine approached the beast and stared up at its rider. “I’m obliged to you for getting me here.”

They shook hands solemnly. Joby turned the huge lizard’s head towards the ocean and the seer watched them slip into the water. The boy did not look back as they faded out of sight.

Prior to leaving the edge of Lens-Farnetis, the seer had decided to seek the temple of the Muskans and had instructed Joby to guide Sal to the peninsular beach, which in his judgement lay closest to the native’s place of worship. From his recollection of the peninsular maps, the temple would be about three hours’ walk inland. Allowing for darkness, he should be there well before dawn. He turned and walked away from the murmuring waves and the clinging sand. A small lizard, disturbed by his sudden movement, scurried across the beach.

After an hour of steady walking, the moon came out to light his way and expose the gentle undulations of the peninsula’s landscape. He stopped, aware that he could also be revealed to any Muskan observer abroad that night for reasons of his own. To his left, three round hills were silhouetted against the night sky, the moon suspended over the centre one surrounded by a field of burgeoning stars. To his right, he distinguished a few lights dancing in the darkness, but whether natural or otherwise he could not tell. Ahead, cane-grass heads rattled in the slight breeze, heralding a rise in the terrain.

Serpentine stared at the stars, using them to gauge his bearings, and suddenly realised how foolhardy his mission really was. He must seek a path. At least a path would lead somewhere! Gaining the top of the rise he sat cross-legged and turned his face to the sky. The moon did not look different but it felt different, somehow dark and brooding, despite its brightness.

He concentrated on the temple, its massive ramp and tall alien structure, attempting to estimate its proximity. Initially, sat there in the numbing cold of the night, he felt nothing; everything was too alien, too remote. Gradually, however, he began to feel pain. It swept towards him across the darkened landscape in waves, as solid as those in a turbulent ocean. He even heard the cries of the Muskans as they... what? Screamed to Garn? The seer traced the source, reading the historic emanations like sound-waves, eyes screwed shut with the effort. He rose abruptly, starting to walk towards the hill where the moon hovered like a lantern in the dark sky.

Two hours later, as he neared the temple, the sensations of pain and anguish were so acute that he had to pause and mentally dissipate the signals. Serpentine shook his head vigorously and gazed up ahead. He could see the outline of the temple, stark against the backdrop of the moonlit heavens. Only on one occasion had he needed to skirt around a Muskan village, and not once had he encountered a Muskan. It seemed the aliens slept well.

He walked forward until he came to the base of the ramp. It stretched ahead like a pathway to the stars. He started to climb, accompanied by his faint moon shadow. On reaching the top, he sat down outside the huge cane-grass door and adopted his praying mantis position, embracing the peace and quiet of the encroaching dawn, shutting out the disturbing emanations of the ramp. His large eyes flickered from side to side. All was quiet; the Muskan world had slumbered through his private invasion.

The grand elders, he reasoned, would find him shortly and then...

The sphere, as bright as the moon, four metres in diameter, emerged from behind the temple and totally enclosed the seer. There was no time to utter a single word. His body seemed as one with the golden glow and seconds later, both sphere and seer vanished completely. From somewhere high on the temple roof a nesting nesvin-cra screeched a mild protest.

Serpentine felt no movement once the sphere enclosed him, but as its shimmering form eventually dissipated, he saw that he was in a totally different place. The temple and its ramp, the open heavens and shining stars, the feel of a breeze against his face – all had been replaced by the glimmer of crystalline walls, pendulous, shining stalactites, and the stagnant smell of dank air.

Once he had overcome the strangeness of losing his original surroundings, the seer was not overwhelmingly surprised to find himself elsewhere. He stood and surveyed his new location with interest, presuming whatever had brought him here would eventually show itself.

It was, however, a Muskan grand elder who disturbed his new-found solitude. The grand elder was surely the eldest of them all, for his craggy face bore the presence of a thousand lines and his eyes were the merest of bulbous slits. He wore a golden robe, which reflected a myriad of rainbows under the natural glow of the crystals. This was, Serpentine realised, the Great Elder, the supreme leader of the Muskans.

“Trespasser,” the Great Elder said, “you are lucky to be alive.” The words hissed around the cave like the sound of a nest of startled snakes.

Serpentine opened his eyes wide and surveyed the Muskan. “I am eternally grateful for your protection,” he said. “How did I get here?”

“If you had been seen outside,” the Great Elder continued his theme, “you could have been torn from limb to limb. My people are still nursing the deaths and the wounds from the violation of the temple.”

“I have no knowledge of that,” Serpentine replied, anxious to prove his innocence of whatever had transpired there, “but I feel it must be related to the destruction of Del-Shangi.”

“Ah,” the Great Elder breathed, “you feel, you feel.” He peered at Serpentine through bloated eyelids. “What are you doing here? Are you a spy?”

Serpentine shook his head. “I had to come.” He sank to his knees, toyed with the sand. “I don’t even know why. Something, someone made me.”

“Ah,” the Muskan said, “you feel again. Perhaps we should test your gift.”

“How did I get here?”

“We brought you here.”

“By the crystal force?”

The Great Elder looked askance at the seer. “What do you know of the crystal force?”

“I saw the cave in the valley near Trenkesh-Naisom,” Serpentine replied. “I saw its power of transportation.”

“Ah, you did indeed,” the old Muskan whispered. There was a hint of humour in his voice. “Somewhat archaic, though, do you not think?”

“It had been there for thousands of years,” Serpentine said. He rose from the floor and challenged the Great Elder. “Just what are we talking about here? Did you cause the attacks on Earth?”

The embedded crystals on the wall behind the Muskan glowed and shimmered and a balloon-shaped globule spurted forth, grew swiftly and eventually engulfed both Muskan and seer. Once again, Serpentine registered no movement, but when the Great Elder pressed a part of the sphere’s surface it became transparent and the seer found himself looking down at the surface of Paludis. He clearly saw the shadow of night, the light of day, the North-Eastern Peninsula, the Amity Ocean, the dim lights of Spaceport and Kentucky and Lakeside.

“My God!” the seer exclaimed. “What have you been doing for the last five hundred years?”

The Muskan touched the sphere once more and they pulled rapidly away from Paludis until they could see both planet and moon before them.

“‘Had we never seen the stars, and the sun, and the heavens, none of the words which we have spoken about the universe would ever have been uttered. But now the sight of day and night, and the months and the revolution of the years have given us a concept of time’,” the Great Elder quoted. He squinted at Serpentine and attempted a human smile. “Plato from your ancient times, I believe.”

Serpentine was dumbfounded. The Muskan was actually quoting ancient Earth. “I am impressed you study our history,” he said, feeling totally inadequate.

“All before you is ours by universal birthright,” the Great Elder said. “Not yours or your kind’s.”

Serpentine felt a chill seize his mind as he heard the words. He recalled a biblical story told to him as a child: Christ’s temptation by Satan: the offering of all before him.

“We are a primitive race,” the Muskan was saying. “We can go no further. We do not know the stars.”

“But you did get to Earth,” Serpentine breathed, shaking his head from side to side. “You must have done.” He felt as if he was in a bizarre dream, that someone would come along, prick the balloon and he would tumble in freefall to the surface below. He gazed wide-eyed at the Muskan. “You were indirectly responsible for the destruction of Del-Shangi.” Turning to look down on the planet, he could see the dark fringe that surrounded its atmosphere, like that he had seen on Muskluna: the shadow of encroaching evil.

The Great Elder was visibly annoyed by Serpentine’s accusation. His mouth curled as he spoke. “Del-Shangi was destroyed by humans. It is returned to how it was. It is fittingly so; the beginning of a new cycle.”

The seer looked down again. The dark aura seemed more pronounced, though it was probably only his imagination. A strange and frightening premonition swept through his mind. “Is it finished on Earth?” he asked.

The Muskan closed the window. “There will be no more sacrifices, no more journeys.”

The surface of the sphere disappeared and they were instantly back in the cave.

“Please follow,” the Great Elder said, and led the way through a small portal set among the glittering crystals of the cave’s wall.

The seer gasped as they entered a huge domed cavern where several pellucid pyramids, ten times as high as those in the river valley cave, soared to the rocky ceiling. Several Muskans, golden-robed and apparently as old as his companion, sauntered between the bases of the immense structures, touching and caressing as they passed, as if moulding the crystalline shapes with their own hands. High on top of two of the pyramids, large golden spheres hovered, pulsing with honeyed light, similar perhaps to those which had mysteriously and effortlessly already transported his body through rock and through vacuum.

Why were they showing him this? He felt a strange mixture of euphoria and melancholy envelop his soul. Undoubtedly, he was the first human to witness such sights – but would he be allowed to leave? The thought chilled him, despite the lights, the rainbow of colours, and the almost fairy-tale atmosphere of his surroundings. For the first time in his life he sensed the dark shadow of death heavy upon his shoulders, heavier – much heavier – than when he had been swinging from his feet in the dark and damp Kentucky fortress.

* * *

The room was decorated in belligerent colours, purple walls, mauve carpet and a red ceiling, all blending to create an atmosphere ideally suited to the discussions of the assembled group. Around a huge antique table sat Shean James, Jean-Claude Bourget and a tall, gaunt man with silver hair.

The president had set the scene – an Earth invasion of Paludis: a purpose to unite the people.

“Let us think it through,” Bourget said. “We would not hope to match Earth in space. They would be unlikely to bring sea vessels here; so we have an advantage there. But I feel the main assault, assuming they do not blast us to kingdom come, will be on land.”

James shook his head. “Surely not. What’s to prevent them just blasting us from orbit? They did it to Del-Shangi, why not our cities here on Paludis? Blast us first, then move in with as few troops as necessary.”

“I don’t think they would wish to perpetrate mass extinction, or vast destruction for that matter. They would not wish to inherit a broken world,” Bourget countered. “They could, of course, destroy one or two of our cities to break our spirit, so to speak. Then I believe they would landfall with militia – go for the jugular, that is,” he looked meaningfully at the president, “go for the government.”

“All right,” James said. “Two scenarios. First, they sit out and blast us from space. What do we do to prevent that?”

“Small orbital stations. Ion-seeking missiles. Nothing advanced about that.” The gaunt man spoke for the first time: Edwin Chandler, military scientist, earnest, eager and abrupt. He rubbed the bridge of his large nose as he spoke, looking at the table top, not at the other two men. “Over our major cities – a shield, you see.”

“Have we got them?” Shean James asked. “Can we make them?”

Chandler nodded. “We can make them. Tanberg’s full of hardware data. No problem at all.” He blinked nervously. “Getting them to orbit is easy, of course, unless they’re sighted and hit by Huntsman.”

James flinched at the name. “We have to do this ourselves,” he said. “We cannot go out and purchase this hardware – and nobody will risk bringing it to us.”

“Decoy,” Chandler said. “Let’s put up a decoy ship, something we can afford to lose. See if the Earth ship responds.”

James nodded. “Yes, I like that idea. If the Earth beast does respond, we’ll at least be able to trace her.”

The room went silent for a moment then James said, “Fine. Let’s agree we do that. Now, what about ground forces? How many would they send and how many could we muster? Decent militia, I mean, no old men or children.”

Bourget pursed his lips. “Earth would probably send twenty thousand, at the most thirty. We’ll always have numerical superiority. We could easily put three hundred thousand into the field, half a million at a stretch. Fire power is another matter altogether, however.”

The president stood and walked to stare at a hanging picture of a Paludis sunset that perfectly matched the room decor. He turned to face the other two, trying not to show the fatigue and fear he felt within. “Looks like we need orbitals, trained troops and armaments.” He counted them off on his fingers, one by one. “Gentlemen, it appears we have a new industry. Organise it, gentlemen. Organise the populace. Do it now. Do it yesterday. I want orbitals over Kentucky and Spaceport within weeks, not months. Concentrate on the west continent. And we keep looking for Huntsman. She’s around somewhere. I want digital spies everywhere.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll do the direct talking to the people.”

Shean James did the talking the next day. He sat at a huge table facing a camera that was clipped to the opposite wall. He was alone in the room. In the adjacent corridor a solitary technician viewed a screen and fiddled with the controls.

James stared grimly into the camera.

“People of Paludis. Friends. You will know of the terrible destruction of Del-Shangi and the virtual isolation of our planet. You will know of the false accusations levelled against us by the Earth authorities. You will also know that our own militia have searched this world for the alleged terrorists, either human or native, and you will know that, to date, the search has been fruitless.” James shifted position in his chair and leant closer to the camera.

“Some of you have vented your anger against the indigenous population of this planet; an antediluvian race who could not possibly be involved. Nothing was found on the peninsula, absolutely nothing.” He paused for effect then continued. “I now implore you to direct your energies towards the true culprits in these events – the Earth authorities and their evil vessel of destruction.”

A picture of an Earth interstellar ship flashed onto the screen in the corridor, followed by a video of a nuclear explosion.

“The atrocity perpetrated by the Huntsman may only be the beginning,” the president continued. “Whilst diplomatic overtures will, of course, be energetically pursued, we need to manoeuvre ourselves into a position of strength. To this end, I have instructed the Paludis military to urgently commence actions on three fronts: installation of orbital missiles above our major cities, the manufacture of field weapons, and the training of a ground militia elitist force.” James sighed and leant back in his chair. The camera automatically followed.

“These actions may be seen by some as extreme, but I believe they are essential if we are, once more, to be allowed to grow and prosper and trade freely in the universe. Earth has effectively curtailed our vibrant new industry and accused us of murders on their own soil. We must not stand idly by and accept this.

“Our requests to Earth for further talks have gone unheeded. We have been spurned and isolated from our brothers and sisters on other worlds. Never before has this planet been required to take up arms but I believe the time is ripe, the cause just. Our brethren in the universe will support us – for they need the magic of our sleeper to maintain contact with their own loved ones who have already pioneered well beyond the previous thresholds of the human domain.”

The president leant forward again, earnest, sincerity oozing from every pore. “Friends. I believe we will never have to take up arms in anger but we must be prepared. We must be in a position of strength. Strength will come from our unity, from our togetherness, from our ability to work hard, from our willingness to create a sense of purpose with few creature comforts.

“People of Paludis, we believe we must make this move in our economy. The actions of the aggressive Earth forces cannot go unheeded. We have little choice. Your local authorities will be recruiting soon. Consider the cause, join the cause, and work for the cause. Paludis will be the victor. Thank you for listening, and goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.”

Totally exhausted, Shean James slumped in his chair as Bourget entered the room. “How was it?” he asked.

“Fine, I think,” Bourget responded. “We’ll have another run in an hour if you like, then pick the best.”

“If we must,” James said. “How long to get the orbitals up?”

“Most of the hardware is there. Perhaps three months.”

“We could be dead in our beds by then. Make it three weeks, no, two weeks. Any sign of Huntsman?”

“Unfortunately not.”

James cursed and ran his hand over the polished table top. “Focus on one orbital,” he said. “Get it up over our heads. Do it in one week – and get that decoy ship up. Dig out that bastard Emminger.”

Bourget nodded. He had expected as much.

-21-

Serpentine was in a small cave with a mattress of hessian and leaves spread on the floor. There was also a mug of iced water and an inviting bowl of hot soup, which was swimming with numerous vegetables of different colours. The small door was constructed from cane-grass stems and, in the glow of several light globes, Serpentine could see it was designed to withstand the severest of assaults.

It looked as if he had exchanged one prison for another!

As he ate his meal, he pondered what he had learnt. It seemed obvious, despite giving the appearance of being a primitive race, that the Muskans, or at least a group of them, had developed some kind of powerful transport system, the workings of which he could not even begin to guess at.

It also seemed they had found a way to Earth and wreaked havoc there, if what Shean James had been told by the Earth envoy was to be believed.

Could it be true? Could the Muskan grand elders have worked for hundreds of years perfecting this technology whilst keeping their own people in ignorance and poverty? History told him it most certainly could. And he was the only human to know!

Obviously the Earth forces, having determined that the attacks emanated from Paludis, had assumed the human populace were the perpetrators. Shean James would be going mad with the frustration of not being able to understand. Serpentine felt no sympathy there though.

The only human to know! With a sinking heart, Serpentine realised he could never leave the peninsula. Yet something had lured him here; some force, some reason had made him come, like a bee to honey, like a scavenger to dead prey.

Something! What?

* * *

Despite the extraordinary recent events, Serpentine slept soundly. He awoke to the sight of an unknown grand elder and the sweet aroma of breakfast.

“You rested well?” the grand elder enquired. The figure was robed following the custom but seemed somehow unusual. Only when Serpentine rubbed the sleep from his eyes did he realise it was a female. The eyes and the lips were different and the voice less gruff, the body slighter.

The seer raised himself on one elbow. “I slept fine,” he said, looking at her with interest. “I never realised you had female grand elders.”

The wrinkled face broke into what Serpentine interpreted as a smile.

“Then you are pleasantly surprised, I hope.”

The seer nodded, starting his breakfast of hot, spicy cereal. As the grand elder turned to leave he asked, “Can I see your Great Elder?”

“You have already seen him.”

Serpentine paused his eating and put the bowl down. “So it was the Great Elder himself who took me aloft?” Surprise echoed in his voice.

She suddenly frowned, great wrinkles of skin furrowing her light green brow.

“You saw the darkness on our world?”

Serpentine was cautious in his response. “I believe I did.”

“Ah, you believe.”

Was she mocking him or testing him? He finished his breakfast but she didn’t move, staying in the doorway, watching. Then she nodded to herself. “Perhaps you are the one,” she said and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

At mid-morning, the Great Elder returned but did not speak. He stood as the female had done and perused Serpentine through his old, slitted eyes. The seer stared back and found himself unable to utter a word. He closed his eyes and tried to enter a light trance, only opening them when he heard the door shut against the wall. In the corner of the room was a carved Muskan cane-grass staff. Serpentine stood and held it in his hands.

* * *

For ten days, regularly fed by the grand elders, Serpentine searched the messages held within the staff; gradually training his mind to absorb the lattice of perpetual vibrations. Four centuries of Paludis history swept before him. He could see the Muskan villages, the tribal gatherings, the blood-spilling conflicts and the flight of tribes over the land as they attempted to flee the invader. Silver machines swooped from the sky and the Muskans were destroyed in their thousands; slaughtered to the brink of extinction. Yet their spirit lived on. Undaunted, they retreated north to Lens-Farnetis, the cradle of their birth, seeking solace among its tall reeds and watery expanse until, under air and land assault, they were driven onto the North-Eastern Peninsula.

Sad eyes watched the erection of the barrier wall, then turned inwards to survive. Years passed and the villages grew, did enough to endure but never prosper, for the human hand maintained its stranglehold.

Serpentine saw the building of the temple and the great ramp, fed from the catacombs within the earth. For four hard years the Muskans toiled, lifted the soil, reinforced the edges, and finally raised the temple itself. He saw the first congregation, joyful and resplendent in their ceremonial garb.

There was, in the touch of the staff carvings, a sense of renewed concourse between the Muskans and the humans, but there was never the feel of equality. There was always a sadness.

Years rolled on, fields were filled and crops produced. On the surface, nothing changed. The Muskans were biding time, treading the waters of progress.

And then, like a sudden explosion within the seer’s mind, came such a single strong sense of purpose that Serpentine could sense nothing else: the Striving, the Sacrifice, the Dedication. The seer interpreted it as best he could; the concentration on a single scientific goal over hundreds of years to the exclusion of all other technical advancements.

Three hundred years ago, before entering the water was forbidden by the grand elders, parties of Muskans had sallied forth beyond the barrier to secretly mine the crystal and bring it back to the peninsula. They worked at night, beyond the eyes of prying humans, and it seemed some had been discovered and there had been skirmishes and deaths, but the purpose had remained veiled. When crystals had been discovered on the peninsula itself, the sorties had ceased and the grand elders brought down the wrath of Garn upon those who entered the water.

The power of the crystal, its strange ability to somehow transfer solid matter, was known and accepted without question by the Muskans when they were free, but was studied and augmented over hundreds of years when they became captive. The purpose was simple: to transport Muskans to the home of the human aggressor, there to wreak the havoc of revenge.

The effort was long and arduous and there was no time to study the stars or even the material world around them. The Purpose dominated.

Towers of crystal were born, threaded with their own power, and connected to the mysteries of unseen dimensions. Strange spheres were built. Muskans could move to orbit, could perhaps catch the coat tails of the human ships.

Serpentine, frozen to these thoughts, felt everything go black. He grew cold and could not see. First a mist of grey and then total darkness. The blood in his veins hardly moved. He gasped, gagging at the throat, and his large eyes shot open in fear. They had to – or he would have died! Death! He felt it wrapping skeletal fingers around his neck. He flung the stem to the ground and lay down on the mattress.

He slept as if it was night.

* * *

She was near the end of the journey. Never in all her long life had she been so alone. All her companions had expired, one in the cruel dark cold of the cosmos and the others in fitting retribution for their own world’s denigration. Nothing would deter her now as the final glorious act of her life grew closer. Yet, ambrosial though it would be, the loneliness was crippling her soul. She was so far away from the beauty of Garn’s creation, so distant from the family that she had left so many, many years ago when she became a grand elder. She was one of the first female elders, a marvellous honour she had been told, a tremendous reward for a life devoted to the peninsular community. And the last eight years devoted to this quest! Living with the sphere, becoming part of it, joining with it, directing it, merging her invisible senses with those of the great unseen universe. And the energy! So immense, so frightening, mastered over the centuries. The all-powerful – the crystal force!

She had journeyed slowly through the ocean currents of this strange and awful planet, sensing the deaths of her comrades, the cries of the humans as they had died. She had felt the brute strength of the alien seas as she lingered just below the surface, never daring to break through for fear of detection by the barbarian human troopers. Yet, there had also been good times as sea creatures had frolicked around her sphere, some even approaching close enough to brush its surface, drawing back puzzled as they felt the electric tingle of its touch. There was some good life here, she deduced, but there was bad also; this place was home to the enslavers of her world.

Now she felt, in fact, as if her own natural death was approaching. There was no fear in her breast, she still wore her golden robe with pride. There was only a sense of purpose coloured by a hint of fatigue.

She checked her position again. It would soon be over. Her life. Everything that beheld the universe from her perspective. Her uniqueness. Over. Gone. So far from home, she offered a long prayer to Garn.

* * *

Stefan heard the muffled grunts on his third awakening. He took two deep breaths, stood shakily on his feet and found the light switch.

Vidmar was moving like an exhausted and trapped animal, struggling against the restraints which held him to the bed frame. The bed appeared to have moved at least a metre. Sweat covered his face and his depilated head shone dully in the meagre yellow glow of the dome’s globe. His breath came in short stabs.

The agent walked over, pistol at the ready, and gazed down. Shock and fear stared back at him. Vidmar was a beast, helpless, subject to the whims of the hunter. A gasp escaped the dean’s lips and he suddenly ceased to struggle. Close by, Stefan heard Pas-Elno stir as the sleeper released its grip on the alien’s mind.

“Richard Vidmar,” Stefan said, “I hereby place you under arrest for complicity to murder. You have the right to remain silent but all you do say will be recorded for universal judgement.” The words sounded strange in the vacuity of the dome, somehow empty of real meaning.

Vidmar stared up, wide-eyed, full of incredulity. “How did—?” He jerked as Pas-Elno rose to his feet beyond Stefan, then his head dropped back on the bed. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“Nemesis,” Pas-Elno said as he joined Stefan. “What have you done to my father, you murderous cretin?” Venom showed in the Muskan’s face and he gave Vidmar a hard blow to the ribs. “Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you.”

Vidmar screamed and jerked his legs in an attempt to form the embryonic position.

Stefan grabbed Pas-Elno’s arm. “No more of that!” he yelled, staring hard at the Muskan. “No more, d’you hear!”

Pas-Elno snorted, cast a contemptuous glance at the dean and then walked back to where his father lay.

“Water,” Vidmar groaned. “I need water.”

Stefan released all the bonds except for the one on his captive’s right leg and motioned him to sit up. Vidmar obeyed, complaining as stiff limbs shot spasms of pain through his body. Stefan handed him a water capsule and watched as he gulped the contents.

“Take it easy,” the agent said. “You have some questions to answer.”

Vidmar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed Stefan quizzically, seemingly gaining his composure. “What are you doing in my dome?”

Stefan smiled and shook his head in amazement. “Like I said, I’ll ask the questions – and you’ll answer them truthfully, or I may just let my colleague have his way with you.”

Vidmar frowned and rubbed his legs nervously.

“How long since you woke?” Stefan asked.

“Three days.” Vidmar looked accusingly at the investigator. “Three days – no food, no water.”

“Good thing, too,” Stefan responded, “or you’d smell a mite high.” He threw another question. “Your colleagues come over for you?”

“Colleagues?”

Stefan jabbed him with the pistol, just about where Pas-Elno had delivered the blow. Vidmar yelped and scowled. “They came,” he said, “but couldn’t get in.”

“Three days ago?”

“About.”

“Will they be asleep again?”

Vidmar shrugged. “Perhaps. Only if they think I am. Maybe not.”

So much for trust among thieves, Stefan mused. “Why are you here?” he asked.

Vidmar sighed. “For the future. To explore, to travel, to see what will be, to be there, to the ends of the universe, forever and ever, amen.”

Stefan was astounded. “You mean you’re here to sleep and forage the future.”

He shook his head slowly. “That’s it? That’s all?”

Despite his predicament, Vidmar’s eyes shone. “Think of it. A new future, at your beck and call. Everything new. New races, new worlds, new technologies, new religions.”

“New wars,” Stefan said sardonically, “new lies, new ways of dying.” He looked scathingly at his captive. “You’re just after power, a new way of getting your kicks.”

“The risk is ours,” Vidmar responded, “as is the gain of vision we will receive.”

“You have a cult mentality, you know that?”

“With Michelle as high priestess,” Vidmar smiled. “Why not? Yes indeed, why not?” He looked straight into Stefan’s eyes. “D’you know what it’s like to work in a world where your every creation is destroyed by bumbling politicians, where the efforts of a lifetime can be annihilated by the whim of a complete fool? The sleeper is ours, Tanberg’s alone. We invented it, and we should be the ones to benefit, not some smart-ass opportunist.” The frustration of years was reflected in his face as he added, “We have our future stored, and everything’s waiting for us: credit gaining interest for a hundred years, other assets doing the same. It’ll be the norm, don’t you see? To some extent it’s already happening with the pioneers. They enter space and pick up their bounty at the end of the ride – what they had, multiplied over. We were—”

“The pioneers don’t murder or hide away,” Stefan interrupted. He’d had enough of Vidmar’s self-seeking philosophies. “Come on. On your feet. Release yourself. I think we’ll pay your fellow futurists a visit.”

As soon as Stefan opened the outer airlock door, he sensed something was wrong. He stood with Vidmar and surveyed the immediate surroundings. The other vehicle was gone! In its place was a frenetic trail of Muskan dust, which vanished at a nearby outcrop of cretaceous rock. He cursed himself for not thinking it through earlier. Sanson and Sangster would have awoken around the same time as Vidmar. They would have seen the damaged hovercar, maybe even seen the marks left by the Earth shuttle and reasoned that the dean had company – if he was still there at all. Either way, they would have realised that their retreat had been discovered and opted for escape.

The agent smiled wryly. Del-Shangi was no more. Sanson and Sangster would no doubt return to their domes as the only safe haven on Muskluna. He then realised that they would probably drive almost into Del-Shangi and be smothered by high radiation before they even realised what had happened. Jesus! The poor bastards. Also, presuming they had awoken three or more days ago, they were likely to be on the way back; they could, in fact, be quite close.

He gestured Vidmar over to Sanson’s dome and used the sonic key on the outer door. It slid back without protest. As they went through the inner door, Stefan crouched, palmed the light, pistol ready, just in case one of them remained. The dome was empty, save for the harmless foetus floating in its nutrient, blissfully unaware of the danger it was in.

Stefan closed the inner door and indicated to Vidmar that he should sit on the bunk. He made the dean remove his helmet first, just in case the other two had tampered with the air. His captive’s face was pale as he realised the motive behind the request, but he didn’t collapse and eventually the agent removed his own helmet.

“They’re gone,” Vidmar blurted out. “Escaped to Del-Shangi. Left me here to rot.”

“Don’t worry,” Stefan responded. “They’ll be back.” He looked the dean straight between the eyes. “Del-Shangi’s destroyed. There’s nothing left. It’s all gone.”

Vidmar turned from pale to ashen. “That’s impossible.”

“Impossible or not, it’s gone.”

The dean’s body visibly wilted and his voice was a mere whisper. “Who destroyed it and why?”

“Not sure why,” Stefan said, casting a glance at the embryo, “but it appears the good old mother planet was involved, one way or another.”

Vidmar suddenly laughed, half crazy with fear. “So you’re marooned here, too.”

“Oh, yes, but at least I have the pistol.”

“And much good may it do you.” Vidmar laughed again. “Unless you’re a cannibal, of course.”

Stefan changed the subject, pointed the pistol at the tank.

“Tell me about this. What’s the intention?”

Vidmar shrugged. “It’s the ultimate in recombinant splicing – perfected at Tanberg, of course.” He wasn’t too scared for the sin of pride not to show through. “Genetic material from the father’s cells, isolation, shock to the mother’s egg and injection. Piece of cake for human reproduction, but we had to slow time for the cross-species link to work.” He was on a band wagon, rolling along in lecture mode.

“Slow time?” Stefan said, frowning. “How? What d’you mean?”

“Slow the metabolic rate of the parents prior to extraction of the necessary material. Enable the fusion to gather its tentacles, so to speak – slow down the chance of rejection. After the donors take the sleeper, the genes almost splice themselves.” Vidmar suddenly clapped his hands, grinning. “Then shock it hard to get things going.” He put his head on one side and looked at his captor. “Do you approve?”

Stefan ignored the question. “I presume Michelle Sanson is the mother and Tak-Elno the father?”

Vidmar chortled. “Pretty obvious, I’d say.”

Stefan scowled. “What’s the intention?” he asked again.

“Come on, lame brain, what do you think?”

Stefan found it hard not to slam the pistol butt into Vidmar’s fat face. “Just tell me,” he said.

“Jesus,” Vidmar taunted. “What do you think?”

Stefan pointed the pistol so its muzzle was just a hand’s width from Vidmar’s head. The dean’s jaw quivered, then the piercing scream of a siren suddenly bombarded their ears and lights flashed intensely from the roof.

* * *

They were back in Vidmar’s dome after hastily leaving the foetus to fend for itself when the air warning signal had sounded. Sanson and Sangster had obviously taken all their oxygen cells to Del-Shangi.

Stefan lay in his bunk, thinking, while the other two dozed. He had tried unsuccessfully to contact Sanson and Sangster. Either their vehicle didn’t carry radio or they were just not receiving. Probably the former, he mused, as any signal to or from their vehicle would have encouraged instant detection on their earlier forays. He would just have to await their inevitable return and try his suit intercom.

Vidmar’s explanation for the hybrid child had been pitiable. He had claimed it was Sanson’s idea; a genetic experiment that would bring humans and Muskans closer together, a technique that could possibly be used with other alien species – a doorway to the far-flung future. The investigator felt sick as he recalled the academic’s ravings. The hybrid’s twitching will to live, captive within its translucent tank, still plagued his mind. To bring forth a life for such a reason!

Maybe the dean with his academic blinkers had been fooled by such a story, but Stefan believed there was more to it. There just had to be a better reason.

He imagined himself as the child, pondering if he would be raised Muskan or human. The Muskans were such a proud race. It was not beyond the realms of imagination that a race war could erupt over the child’s custody, even the theft of Muskan genetic material. He was disturbed by the sheer arrogance of these people.

His thoughts turned to his own predicament – marooned with a foetus, an alien and a murderer and the probability that, before long, two highly radiated reprobates would burst on the scene. It was not a position to be envied.

Clare sprang to mind and he wondered where she was, what she was doing at that very moment, and hoped with all his heart that she was safe.

Soon they would have to decide what to do about sleeping. If they were to stand any chance of survival they would have to conserve air and use the sleeper. The safest thing to do, perhaps the only thing, would be to grant the three miscreants their wishes and put them under for a hundred years or more. He and Pas could then stagger their awakenings to check everything out and hope for eventual rescue. But first they had to capture Sanson and Sangster.

Their own hovercar beacon was still signalling; he’d checked that. Why didn’t somebody come? But he didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know the reason – the Earth ship. Somehow this part of the galaxy was under its control. Clare knew where they were. Please, Clare, don’t forget.

-22-

Her journey was over. She lay on the river bed with the great city to the west, commanding the entrance to the great heartland of what humans called central China. It had been night when she arrived and she had risked the only surfacing in the entire trip. The river was the Yangtze and the city called Shanghai and its lights had sparkled as far as she could see. Humans. Millions of them. After a while, she sank to the bottom again.

She had journeyed in some way from the East China Sea to the west of Woosung and now felt ready to perform the final act of her life.

The connection was made and the water roared and soared as the sphere’s molecules sought a different plane, eventually sending a massive wall of water towards Shanghai and surging down the Yangtze River. The wave that hit the city was fifty metres high as it first met the skyscrapers, and the buildings toppled like matchsticks. The millions of individual lights that had illuminated the city at night were extinguished one by one in a matter of minutes, and the air was filled with the bellowing of water and the toppling of stone. Offshore, the ocean groaned and seethed as a huge vacuum seemed to pull its contents shoreward. Nothing escaped the angry torment, from the human in the highest building to the cockroach in the cellars of the city.

One month after the flood, they would still be counting the immediate dead as the water slowly crept back to sea. The effect had been felt all the way to Nanking, and many offshore islands were swamped. Over four million people died on that one night, with three times that amount injured. The authorities considered themselves lucky it had not been more.

* * *

Stefan did not have all that long to worry about guarding against the return of Sanson and Sangster, or wasting precious oxygen on an external vigil.

Thump! Thump! Two large dents appeared in the ceiling of the dome. Stefan immediately yelled to Pas-Elno: “Suit! Suit! Get in your suit!”

Thump! Another dent. And this time a small breech and a hissing noise. Stefan clamped on his helmet and swiftly strode across to the Muskan youth to help him.

Thump! A bigger rent and Vidmar began to scream, struggling against the leg tie, which once more restrained him. Pas-Elno and Stefan hastily began to equip Tak-Elno with Vidmar’s suit, but it was too late. By the time they were frantically fumbling with his clamps, the unconscious Muskan appeared to exhale deeply, air swiftly leeching from his body. His face began to swell as his bodily moisture vaporised.

Pas-Elno screamed, still struggling with his father’s helmet.

Vidmar’s guttural cries for help were curtailed as his body failed. Bubbles were forming on his tongue. He collapsed onto the floor, clawing at his throat, but in thirty seconds, he was still.

“Tak’s gone!” Stefan yelled to Pas-Elno. “Leave him!”

Thump! Near the door this time. They were waiting for them to come out; waiting like predators at the bolting hole of a prey.

Stefan grasped his pistol and crawled towards the airlock. For the moment, there were no more projectiles. He waited a full three minutes, then released the inner door.

Pas-Elno gathered all the spare air cells he could find, clipped them to his belt, and then joined Stefan, crouching low on the floor, the rage and pain on his face terrible to see.

“They’ll pick us off,” the Muskan grated through tight lips, glaring desperately back to where his father lay.

“Stay away from the airlock,” Stefan replied. “I’m opening the outer hatch.” He released the bolt, used the sonic key, and the door slid open as he darted back behind the dome’s inner wall.

Something swift and invisible slammed into the floor a metre away, then ricocheted against the far wall of the dome. Stefan noted the trajectory.

“They’re directly in front of the airlock,” he said, risking a swift glance through to the ruddy surface of the moon. “Their vehicle is about fifty metres away. They’ll be skulking behind it.” He looked at Pas-Elno. “Are you all right?”

Pas-Elno nodded once behind his helmet.

“After the count of three,” Stefan said, “we go out, quick as we can.” He took another glance through the airlock. “Me first,” he added, waving the pistol. “We split sides. I go to the right. You go to the left. Double round behind the dome. Got it?”

“Got it,” Pas-Elno responded, trying to ignore the feeling of nausea that had suddenly swept over him.

“One, two.” Stefan licked his lips. “Three.”

He was gone, firing two quick shots at the nearby vehicle and peeling to the right. Pas-Elno hesitated for a split second then followed, circling back to the left. He felt a thud in his foot but it didn’t hinder his progress. They fell into each other’s arms at the back of the dome.

“Great,” Stefan whispered. “Well done.” He eyed the terrain, noticing that the dome that used to be Tak-Elno’s was also damaged. There was a small, spiky outcrop of rock ten metres away. Pas-Elno eyed his boot then put it to ground, satisfied there was no severe damage. He handed half the gathered air cells to his companion.

“Thanks,” Stefan said, grimacing. “You were a walking bomb if they hit them.” He grabbed Pas-Elno’s hand and stabbed the air with his other.

“Behind that rock – now.” The Muskan froze and Stefan pushed him. “Go! Now!” he yelled.

Pas-Elno scampered across the dusty terrain like a startled crab and disappeared. Stefan followed just as swiftly. They stood in the lee of the rock, breathing heavily in their suits.

“High ground,” Stefan gasped, twisting and turning his head.

“There,” Pas-Elno replied, waving to his left. Stefan nodded and they moved again, resembling bloated Siamese twins cavorting over a crumbled landscape.

They paused on top of a low ridge, overlooking the escarpment. Below them, the domes were cradled in Muskluna’s embrace.

“Perfect,” Stefan whispered. “Look. You can see the bastards.”

Sanson and Sangster hadn’t moved. They were almost certainly not trained for gun battles in rocky terrain.

Stefan used the respite to gather his thoughts. Sanson and Sangster had taken all their spare oxygen cells with them to Del-Shangi and, as he reasoned they didn’t need them all for the return journey, they could only have done so to prevent their theft or use by others. The cells, presumably, must now be aboard their four wheeler.

The agent put his suit intercom on frequency search and tried to contact the renegades. There was no response.

He stood up, waving his arms, pointed to his helmet, eyes alert for any hostile movement, and returned to the shelter of the rock once more. He tried a scan again. Nothing. They had obviously switched off.

Then a voice in his ear. “Who are you? What happened to Del-Shangi?” It was Michelle Sanson, fear turning her voice to a mere whisper.

“Throw your weapons in front of your vehicle,” Stefan demanded. “I know you have oxygen cells on board. If I hit them you’re gone.”

A click in his ear told him they had disconnected and he could see that they were now communicating with each other. Then they were staring around wildly. He cursed as they broke cover, heading for the nearest crags, and within seconds were lost from view.

“We have full quota spare cells on our suits,” Sanson’s voice came again. “We’ll outlast you.”

They might too, Stefan thought, despite our extra supply. He tried another approach. “You’re irradiated,” he called. “I can get you help.”

They both laughed, a strange sound echoing around his helmet.

“Help from who?” Sangster this time. “Better not get too close then.”

Stefan loosed a few shots in their direction and heard them both curse. Another click. They were gone.

“All right,” Stefan muttered under his breath, “if that’s how you want it.” They would have to take them by force. Somehow catch them off guard. He screwed up his eyes, examined the lay of the land, and then turned to Pas-Elno. The Muskan was nowhere to be seen!

* * *

Pas-Elno was walking across the ground between the ridge where Stefan crouched in hiding and what had once been Tak’s dome. From his new vantage point, the agent could see the Muskan was out of the line of sight of Sanson and Sangster. On the other hand, of course, he didn’t have a weapon. He cursed the Muskan’s foolhardiness.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stefan called over the intercom.

“I’m all right,” Pas-Elno responded. “The dome shelters me. I’ll try to get to their vehicle.”

Stefan raised his eyebrows, searching for a response. “Be careful,” he said limply as Pas-Elno reached the cover of Tak-Elno’s dome.

Stefan started to move to the left, back to their initial rock shelter and beyond, searching the high ground, but painfully aware that climbing gulped his air supply. He soon lost sight of both ally and enemy. After ten minutes, he was overlooking the dome that had housed his quarry. Nearby, to his left, were the crags where Sanson and Sangster had sought shelter. Their vehicle was close but there was no sign of movement.

“Stefan, are you there?” Pas-Elno, crisp and clear.

“Yes,” Stefan replied. “Where are you?”

“My father’s dome. Can you see them?”

The sun hung low and bright as Stefan scanned the orange terrain.

“No. Stay where you are. I’m moving in.”

“I’ll be safe here. They have to pass you to threaten me.”

“No more talk till I call you. Understand?”

“Right.”

Stefan pressed on, always trying to keep the domes in sight. His suit grew hot and sweat covered his brow. He checked his air cell. Two hours! Eight more cells on his belt.

He circled to where the enemy had been, looked down, and cursed. Nothing! They’d moved. Must have done.

A whine and a click in his ear: Sangster’s voice. “Hey, we’re over here!”

Stefan looked around and saw an arm waving above a ground-level rock further down the valley, about two hundred metres from the domes. If they kept moving and they had more air, following them would be suicidal.

“This is pointless...” Stefan began, and then saw Pas-Elno racing across the ground towards the four wheeler. He was covering the ground in huge strides and gained the inside of his target in a matter of seconds. The engine sprang to life, scattering dust, and the vehicle accelerated down the valley in a weaving motion, straight towards the rock that sheltered Sanson and Sangster.

Stefan watched in horror as Sangster levelled his assault rifle. With only a second to aim, the agent hurriedly loosed three bursts of fire in the academic’s direction. Stefan’s rounds hit the protective boulder, spraying slivers of rock. Sangster ducked as he fired, his slug hitting the ground to one side of the cavorting four wheeler. Pas-Elno was now only thirty metres away from the rock, still moving fast.

Sangster raised his sight again and Stefan, poised this time, loosed a round which slammed into his adversary’s shoulder.

A second later the four wheeler slammed to a halt, burying its nose into the rock. Pas-Elno leapt from his seat, racing away to find new cover.

A voice suddenly screamed through Stefan’s helmet. “Hit the cells! Hit the cells!”

Stefan levelled his weapon and waited until Pas-Elno was clear. There was no sign of movement from either Sanson or Sangster. They were still behind the rock, perhaps sealing Sangster’s suit.

“Sezza,” Pas-Elno screamed. “Shoot! Hit the cells! Why do you wait?” He was behind another rock now, fifty metres away.

Through his sights Stefan found the spare cells, clipped to the dash. He held his breath, levelled his weapon and touched the firing button.

* * *

Two reptilian faces stared down at Serpentine out of a strange green haze within which small stars sparkled like tinsel decorations. The seer groaned and tried to fight the feeling of doom that threatened to engulf his mind in a perpetuity of dark future memories.

“He is the one,” the Great Elder was saying.

“He saw the darkness around our world,” the female said.

“And the words of the carving. He understood those.”

“And...” The female hesitated, then added, “he is – different.”

“Oh, yes, he is different.”

The Great Elder touched Serpentine’s shoulder, as if trying to feed off some hidden energy that may have pulsed through the seer’s body. He closed his heavy eyelids and let his own memories flood the bodily cells of the human, rolling as spiritual waves through the interstitial voids of their molecularly bound flesh. The darkness he saw made him shudder.

“Yet he does not understand the Garnian dimensions,” the female elder was saying. “He does not understand them.”

“Nor will he ever, nor any of his race.” The Great Elder smiled. “For he hasn’t the years left to comprehend the Purpose.” He raised his wrinkled head and stared at his companion. “There is no need for him to understand.”

“No need.”

“We will give him a little longer and then must return the staff to him.” The Great Elder suddenly looked sad. “For it may become his, and the journey is, as yet, unknown.”

The female’s eyes sparkled, despite her age. “The journey will be – important.”

“Yes. Important.”

For an instant they looked at each other, understanding each other’s thoughts, and then left the room, leaving Serpentine to his shadowy dreamtime.

Outside, the female paused and put her hand on her companion’s arm.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, “perhaps Brel-Elno would be a good choice for confidante.”

“Ah, yes,” the Great Elder responded. “In the circumstances, who could be better?”

* * *

Three silver figures moved slowly over the red lunar surface, one leading, the other two following close behind. There was little purpose in their stride and they were surrounded by small scenes of devastation. In the valley where they walked, two vehicles lay damaged beyond use, and two of the three bleached domes, which also stood in that secluded place, were dented and scarred. The sun bore down upon them mercilessly, as if eager to terminate all remaining signs of life.

* * *

Pas-Elno had watched in disbelief as Stefan Lattanzis had carefully approached Sanson and Sangster, pistol levelled at the crashed vehicle. Why not fire? Why not blow them to the next world in a storm of swirling dust? Full of dismay, the Muskan had edged around and above the fugitives, seeking cover behind the crags and boulders.

* * *

As he had drawn level with the ruined vehicle, Stefan had seen Sangster lying on the ground with Michelle Sanson kneeling over him. Their weapon lay in the dust nearby. He had moved to where she could see him and she’d risen slowly to face his approach.

“He’s dead.” Her voice had been flat, emotionless.

Stefan had gestured her away from the prone body, then followed her out from among the rocks to stand in the red dust of the valley floor. The four wheeler lay near them, battered, like a dinosaur fallen from a cliff top.

She had moved her head slightly and the agent had spun round to see Sangster propped on a boulder, the barrel of the assault rifle aimed at his head, four metres away, no more.

Something had dropped from the sky, screeching in his headset, and Sangster was suddenly gone, buried beneath flailing arms and legs. He had raced forward to see Pas-Elno crush Sangster’s helmet with a rock, then raise it again and again, shiny, blood-covered. He had dragged him off, and the Muskan had wept inside his suit.

Stefan had examined Sangster’s suit. His slug had caught him in the shoulder, knocked him to earth. Dried blood lay around the hole, but beneath it the material had self-sealed. A bad wound but not fatal. Feeling almost sacrilegious, he had taken the spare air cells from the suit. Pas-Elno had taken those from the vehicle. They had also taken all Michelle Sanson’s spares except one.

Only then had the three of them walked back to the domes.

-23-

It took three weeks for Clare to recover from the downloading, and during that time she struggled to remember the information she had unwittingly given to the machine. She knew it was connected with her work at Tanberg and must, therefore, be related to the kelp and the sleeping pill. Beyond that, no matter how she tried, she could not recall.

Emminger gave her the freedom of the ship, with the exception of the control deck, and she took full advantage of this unexpected generosity to explore at will. Perhaps, she thought, it was some kind of recompense, to make up for the abhorrent behaviour of his crewman, Jorgensen.

Jorgensen avoided her and she him, until one day they met in the corridor near the shuttle bay. Clare froze and Jorgensen paused, then approached her slowly. He looked different to how she remembered him in the medchamber; younger, certainly more awkward.

“I want to apologise,” he said. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Clare snapped. “Didn’t mean to rape me?” She jabbed him in the chest, pleasantly surprised at her own audacity. “Do you know what downloading does to a person? Have you any idea at all?”

Jorgensen backed off, growing angry. “I’m sorry. I wanted to be...” He broke off, then added, “I felt sorry for you. I wanted to comfort you.” He stood there like a scolded child, flushed, unsure of himself.

“Not like that,” Clare said. “No way like that.” She looked at him sharply. “What was taken from me? Did they get everything?”

The crewman shrugged and backed off a step further. His fear of Emminger had taken over.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He spun on his heels and hastened down the corridor.

Clare leant on the wall and took several deep breaths. She then turned and entered the shuttle bay. God! If only she could pilot the damned thing. Not that it would help; the machine was released from the control deck. Standing there next to the vehicle she thought of Stefan and Pas, and tears sprang to her eyes. She crossed to the viewport and looked outside.

Two days ago, she had discovered they were among ice and snow, reasoning they were on one of Paludis’s polar continents. The gauge on the wall showed the external temperature at minus forty Celsius. There would be no survival for long at that temperature.

Like Stefan, apparently abandoned on the moon, she was a prisoner.

She left the port and studied the shuttle, then the suits carefully mounted on the wall. A germ of an idea sprang to mind but she shook her head slowly. No, it wouldn’t work, couldn’t work – she’d die before they found her.

But what would they do with her anyway? Assuming they had sucked the necessary information from her mind, she presumed she was now of no benefit to them. She caught a glimpse of herself in the shuttle’s solar vanes – better, definitely better. At least her hair was growing again.

Clare left the bay, made her way back to her room, locked the door behind her and collapsed on the bunk. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, attempting to mull over the possible options. None of them, she decided, were particularly attractive.

There was only one way to settle this. She leapt from the bed. She would see Emminger and challenge him directly.

To her surprise, Emminger agreed to see her. He gestured to a seat and raised his eyebrows.

Clare cleared her throat. “I need to know...” She tossed her head nervously. “I need to know what is going to happen – to me, I mean.” She blurted it out again. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Emminger shrugged. “That will probably depend on whether the data you gave to us leads to a successful mission.”

Clare’s hackles rose immediately. “I don’t recall giving you anything.”

“I told you before,” the captain said. “You were working for us on this planet. What you did recently just completed the job, that’s all.”

“You conditioned me to gather and relay information,” Clare snapped. “I don’t remember any of it.”

“Nevertheless...”

Tears invaded Clare’s eyes. She really must stop this weak show of emotion. She was still tired, uncertain, helpless, and confused.

“Is it finished?” she asked.

Emminger nodded. “We believe we have the necessary material. However, until we are sure, you will remain with us.”

“When will you be sure?”

“Theoretically, we are sure now.”

“I’m your prisoner,” Clare said, wringing her hands together. “You can tell me what you’re doing. I’ve nowhere to go.”

“But you have no need to know,” Emminger responded. “You are better off not knowing.”

Clare gave him a scathing look. “Are you going to launch more bombs?”

Emminger laughed. “We could but we won’t. We are trying a more subtle approach.”

“Something to do with the kelp.”

“That’s what you were studying at Tanberg.”

A moment’s silence passed between them.

“You’re frightened,” Clare said suddenly. “You’re afraid of something.”

Emminger rose, walked to the viewport, and looked out onto a field of ice and snow, white and unspoilt to the eye. Night was falling. He drew the blind and palmed the light switch.

“We’re all afraid of something, Miss Cavanna. Death, aliens, disease – sometimes power, sometimes...” He paused, turning to meet her eye, and said, “sometimes impotence.”

Clare stood, leant forward with both hands on the desk and whispered, “Let me go. I’m no danger to you.”

“You know who we are. You would tell them.” The captain smiled. “When it’s over, we’ll let you go.”

“Can you still control me?”

Emminger shook his head. “Downloading eradicated your keywords.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Be thankful of that.”

“You mean I reported to Earth after hearing keywords, code words.” She was incredulous. “As simple as that?”

“Hearing or seeing, recognising them somehow. The implant did the rest – it was much more than just a signal device.”

“Jesus!” Clare exclaimed. “And who gave me the keywords?”

“You did,” Emminger answered, shocking her further. “Or rather, your implant did; same time, every week, regular as clockwork.”

Weak at the knees, Clare sank back on her chair. “Biological keywords, electrical impulses.”

“Isn’t everything? Aren’t we all?”

“And PMC?”

The captain shot her a hard glance. “Oh, you know about that?”

“I dreamt about it.”

“I see.” Emminger laughed. “It’s short for Personality Malfunction Correction. They use it on criminals.”

“My God! The bastards! They made a spy out of me.” Clare felt the tears threaten, fought to hold them back.

“For the common good,” the captain said. “You did a good job.”

“Tell me what it was for,” Clare demanded. Then she screamed at him, striking her fist on the desk. “Tell me what it was for!”

Emminger didn’t even blink.

“We have to leave here soon,” he said quietly, “to perform our mission. You can, of course, stay if you wish.”

There was no disguising the menace and Clare slumped in her seat.

“Has our little talk helped?” Emminger continued. “It often helps to talk.”

Clare stood slowly. “I remember asking,” she said hoarsely, “what’s going to happen to me?”

The captain didn’t respond. She left the cabin quietly and walked back to her room in a daze. So they were leaving soon. Well, maybe she would stay. Maybe she’d show the egotistical bastard how much she hated being his plaything.

When Clare got back to her room she found Jorgensen waiting outside. She was really too tired to care.

“Remember,” he said as she approached, “you asked me what they took from you?”

She stopped, raising her eyebrows, still upset by Emminger’s indifference to her plight.

“So I recall.”

“I talked to Vasquez about it.”

“Vasquez, the envoy?”

“He’s no envoy. Not principally, at least.” Jorgensen took a step forward. “He’s a geneticist, specialising in ocean flora. He’s here to wipe out the kelp.”

Clare blinked, thought about inviting Jorgensen into her room, but held her ground.

“Why should I believe that?”

Jorgensen shrugged. “You don’t have to, but it makes sense, don’t you think? The information they took from you – it was the final link in the genetic make-up of the kelp, something you didn’t, or couldn’t, give them before. Maybe they ran out of time on Earth and decided to come here. They’ll use it to create an organism that will kill the kelp.”

Clare stared down the corridor, afraid of discovery.

“You better come in for a moment.”

They entered her room and she thought he was even more nervous than she was. She left the door open.

“So Vasquez told you they plan to wipe out the kelp.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “That would certainly halt the production of the sleeping pill.”

“No more long-term missions,” Jorgensen said. “No more deep space exploration. Hundreds of thousands of colonists on the fringes of the universe marooned forever.”

“No more reliance on Paludis,” Clare breathed. “I think I see. It’s about power: Earth losing control, Paludis being the sole source of the pill, the sole source of exploratory capability to the far reaches of space.” She looked at the young crewman sharply. “What if it’s a lie?”

“Why should it be?” Jorgensen replied.

“I don’t know. I don’t know the truth anymore.” She paused then added, “Did the attacks really occur on Earth?”

“Oh, yes,” Jorgensen responded. “They well and truly occurred. Nobody could fake those videos, the deaths, thousands of mourning people.”

Emminger suddenly appeared in the doorway and Clare felt as if she was drifting back in time to the previous occasion. “Is this man troubling you?” His voice was so cold, like ice, taking an eternity to cross the room.

“No, not in the least,” she said hastily, gesturing towards the crewman. “He was just apologising, that’s all.”

After they’d gone, Clare locked the door and sat on the edge of the bunk. If it was all true, then she’d helped to destroy a planet. Paludis would crumble without the sleeping pill. Heaven help her! She had come here to use and nurture the kelp, not to obliterate it. Knowing didn’t help, she realised. Not really. None of it changed her position. She was still chained to the Huntsman; Emminger still controlled her.

* * *

Emminger was not pleased. He paced away from Vasquez and stopped with his back to him. “I was hoping to get on with the job, especially now we have Cavanna’s input secure. I didn’t expect this lack of confidence.”

Vasquez snorted. “It’s not that. We have to be sure the molecular build is correct. Cavanna could have released a heap of nonsense. A small trial is quite normal in such circumstances, even without the uncertainty of the girl’s information.”

“All the same, I wasn’t expecting it.” The captain turned, impatience etched into his face. “Where will the trial be?”

“There’s an island two thousand kilometres south of here,” Vasquez replied. Noting Emminger’s obvious concern he added, “We cannot afford to deposit the genetic stock unless we are sure it is going to work. Two days will tell us.”

“I’m more worried about the chance of detection,” Emminger responded. “Show me on the map.”

Vasquez palmed the table and highlighted a small island to the south, lying half way between East and West Paludis. “It’s ideal,” he said. “Isolated, uninhabited.”

“Still dangerous.”

“The shuttle at night across the water? Impossible to detect, surely.”

“Unless someone’s in the way.”

“We’ll keep alert. A three-hour trip at the most.”

“I assume you’ll be taking the girl.”

Vasquez looked hesitant. “I wasn’t going to. She’ll be of little use. All our apparatus is here.”

Emminger shook his head. “No. Take everything you need. Load up the shuttle’s computers. Take the downloading equipment. If you aren’t successful at first, give Cavanna a dose of sojourner and download her again. I don’t want to see you back at the Huntsman until you’ve made it work.”

Vasquez bit his lip. Sojourner was a powerful truth drug named after an ancient Earth preacher who called herself Sojourner Truth. Used with downloading, it could be fatal. He said as much.

“Sojourner and downloading will turn her into a simpering idiot. If she’s lucky it’ll kill her.”

Emminger’s face darkened and he spoke very deliberately. “Take her with you. Do what you have to do. Come back only when you have done it.” Sympathy for Cavanna was misplaced. The mission came first. The kelp must be destroyed.

* * *

Serpentine sat on the headland and peered eastward towards mist-shrouded islands, which rose in the morning light like huge human fingers from the depths of the sea. Brel-Elno knelt next to him. She wore the Muskan traditional dress with orange sash. Her face carried a haunted look that reminded him of the look his mother wore during the latter years of her life.

The seer glanced at her, cleared his throat and said, “I really do hope I am wrong about Tak-Elno.”

Brel-Elno offered the faintest of smiles. “The grand elders do not think you are wrong.” She turned her face to him, pale green with full lips. “I do not think you are wrong either. Garn long ago decided that Tak and I would never meet again. When he entered the water, he swam out of my life, you see.” She gestured to the cane-grass staff that lay at Serpentine’s feet. “The carvings told you more than you could read, did they not?”

The seer smiled. “That would not be hard for I cannot understand your language or symbols at all.” He breathed deep and closed his eyes. “But, yes, many things were revealed, many things – and, at the end, I can tell you he did not suffer. There was no pain.”

Brel-Elno pursed her lips and sighed deeply through her back tube. “And you will be able to find him, will you not, for it is written so in our chronicles?”

A frown corrugated Serpentine’s brow. This was the second time he had heard the Muskan chronicles mentioned. “Tell me,” he asked, “are the chronicles real? Have you seen them?”

She appeared shocked at such a suggestion. “Only the grand elders closest to Garn can see the chronicles. It is their duty to guard them.”

Serpentine nodded. “I understand. It was the Great Elder who told me about them at daybreak. He said they prophesied, near the time of change, that a stranger would come among you who would see the way to a new future by the simple deed of helping a woman find her husband.”

“That is the truth. It will be so.”

“But it may not be me.” Serpentine’s protest was only mild for he could, even now, recall the inexplicable force that had bidden him venture to the peninsula.

They lapsed into silence, watching the sun rise over the ocean and fill the dark silhouetted islands with colour. Invisible sea birds, patrolling the cliffs below, mewled to the morning air as if mourning the departure of Tak-Elno’s soul.

“You must have loved him very much,” Serpentine ventured at last.

“Ah, yes,” Brel-Elno replied. “Very much. He was his own person, but he was a good husband, a good father.” She gazed into the far distance. “He had a calling and he followed it and – it appears he became a martyr to it.”

“And your son?”

“Like father like son.” She turned to gaze into his eyes. “It is also a human saying, is it not?”

Serpentine nodded, disturbed by her stare.

She continued to look into his eyes. “Are you the one – the one in the chronicles?”

The seer breathed deeply and bit his lip. “I’m very much afraid I am,” he answered. “I am very much afraid.”

* * *

Serpentine, the Great Elder, and the female grand elder were in the chamber of crystals.

“Have you found the journey?” the female asked, regarding Serpentine with a look of concern, which lifted the corners of her lips into the shape of a slight smile.

The seer was still taking in his surroundings. A golden sphere was now resting at the base of one of the crystalline towers, surrounded by several Muskans who appeared to be laying their hands on its surface.

“I am not sure,” he answered truthfully.

Two hours ago, he had sat on the headland and watched the moon rise among silver clouds. In his hands he’d held Tak-Elno’s cane-grass stem, a soft humming had escaped his lips and a great commotion had surged through his mind. The moon had swollen to fill the sky and the place had been shown to him. The problem was – he had seen the place before. It was Stefan’s place, the place of the fugitives. And so it could have been a flashback, a replay of his previous perception.

“How can that be so?” the Great Elder asked. “How can you not be sure?”

Serpentine explained as best he could.

“This agent,” the female enquired at length, “is he working for the president?”

“He is working for the truth,” Serpentine responded. “For justice.”

“Ah,” the Great Elder sighed, “the justice of humans.”

“Universal justice,” said Serpentine. “The only justice.”

For a while they watched the Muskan workers who were still gathered around the sphere. They look like they are blessing it, the seer thought, like they are healing invisible wounds.

“So the journey must be to the moon,” the female grand elder said, breaking the silence.

Serpentine shook his head. “How can it be so? No ships fly anymore. Even if they did, I’d never get on one. James probably has my face screening at every transit station on Paludis.”

The Great Elder nodded imperceptibly. “Ah, it will be so.”

“Unless, of course,” Serpentine said, “we can take one of your spheres.”

The female gasped. “But they only go to orbit. To go beyond in solitary flight is not possible. ” She cast an anxious glance at the Great Elder. “That would be – truly audacious.”

The Great Elder silenced her by lifting his hand. “If the moon can be seen,” he said, “then it must be possible. We tied to the Earth ships in orbit in order to move across the stars, but if we can see the moon, then it can be reached, I am sure.”

“You have not done this?” Serpentine asked, immediately regretting the question.

A look of contempt stole across the Great Elder’s face. “Why should we have the need? It would not have helped the Purpose. Our moon is – was,” he corrected pointedly, “inhabited by humans.”

Serpentine nodded. “Of course.”

“You realise,” the female said, “you must make the journey on your own.”

Serpentine’s jaw dropped and a sudden and immense dread seized his heart like the grip of an ice-cold hand. He looked at the Great Elder in disbelief. “That is not possible,” he whispered.

“Ah,” said the Great Elder. “It is written in the chronicles and thus must be so and therefore must be possible.” He looked at Serpentine through his wizened, narrow eyes. “Tonight you will rest. Tomorrow you will learn the secrets of the spheres.”

-24-

“You must use your mind to control the sphere,” the female grand elder said. “You must picture your destination and you must transmit your thoughts to the structure of the sphere by placing both hands upon its inner surface. It will grasp your destination and place it within its walls.”

They were sitting on the temple ramp, watching several Muskans go about their morning duties. The day was cold with low, grey cloud cover. Serpentine looked at her intently, his eyes wide, his knees drawn up against his chin. They had given him a black robe while his trousers and tunic were cleansed of the soil and salt from his recent journey. He played nervously with the loose folds around his knees. He hadn’t slept well.

“Then you must enter the other side,” she continued. “This is done by placing a key-crystal into the wall of the sphere at a critical location.” She waved her hand in the air. “You need not know more, save that you may see ancestral spirits, but the journey is only seconds long, so it is of no matter.”

There were a score of questions on the seer’s lips but he refrained from interrupting.

“The sphere walls are made from the crystal, realigned and imprinted with cortical patterns from a group of our people. For your journey, you must first of all imprint on your chosen sphere.”

“How do you know it will work with humans?” Serpentine asked.

“Because the chronicles say you make the journey,” the Muskan replied. She offered him a strange, brief smile. “In any case your studies of our race show certain cortical similarities to humans.”

Serpentine pursed his lips. Already he felt as if he was at one with these people, but their strange words filled him with dread. How could he use the sphere? How could he enter what they termed “the other side”? He had always believed in some kind of afterlife. His gifts had given him that faith, but not to be invoked and used like some kind of great cosmic engine.

“It has been arranged that today you will enter a sphere,” the grand elder said. “Then later you will move it a short distance.”

Serpentine felt his heart rate quicken. These people placed so much trust in him, yet he still didn’t know the significance of this journey. Perhaps more, he thought, than just locating Tak-Elno.

“And tomorrow,” the grand elder continued, “you will make the journey as the chronicles predict.”

What would happen if he refused? Could he refuse? Did he even want to refuse? Serpentine closed his eyes and let the cold wind cool his mind. Tomorrow he would make the journey. Alone. To the moon.

* * *

Clare stood where the waves touched the shore, watching the distant sun break its way out of the ocean in a plethora of red and gold. The shuttle had touched down two hours ago, and now stood on a natural rock shelf at the top of the beach where the sand met the trees.

Vasquez had given her permission to leave the ship, reminding her that she had nowhere to go. The first thing she had done was remove her shoes to feel the damp, clinging sand beneath her feet.

The ocean looked invitingly clear and the air was already warm. Casting a furtive glance towards the shuttle, Clare let her robe drop and entered the water. She took a deep breath and sank beneath the waves.

The kelp was abundant, branches gently undulating in the early morning current. Clare swam between the giant plants, thrilling at their soft, silky touch. Golden sunlight suddenly entered the underwater world, turning the scene into an alien wonderland of exquisite beauty, and it was with reluctance she rose to the surface, floating on her back, eyeing the morning sky.

She rolled over and swam to the shore, gathered the robe about her damp body, and walked leisurely along the water line until she came to a rocky outcrop that ran across the beach, almost reaching the sea. Staring back at the shuttle, she then turned her gaze upwards towards the dark silhouette of the island’s scabrous peak.

It would be so easy, she thought, to walk away from the ship, to climb through the trees and the shrubs to the dark shelter of the mountain. They would find her, of course, eventually, even if the implant was not transmitting any more. But the thought was appealing and she was sorely tempted.

Clare sighed, sat down, hands clasped around her knees, thinking of Stefan and Pas-Elno and wondering how they were. She looked towards the shuttle, rose, stretched, and started to retrace her footsteps.

* * *

Jorgensen couldn’t believe his eyes. They were actually putting up a ship! He silenced the beeping alarm and watched the Paludis vessel climb to orbit on his screen. Jesus! Hadn’t the fools had enough? He palmed through to Emminger, trying to maintain some semblance of calm in his voice.

“Upgoing vessel, sir. Reaching orbit in four minutes ten.”

Emminger had heard the signal and activated the screen of the control console. There it was, climbing to orbit from Spaceport. His mind raced. He only had a few minutes to make a decision. Any longer and the ship could be blasting out. If it was a genuine attempt to escape he had no choice but to knock it down. On the other hand, if it was a decoy...

He had no intention of revealing Huntsman’s position by launching.

There was only one way. He risked a swift, scrambled signal to the shuttle.

* * *

The whine of powerful engines broke the stillness of the morning, and Clare stared in disbelieve as the shuttle, hovering in a whirling storm of sand and debris, turned slowly and rose into the sky. Shielding her eyes against the dust and the glare, she followed the ship until it disappeared. Sand and leaves descended about her, followed by a silence that filled her with fear.

She stood isolated, frustrated, forgetting that just minutes ago she had been sorely tempted to flee the shuttle and its occupants. Now, the lap of waves upon the shore was the only sound. Clare was convinced she was going to die on the island, perhaps in a few days, perhaps weeks if she could plunder food and water from the small, fertile terrain.

Sitting cross-legged on the beach, she cast her mind back to her childhood in the deserts of Northern Australia. Red sand not white, a sea of wasteland not water, cloudless skies not cloud-filled skies, but the stillness was just the same, the loneliness of it all.

Solitude was a shroud that descended over her head and spread its probing fingers down through her body and into the soft sand. It joined her with the island, itself secluded in a sea of emptiness, and urged her to lie down, motionless, to offer herself in a simple ritual of sacrifice that could never be reversed.

Clare shook her head, stood and stretched, scanned the sky in a futile attempt to locate the shuttle, then turned and strolled slowly to the edge of the beach where she had been before. A small lizard darted into the undergrowth and she smiled at its timidity.

Looking upwards towards the island’s craggy peak, she started to climb, searching for natural breaks in the vegetation in order to make her way uphill. I’m the Queen of the Isle, she thought, as the beach and the sea continued to drop below, until she was surrounded by strange trees and bushes. There appeared to be little birdlife, but doubtless there would be many sea-birds on the steep cliffs of the island’s other shorelines.

She came across a tree with oval-shaped fruit, paused to detach a large sample from a lower branch and pressed a fingernail into its yellow flesh. A pleasant aroma assailed her nostrils and she broke the fruit open, letting the internal juices run over her palms. She tentatively ran her tongue over her hand. The taste was acidic like lemon, strange for a soft-fleshed fruit. Clare broke off a portion and placed it in her mouth, savouring then swallowing. That will do for now, she thought. She would let her digestive system test the small piece.

Clare continued to climb until the trees and bushes started to thin out, to be replaced by rocky outcrops and stringy thickets, which threw long, grasping tendrils over the boulders. Still she climbed, always searching for the upward route.

A sound came from behind and she froze in her tracks, aware that the island, like most of Paludis, could support reptilian scavengers. Hastily, she looked around, searching for a weapon that could offer some kind of defence. There was another sound, this time from in front, and she felt her heartbeat quicken with fear. Sweat sprang along her arms, along her brow, immediately evaporating in the waxing morning sun. A thick branch lay nearby and she strode forward to pick it up.

Three scavengers came out into the open, circling around Clare at equal distances from each other. She froze and felt her legs go weak at the knees, her hands grasping the branch for support.

Suddenly, amazingly, all three of the raptors sank to the ground and stared at her; cold, calm eyes boring through the oppressive air. She slowly knelt, trying to view all three animals simultaneously. They didn’t move, and neither did she. She was nailed to the spot, afraid of even a blink of the eye lest it should spark an attack. The raptors’ tails started to swish in unison along the ground, like the pendulums of ancient clocks – the only sound, the only motion.

Clare found her mind straying to the past. She was seven years old, out in the bush near the family homestead, early in the morning, the sun just up. The horizon stretched away forever in a kaleidoscope of reds, browns and yellows, hitting the clear blue sky with its harshness. And then three dogs appeared, dingoes, the wild predator of the Northern Australian desert. She could recall each face, each bright, inquisitive eye. One was an albino, as white as snow, slightly larger than its companions. They had stared at her, circled, sat around her, eventually chorused a yawn, and left as swiftly and silently as they had arrived.

At seven years old, she had felt no fear. That night she had told her father and he’d said she had been lucky, that God had kept her safe. But she wasn’t sure – the animals had spoken to her, albeit silently. They had showed, for a few seconds, a universal moment of solidarity, a complete oneness with existence – an understanding of their roles in life.

The scavengers weren’t dogs, but they sat there all the same, eyes staring, tails swishing, thinking, and knowing something that Clare could only have grasped if she had insight into another dimension. Sharing – sharing – knowing something together as a single creation; for the moment, three into one.

Clare tried to close her eyes but found she couldn’t, afraid she may miss a sudden movement.

And she was swimming through the kelp once more, savouring its feel, its pure, moving verdancy. She was embracing it in her arms. God! She was saving it from the genetic marauders unleashed by the Earth scientist Vasquez. If the kelp died, so did the planet, so did the scavengers, so did she. The changes would be irrevocable and Paludis would be gone, like Del-Shangi, forever.

She slowly held her hand to her forehead. Were these vicious reptilian predators telling her this? She turned her head, looking into their eyes, one by one. Staring, that’s all. Just staring. Clare wanted to scream. Oh, God! she thought. They know this planet is suffering, about to suffer. They want me to help. Not kill the kelp! The message is strong now. Do not kill the kelp!

And then they were gone, leaving her in peace. Peace! Could it be true? Could they have known? Why not? Ancient Earth was full of stories of animals sensing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions before they happened. There had to be another sense at play. Hadn’t there?

Clare rose and checked the bushes. Gone, definitely gone. If the shuttle returned how could she help them now? How could she possibly help transmit the virus that would destroy the entire kelp fields of the planet? She couldn’t. Never! Not ever! In desperation, she hoped it wouldn’t return.

* * *

A few white clouds rolled below them and dwindled. Ahead the sky was black, pin-pricked. On the pilot’s screen, the Paludis ship signalled its orbital presence, a bright circle on a dark green background.

The shuttle didn’t have the power of the Huntsman’s equipment but they could magnify the image readily enough. They saw an old, battered launcher, no signs of living quarters – unless they were hidden inside its bruised exterior.

“Jesus!” the pilot said as Vasquez looked over at the screen. “It’s a decoy – has to be.”

Vasquez bit his lip. “They’ll have tracked us?”

“Almost certainly,” the pilot responded.

“Do we hit the ship?”

“Why not?” the pilot replied and pressed the button to release one of the two small missiles the shuttle carried.

A siren sounded around the cockpit.

The other crew member, pale and thin, stoically announced, “Alien missiles incoming. Five minutes off.”

The decoy grew to a bright sun which then shrank in on itself.

“Seat in! Seat in!” the pilot yelled, turning the shuttle around, gunning the engines.

Vasquez cursed Emminger under his breath as he buckled into his seat. Damn him. He hated being used like this. It was the Huntsman they were really after. Bastard! Pressure built upon his back as the shuttle surged out of orbit, climbing towards the moon, an eternity away.

The Paludis missiles turned, still locked on, followed, and closed in.

The shuttle twisted, entering automatic avoidance manoeuvre and Vasquez felt vomit enter his mouth. Another twist and a shout from the pale crewman.

“They’re not lost! They’ve got us!”

The shuttle decelerated, engines swivelling, thrusting, screaming into empty space. The whole of the cockpit vibrated. The pilot’s screen blurred as he tried to discern the incoming missiles. He gave up, closed his eyes, and offered a quick frantic prayer.

The engines pivoted again. A missile flew past – three metres away, started to turn. The engines roared and Vasquez felt dampness invade his groin, and then it didn’t matter. The second missile hit home and the shuttle disintegrated.

* * *

Stefan and Pas-Elno stood near the airlock and regarded Michelle Sanson with veiled interest. Having replenished the surviving dome’s air, all three of them had removed their helmets, aware that sooner rather than later they would have to take the sleeper if they were going to have any chance of long-term survival.

Sanson sat on the bunk, raised her head and looked inquiringly at Stefan.

“What now?” There were no tears over Sangster, just an apparent acceptance of his death.

She’s still attractive, Stefan mused, but the strain of her recent ordeal had left its mark, despite the enforced rest induced by the pill. Her suit was covered in dust and her hair damp with sweat. The remnants of white lipstick and gold mascara clung to her face. She didn’t look much like an accomplice to murder.

“We sleep. We must conserve air,” Stefan replied.

“You get your wish,” Pas-Elno snarled at Sanson. “You can sleep for a thousand years. If you are irradiated you will rot as you sleep.” He still could not understand why Stefan had spared her life, especially after Tak-Elno’s death.

Michelle looked startled, then recovered her composure. “I’m sorry about Tak-Elno. I didn’t fire the shots.”

Pas-Elno snorted and turned away.

“And the students,” Stefan asked. “What about them?”

Michelle shook her head. “That was Vidmar. Nothing to do with me.”

Stefan found himself wanting to believe her. “He told you about it?”

“He told me he had ensured they wouldn’t talk. He wanted nobody to divulge our whereabouts.”

Pas-Elno had heard enough. “We’re wasting air. Put her under now – forever.”

Stefan gave him a hard look. “We need another bunk,” he said, changing the subject. “Would you fetch one from another dome? Vidmar won’t be needing his.”

It was a timely reminder that some kind of justice had been done, and Pas-Elno replaced his helmet and headed for the airlock.

“Tell me about the hybrid,” Stefan asked when the Muskan had gone. “Where does it fit into all this?”

Michelle Sanson smiled, glancing at the tank. “He’s a miracle, don’t you think? The first cross fertilisation between humans and an alien race.” She regarded Stefan strangely. “He’s the only good thing to come out of this.”

Stefan stared at her in silence.

She tossed her head like a teenager. “He was my idea. Sangster’s brains, of course, and Vidmar’s, too, but the concept was mine. The use of the pill to obviate rejection was a concept we often talked about.”

“And the child?” The foetus jerked as Stefan looked at it.

She smiled gently. “Oh, the child will be a Muskan. He will be part of the new world here.”

Stefan frowned. “What d’you mean?”

“Am I really irradiated?”

“I don’t know. There’s no way of telling. We can’t measure it.”

Michelle nodded. “I thought as much. We saw what’s left of Del-Shangi from afar. Maybe there’s hope.” She flopped back on the bed and placed both hands under her head. “In the archives at Kentucky there are many records hidden away among the depths of the computer files. Two hundred years ago a scholar, his name is not important, studied the Muskan race in great detail. During this study, he came across the Muskan chronicles, the revelations of their grand elders which predicted the future of the race; the path to the future of this planet.”

“How did you come across such files?”

Michelle laughed out loud. “My work with the government involved countless hours looking for financial secrets. I was trained to unlock codes from an early age, to track, to sift, to trace.” She gave him a meaningful glance. “I came to the conclusion that the data in the Muskan chronicles had been deliberately buried deep – deep enough to thwart even the most persistent tracker.”

“But not you.”

“Apparently not.” She moved onto one side, supporting her head in her hand.

“The chronicles were written hundreds of years before humans arrived, thousands even. Yet they accurately foretell of the invader from the sky and the imprisonment of the Muskan race.”

“What else did they say?”

“Quite a lot.” She swung her legs to the floor as noises at the dome’s entrance heralded Pas-Elno’s return. “Better go and help your friend.”

Stefan moved towards the airlock as the inner door opened and he helped Pas-Elno manoeuvre the extra bunk inside. The Muskan removed his helmet and sealed the dome.

As they both turned towards Sanson, they saw her prone body sprawled on the bunk. Stefan cursed and moved swiftly across the floor. His fingers searched her pulse, then checked the eyes.

“Don’t bother,” Pas-Elno said as he joined him by the bed. The Muskan gestured to a capsule container on the cover. “She’s taken a sleeper.”

Stefan stared down at the face, gentle in sleep. “Well thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

Pas-Elno picked up the container. There were several pills inside, all different. There was no way of truly knowing the duration of the capsule she had taken.

“Let’s take her suit off,” the agent said, at length, “Make her comfortable. She’s been in it for days.”

“What about radiation?” Pas-Elno asked.

Stefan shrugged. “Our own suits will offer some protection.”

She wore very little underneath and Stefan grudgingly admired the slim olive thighs and small, neat breasts. He covered her with a sheet while Pas-Elno donned his helmet, yet again negotiated the airlock, and unceremoniously threw her radiated suit onto Muskluna’s barren surface. When the Muskan returned, they walked across to Sangster’s old bunk and sat down.

“So we have a problem,” Pas-Elno said. “We don’t know when she’ll wake so we don’t know which sleeper to take ourselves.”

Stefan nodded. Damn the woman. She was really getting to him with her tales of chronicles and prophecies. “I’m not sure what to do,” he admitted.

“I am,” the Muskan said. “We’ll force feed her more pills. Make sure she won’t awake for a very long time.”

The agent shook his head. “No, Pas. That’s not the way. I’m still a police officer, remember.” He stared at the Muskan, hard between the eyes. “Innocent until proven guilty. The law of the universe. I will not sentence her to life imprisonment inside her own body. There must be another way.”

Pas-Elno closed his eye membranes, holding them there in an unnatural position. “Not one I can think of,” he responded aloofly.

“We’ll think of something,” Stefan said desperately. He had wanted to believe Michelle Sanson was just a scientific adventurer, an eccentric dreamer, but he didn’t really want to be asleep when she woke up. He didn’t want to test that belief with his own life.

-25-

Shean James heard the news of the shuttle’s destruction whilst he was enjoying the somewhat restrained afterglow of a rendezvous with one of Kentucky’s more beautiful socialites. He listened to the report feeling a strange mixture of euphoria and disappointment. The explosion, he was clinically informed, was too small to be the Huntsman and must, therefore, have been a shuttlecraft. A track of the Earth vehicle had revealed its launch site to be a small island in the Amity Ocean. He asked the girl to leave, put in a call to Bourget, and replayed the report with diverse emotions running through his mind.

Emminger, on the likely assumption the Huntsman’s captain was not aboard the shuttle, would not be pleased. James wondered if the Earth warrior ship was sheltering on the island. It was a remote possibility. If it was, why should he not launch a full-scale attack and blow the whole island out of the water? No harm done, after all. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Bourget entered the room, looking pale and withdrawn, as nervous as a filly in a field of stallions.

“Congratulations,” Shean James said, as he put on a robe. “Well, half congratulations, anyway.”

Bourget nodded limply.

“What do we do next?” James asked, not appearing to notice the unease of his companion.

“The Huntsman is still out there.”

“On the island, perhaps,” James said.

“Perhaps, but unlikely. We would have detected a ship as large as that.”

“So we still blast the island,” James held his head on one side, studying Bourget’s face, “don’t we?”

“There are four armed copters on their way,” Bourget said, recalling the effort it had taken to round them up.

James raised his eyebrows. “Why not just one well-placed missile?”

Bourget sat on the edge of the bed, noticing the smell of perfume invading his nostrils. “If they are there, we want to capture Emminger and what’s left of his crew. The Huntsman, too, if we can.”

The president’s expression didn’t change. “What the hell for?”

Bourget swallowed hard. “Hostages. The ship is a top weapon and extremely valuable. If we can lay our hands on it...” He shrugged. “Also, we don’t want to give Earth an excuse for a full-scale attack.”

“If we destroyed the Huntsman, maybe they’d think twice about such an attack.”

Bourget shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

James pursed his lips. No harm done, he thought, if we don’t destroy the ship – as long as we control it. And to have Emminger as a prisoner would be quite delicious.

“What’s the risk?” the president asked.

“We have a missile pointed at the island from Spaceport – delivery time, twenty minutes. We contact them from the lead copter, we tell them, and we demand their surrender.” He looked at James, his expression haggard. “Like I said, they may not be on the island.”

James didn’t want to know. “And if they down a copter?”

“We launch the missile. We attack from the other three copters.”

“Can they defend themselves?”

Bourget shook his head. “Not well. As long as he remains grounded, he can only use his small weapons. He needs orbit to offer the big threat.”

James frowned deeply. “Then why didn’t he launch once he knew the shuttle was destroyed?”

“He’d give away his position. If he launches, he’s immediately prone to comprehensive missile attack for several minutes.”

“Then he’s in a no-win situation.” James was pleased, but he held his joy within.

“Once we knew where he was, it was always going to be the case,” Bourget responded.

James clapped his hands once. “Fine. You got it. You do it.” He eyed his general meaningfully. “Just don’t let them escape.”

Bourget nodded miserably. There was a gnawing pain in his stomach and he needed to find a quiet room to lie down.

Bourget left and Shean James lay back on the bed, trying and failing to recapture earlier, more pleasurable events. There was too much happening, too much to think about. He looked down at his feet and grimaced. He was sure his paunch was growing again. There was a dull ache, too, from deep within his chest. Not like it used to be, but there all the same.

For some reason the seer, Serpentine, ghosted into his mind and his mood darkened as he wondered where the psychic, baseborn traitor could be. He turned his mind to happier thoughts. Bourget was right. To capture the Huntsman would be a fantastic coup, especially now the people were responding to his call and the armed capability of Paludis was growing swiftly.

It would be yet another feather in his cap.

* * *

Inside the crystal chamber beneath the temple, Serpentine had merged his mind with the sphere. It was a strange experience. His thoughts drifted in a grey mist through which the tops of shining transparent towers intermittently emerged.

“Where are you going?” one of the monoliths asked as he coasted silently by. The seer glanced at it in awe, not knowing whether he was expected to answer.

Looking up, he saw a sky made from blotches of colour: red, blue, green, yellow and orange, changing and fading and pulsating with a life of its own.

“Why are you going?” another crystal asked as he floated past. He was flying now, gliding among the summits of the towers, which loomed like mountain peaks out of the haze.

“Who are you?” Another question as he began to sink to the ground.

And then he was outside the sphere, and just as abruptly he was inside, reclining in a seat that seemed perfectly contoured to fit his body.

He was following his instructions to the letter now.

He placed the key-crystal in the allotted space in the wall of the sphere and focused his mind on the beach where he had first landed on the peninsula. The sides of the sphere pulsed once with light, and as he withdrew his hand he found himself standing near the water’s edge; hard, rippled sand beneath his feet. The sphere stood a few metres away and beside it Brel-Elno, who was clapping her hands in delight.

“Well done, Serpentine,” she enthused. “How was it?”

The seer looked around in disbelief and shrugged. “It was – fine.” In truth he felt totally disorientated, as if he had been snatched out of both space and time and deposited in an alien place, one he had actually never seen before. But, of course, he had been there previously and he had controlled his movement and that, in some strange way, made it all acceptable.

“And you are ready for the next trip?”

He noticed the anxiety in her voice and did his best to reassure her. “I’m ready,” he said. “Next stop, Muskluna.”

Brel-Elno shook her head in an almost human manner and said coyly, “One more thing to do. You must take me back to the temple chamber – just like you must bring back Tak and Pas from their stranded despair.”

Serpentine smiled nervously. “This is the real test, isn’t it?” He looked earnestly at Brel-Elno. “Is this more dangerous? Could I harm you if I get it wrong?”

Brel-Elno gazed out over the sea. “I have lost my husband and my son. Think well of me and follow your instructions. I have faith in your thoughts. Have faith in them yourself and remember your own ancestors with pride.” She glanced at him, gliding her membranes over her eyes. “Be at peace, wherever you are.”

Serpentine could think of no reply, so he turned and placed his hands on the sphere, entering as he had done before. United with the orb, he closed his eyes, breathed shallowly and let his mind rise from his body. He imagined himself looking down at the beach and the sea – and Brel-Elno. It didn’t seem to matter whether he was really outside the sphere or not, only that he could see Brel-Elno.

A shadow ghosted across his vision, ethereal, floating between himself and Brel-Elno. Then another shadow, and another. Voices suddenly came to him.

“Are you really one of us? Are you really?”

Was one of them his mother’s voice?

In his mind he cried out and searched strongly for Brel-Elno, and she was abruptly there with him, and somehow he guided them back to the chamber beneath the temple.

* * *

Clare sat on top of a boulder high on the mountainside and surveyed the territory. Thankfully, there had been no further signs of the scavengers and she sucked and nibbled at the rest of the fruit in a relatively peaceful state of mind. Even if they came again, she was fairly confident they would not attack.

The sun was due south now, warming her back, and she stared out over the tops of trees to the seemingly placid ocean below. White breakers stood out among the green, water-like cirrus clouds in a rippling, vibrant sky.

Insects chirruped, filling the air with resonant sound, the concerto awoken by the rising warmth of the day. A bird-like creature coasted overhead, the first she had seen on the island – a predator of some kind, panning the treetops for living prey. She watched it glide closer, using the updraughts from the cliffs, circle, cocking its elongated head on one side to eye her warily. It swooped suddenly, to become lost in the verdancy of the trees, reminding her of the strange light she had seen enter the Pacific Ocean on Earth.

Her thoughts became tinged with nostalgia. She yearned for Pas-Elno to talk to, for Stefan to – to what? Hug her? Kiss her? She went further back: to the wide-open places of childhood where she could see forever, owned everything that really mattered, loved just about every living thing.

Ferdi? Yes, even Ferdi. She had loved her husband once. For how long? she wondered. Six months; maybe a year. She meditated, analysed, running her long fingers over her short hair.

Renovating the homestead had been their project – their marriage project. But life in the Northern Desert had become hard. And that strange and dreadful deluge, where it had rained solidly for weeks on end, had dealt the final blow. They had been marooned together, and turned to each other for comfort, but had finally drifted apart. The spark had gone, the love had gone; life had eaten it away.

Clare sighed. Ferdi had gone to the city, some city, some planet. He’d just gone. Once the rain had stopped and the sun had broken through to reveal the devastation.

She’d stayed on, though. Her place. Her parents’ place. For some time, at least. And then the job had come. The job! She laughed out loud, momentarily silencing the insects. The divorce begat the cruise begat the strange light begat the job begat the implant begat – begat her being here, stuffed up on an island in the middle of nowhere.

Clare rolled the seed of the fruit around in her mouth and saw another bird creature dancing over the waves far below. It was several minutes before she realised what she stared at was not a bird. Its movement was too regular, too precise. She stood and watched the object start to climb, heading directly towards her perch. Instinct took over and she prepared to flee but the object was quickly upon her, hovering a few metres above her head.

It was elliptical, approaching three metres long, supported by air that wafted through a short, fluttering skirt at its base. Above the skirt, in the main body of the craft, a narrow rim pulsed with light, seemingly moving around at regular intervals. The colour was mottled grey and the only sound was the sigh of its propulsion unit.

To Clare’s surprise, it suddenly spoke.

“Who are you?” A male voice, stentorian, not machine-like.

Clare blinked in confusion, not responding, feeling her heart hammering in her throat.

“Who are you?” the voice asked again.

Clare looked up at the vehicle and nervously cleared her throat. “My name is Clare Cavanna,” she said, starting to look around for a means of escape.

“Where are you from?” The craft swayed gently in a sudden breeze but immediately regained its balance.

“I’m from Tanberg,” Clare replied. “I work at the university.”

“What are you doing here?” The vehicle sank lower, just two metres above her head. She could feel the air from its downdraught. A strong light passed over her eyes, her face, and was instantly gone.

“I’m checking the island’s flora,” she said. “Collecting samples.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was dropped off by copter,” she said, relieved that the drone was apparently not from the Earth ship.

The drone rose and backed away.

“There is a beach,” the voice said, “on the south side of the island. Go down there. We will wait for you.”

“Who are you?” Clare asked her first question.

“Paludis authorities. Please do as requested and you will come to no harm.” The drone rose into the sky and hung there, like a hawk. Were those last words a threat?

Clare made her way off the boulder and started to retrace her steps down the mountainside. She should have been happy. After all, it seemed she was not going to die here. Something about the omnipresent surveillance craft sent a shiver down her spine. She should have been happy, but she wasn’t. A rustling sound came from the undergrowth. Scavengers? Clare looked around, looked up, and continued down.

A copter was waiting on the beach. Two men stood on the sand. Both trained their assault weapons on her as she approached. Even from that distance Clare could see they were both Magellans, for the square eye sockets gave them certain unmistakable facial features. The tallest one stepped forward, purple eyes boring into Clare’s.

“Are you armed?” His voice was guttural, overemphasising masculinity.

Clare stopped, holding her arms out, palms up. “Of course not,” she said. “I’m on a scientific mission.”

“Bulls balls!” the other Magellan snorted. “What d’you know about the Huntsman’s shuttle?”

Clare blinked. So they knew about the Huntsman. She pulled her robe tight around her. There seemed little point in continuing the charade.

“The shuttle stranded me here. It left me.” Her voice rose in anger and fear. “It bloody well left me!”

Behind her the drone abruptly sank from the sky and attached itself to the tail boom of the copter. Another copter whined over the water, hovering a short distance away, its vents turning the waves into a small whirlpool.

“Get in,” the tall Magellan ordered. “We’re going to Kentucky.”

Clare obeyed and both copters rose rapidly into the sky.

“No doubt you’ll know where the Huntsman is,” the smaller man, the pilot, said as they abruptly banked to the west. “You can tell us now, please.”

His comrade threw him a warning glance but the radio interrupted his intended interjection: Copter zero one, this is copter zero seven. Stand by for presidential transmission.

“Would you believe it?” the pilot exclaimed. “It’s going to be the pig man himself.”

The speaker beeped twice and the rasping voice of Shean James entered the cockpit. “Miss Cavanna. This is the President of Paludis. We haven’t met, but we will.” There was menace in his voice, Clare thought, overbearing and rather nasty. “You must have been aboard the Huntsman, never mind how you got there, but you will now tell me where the Earth ship is.”

The speaker was silent and Clare could only hear the dull whine of the copter’s engine.

“Now, Miss Cavanna, please.”

* * *

Serpentine had stared intently at the golden, sallow glow of the moon, noting and memorising its every mark. He had stood thus for almost one hour and Brel-Elno had watched in wonder at the seer’s concentration. Eventually he had moved and merged with the sphere walls, clothes and flesh flowing into the smooth and shining surface, like a raindrop joining with the ocean, finally to disappear inside.

In the soft comfort of the seat, Serpentine also pictured the map he had given to Stefan Lattanzis in the hope that it would guide him to his destination with more haste. The key-crystal sought the special place and his mind ached with concentration.

Brel-Elno saw the sphere rise rapidly to a height of two hundred metres then shrink and vanish. Instinctively she looked at the dark sky and the yellow moon. There was no more to see, of course, but she offered a gentle Muskan prayer all the same.

* * *

In Paludis time, Serpentine’s journey to the moon took less than a second. However, within the time-bending dimensions where the crystals and spheres operated, it seemed that the trip was filled with breathtaking mystery and no small amount of dread.

The shadows and the voices were back.

Many dark and ever-changing apparitions flitted around the seer, not quite of human form but near enough to imagine they were spirits or ghosts or souls of the departed. Serpentine seemed to be floating, but it may only have been relative to the spectres accompanying him. At times they were like children, seeking to tease, promising some magnificent universal revelation but never quite making the contact required. Their words whispered to him, mimicking their actions, the sentences they made never completed. It was like watching a video with partial interference in both vision and sound, but whatever barrier lay between them was as impenetrable as a steel wall to an ant.

Serpentine found himself suddenly desirous of joining them. He sought the key to the steel wall within his mind and his mother was suddenly beside him, immediately recognisable, as he had known her at the peak of her life. Behind her, green fields stretched as far as the eye could see, to mountains and kindly white clouds and a deep blue sky. She smiled and touched him on the chest.

“You are here early, my son,” she whispered, the smile turning somewhat wry. “You have the aura of a saviour about you.”

Serpentine blinked hard, finding it hard to prevent the tears escaping his eyes. He didn’t speak; in fact, he found he could not speak. The dream, if it was a dream, continued.

“Do not weep,” his mother said as if he were a child, “for there is absolutely nothing that can destroy your spirit.”

Other shadows flitted around them, darting close then rushing away. The seer regarded his mother, saw her back slowly away.

“I will see you, my son,” she said. “Be strong in what you do.”

An immediate surge of peace and wellbeing flowed over Serpentine’s body and then a dark silence descended. Everything was still. The shadows had gone.

The sphere hovered three metres over the surface of the moon.

-26-

Clare had told Shean James what she knew of the whereabouts of the Huntsman and the president had immediately left to contact General Bourget. Earlier, as the copter had landed in Kentucky, she’d asked the pilot why he had used the term “pig man” when referring to James. The Magellan had sneered and said, “I thought everyone knew the rumour. He had a heart transplant. They say he was given the heart of a pig.” Clare had turned away in disgust, not believing a word of it, and was pleased when a presidential aide collected her and led the way to a waiting hovercar.

* * *

“She says it’s among snow and ice,” James said to Bourget, “so presumably it’s skulking somewhere among the northern ice caps, as the island where we found her was in the northern hemisphere.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Anything else?” Bourget asked wearily.

“No,” James replied. “I don’t think she knows anything more.” He studied Bourget’s tired face on the screen and thought he had better soon replace him. “She’s a victim, really,” he continued. “She says she was on the moon when the bomb dropped, that they picked her up sometime later.”

Bourget frowned. “Sounds unlikely. What was she doing there?”

“Looking for Sanson and her cronies with an agent called Lattanzis and that Muskan rebel’s son. I’m having it checked out.”

Bourget shrugged. “It’s not important, is it?”

Shean James shook his head. “She says they’re still there – but no, it’s not important. What is important is locating the Huntsman. Does her information help?”

Bourget nodded. “It narrows the field down significantly. We’ll need time to grid the area and search-drone it, but two days should be enough. They can’t hide a huge ship like that, even up there.”

“Good,” James said. “Get on it. When you find them, hit the bastards with everything we’ve got. I don’t want anything bigger than an atom left of their dirty Earth blood.” Bourget pursed his lips and nodded, seemingly unwilling to pursue their earlier agreement to capture the Huntsman.

James broke the connection. He wanted to get back to Clare Cavanna. She intrigued him and he already felt a longing for her that was near to bursting.

* * *

Clare stood in the outer office of the president and surveyed the room with interest. The walls were covered with wood panelling and several photographs of Shean James and his predecessors. A large desk and matching chair rested on an extremely thick green carpet, and a rotary shelf containing hundreds of computer files dominated one corner of the room.

She was still clad in her robe and longed for a bath and change of clothes. Earlier, she had told James what little she knew of the Huntsman, though nothing, of course, concerning the implant and her alleged messages to Earth. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Shean James entered the office.

“You’ll be pleased to know we think we can find them fairly quickly,” James said. Clare nodded and tried, in vain, to smile. She still felt uneasy, helpless. It was one lion’s den to another.

Shean James approached her and touched her on the shoulder. She was against the desk and couldn’t move.

“I must apologise for not offering you an immediate change of clothes,” James said, “but your information was vital to our military.”

Clare tried to move sideways, but the president’s hand strayed to the white sash of her robe. She closed her eyes as he slipped the garment off her shoulders and onto the carpet. She felt faint and gasped as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs gently massaging her nipples. Then he crouched, his lips savagely sucking her breasts through her bra, his hands sliding down her back to her buttocks.

Something screamed inside Clare. I don’t want this! I’m sick of being used! She slammed her knee savagely into the president’s stomach and James fell back onto the carpet, cursing loudly and gasping for breath. He stared up at her, red in the face.

“You stupid bitch! Say goodbye to your friends on the moon. They’re dead! Dead meat.” James stood slowly, trying to regain his composure. He took a deep breath. “Take off everything. Lean over the chair.”

Clare grabbed the robe and put it back on, pulling it fiercely around her.

“No!” she screamed, starting to sob. “I don’t want you!” She shook her head savagely from side to side. “I don’t! I don’t!”

James ignored the twinge in his chest and took a step forward, clumsily pulling at her robe.

Clare darted away and turned to him, her face contorted with hate. “It’s true what they say!” she screamed. “You are a pig! A big, ugly pig!”

Shean James stopped in his tracks and his eyes grew wide with horror. He suddenly clutched at his chest, grew purple in the face, uttered a strange choking sound and fell heavily to the floor.

Clare froze, leaning heavily on the edge of the desk. Her sobs came in huge gulps of air. Then she ran to the door and screamed.

Two seconds into her panic scream, Clare abruptly stopped. What, she wondered, would they do if they found the president unconscious, stricken on the floor? Her mind raced into overdrive. They’d almost certainly assume she had somehow induced the attack – and when Shean James recovered, what would his story be?

She gripped the edge of the door and nervously surveyed the corridor, first one way and then the other. All was quiet. Nobody had heard her scream. Or perhaps they had ignored it as a common occurrence when James entertained his female consorts.

Breathing deeply, trying to slow her racing heart, Clare stepped back into the office, resisting the urge to glance at the president’s body. She swiftly crossed the room, opened the inner door and stepped through, making her way to what appeared to be a clothes closet near the window. Below, a formal garden reflected bright colours in the late afternoon sun.

The closet was full of silk robes, obviously imported, and she picked the smallest and tried it for size. It was loose on the shoulders but when she tied the waist band, acceptable enough. Most important of all, it carried the president’s crest on the left lapel. She donned it over her own garments.

Clare returned to the outer office, checked that James was still unconscious, and tentatively approached the door. The sound of laughter drifted down the corridor but swiftly died away. She gambled and went left.

Minutes later, encouraged by her easy progress along the presidential passageways, Clare held her head high and endeavoured not to look lost as she sought a way out of the building. She descended two floors, passing people who hardly gave her a second glance, except for a few males who could not resist a smirk as they noticed her garb. She surmised, correctly, that the president was notorious for his exploits among the Kentucky females.

At length, Clare made her way outside to a small garden surrounded by high, honey-coloured brick walls. A small fountain played in one corner, and several small bushes, covered in yellow flowers, covered the ground. A path ran to a sturdy cane-grass gate set in the far wall. She approached the gate with caution and peered through the bars into a flagged courtyard. Opposite the gate, and the only way out of the yard, stood a high stone portal guarded by two presidential sentries.

She tried the gate and found it locked by a means she couldn’t discover. Cursing under her breath, Clare looked around desperately. She did not, under any circumstances, wish to go back inside the building.

A siren suddenly sounded and Clare jerked. They had found James! Almost immediately it seemed, a copter whined overhead and dropped onto a nearby roof. She glanced through the gate again, and to her horror, saw one of the sentries approaching. He had his hand to his face, his voice rasping over an intercom.

“What’s happening?” the guard said, and then called back to his colleague, “It’s James. He’s had another attack. They’re taking him to emergency.”

Clare shrank behind the wall, out of sight, heart beating madly beneath her robes. Surely they’d be looking for her now. She bit her lip until blood seeped.

A bleep sounded and the gate swung open, shielding her from the sentry as he strode into the garden.

The copter whined again, lifting off, and the sentry raised his hand watching the machine as it soared skywards. If he turned around, he would see her!

Clare sped around the gate and ran swiftly into the courtyard. She couldn’t see the other guard. She cleared the paved area and passed through the portal.

The guard suddenly appeared before her, pistol raised. He looked at her suspiciously. The drone of the copter died away.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. The voice was effeminate, not matching his bulky frame.

“I was going to President James,” Clare said, “but they sent me away. He’s ill, they told me.”

“Another bloody whore,” the sentry said. “Serve’s the bastard right.” He nodded to the street, where people passed on the other side, avoiding the presidential precinct. “Give me a contact number and be off with you.”

Clare blinked, not believing her ears. The man apparently wanted her videophone code. She madly tried to remember the Kentucky prefix, and then smiled as sweetly as she could, trying to ignore the bile that rose in her throat.

“Five two nine, seven four two two,” she said. “Remember it please, or you may live to regret it.”

The sentry smiled, showing a row of brown-stained teeth, then gave Clare a hard slap on the behind. “Look forward to it,” he grated after her as she made the other side of the street.

Most of the pedestrians stared briefly at her, but then continued on their way, anxious to be home before sundown.

Clare gathered her robes and walked quickly, eyes staring straight ahead, her expression one of purpose and determination. She knew that Kentucky, unlike Earth cities, was built on the crater principle, the tallest and most important buildings, including the president’s abode, being located on the city outskirts. The overall effect was similar to a crater, with high edifices serving to keep the populace centrally located and thus under control. The majority of the people were poor and seldom ventured beyond the artificial walls created by the buildings and monuments financed by the wealthy.

Within twenty minutes, a welcome darkness had descended and Clare stood near the main southern highway, watching it snake into the countryside, heading south to Tanberg.

Traffic was light, headlamps waxing and waning. A cool breeze ruffled the president’s robe. One thought above all others had emerged during her journey through the streets – she needed to know what information she had relayed to Earth – if, indeed, she had sent any at all.

She took to the woodland beside the road and started to walk, following the highway as best she could while remaining hidden from the probing headlights. Soon she heard the rumble of a strange, heavy vehicle and a strong white light swept the road from side to side, penetrating the inky blackness like a knife. Clare dropped to the ground, feeling her heartbeat thudding against the soft soil. She raised her head and peered into the night. A large shadow loomed and the ground shook, and she ducked as searing white light invaded the trees and bushes. And then it passed, like some ancient Earth war machine, and the night grew silent again.

For her? Was it searching for her?

She rose and brushed herself down with shaking hands. Then suddenly she was dropping again as a siren wailed and a dark, sleek hovercar sped by.

Clare lay for a while, calming her thoughts, praying for strength. Then she stood and continued on her way. How could she possibly enter the university campus undetected, let alone access her commsystem? They would surely be watching!

And Tanberg was a long way; it would take many weeks to walk there. She had no food or water. Undaunted, she pressed on.

She thought of Stefan and wept as she walked.

At noon the next day, Clare saw the cemetery. She had slept fitfully and taken a meagre drink of water at a small stream. The day was hot and she was now clad only in her own robe, having left the president’s apparel hidden among the trees.

The valley stretched before her with green rolling hills on each side and tall cane-grass scattered like sentinels along its lower reaches, often hiding the Tanberg road as it cut a trail into the distance. At the near end, half way up the western slope, a large area sparkled silver in the sunlight.

To Clare, it seemed as if the hillside was covered with white-flowering bushes and she started to walk slowly up the hill towards them. As she grew closer, she realised the slope was actually covered in silver crosses, each about two metres high and three metres from its neighbour. Shortly, she stood next to the nearest cross and tried to estimate their total number. Perhaps twenty thousand, she thought, each identical to the next, each perfectly aligned. The effect was dazzling and dreamlike, yet also puzzling, for she knew that the vast majority of Paludis people were cremated.

She knelt down and examined a cross. Along the horizontal arm was inscribed:

IN MEMORY OF MARISSA ALFARO

RIP

Clare stood and frowned. She didn’t know what RIP meant. Other than carrying a different name, the next cross bore the same inscription. Checking the other crosses in the vicinity, she saw they were all similar.

Shielding her eyes against the bright sky, Clare looked along the slope and discerned a hut situated in the middle of the crosses. It looked like an ancient nursery rhyme cottage amidst a forest of silver trees. She made her way across the hillside, through the crosses, towards the strange building.

* * *

Space Commodore Jason Ming surveyed the planet on the screen with intense interest, comparing it to the overlaid computer grid that indicated the main cities and geographical features in red. Population densities and the main wind and ocean currents were also highlighted.

Behind his mothership were four troop carriers arranged in a vee formation, each identical, and each carrying ten thousand elite troops from Centurion. For the moment all the troops were comatose, ironically under the influence of the Paludis sleeping pill, but within the hour they would all simultaneously awake from their induced slumber and be ready for action.

He transferred his attention to East Paludis. There was only one main city, Saltzburg, an old mining metropolis, population some five million. Over on the west coast was the smaller city of Stanley, currently a port for kelp harvesters. The other scattered communities were of little interest. East Paludis, he had already decided, would be the first target, though he had not yet finalised his campaign plan.

Jason Ming called the captains of the other four ships to conference and the large screen automatically split into quadrants. They all looked fresh and eager for action.

The ships, having emerged from the system’s Einstein-Rosen bridge, were thirty thousand kilometres from Paludis.

* * *

Serpentine closed his eyes, trying to draw energy from the mantle of stars that surrounded the sphere. His eyes were severely bloodshot, his temperature high, his heartbeat slow and faint. Behind him, the bodies of Tak-Elno, Pas-Elno, Stefan Lattanzis and Michelle Sanson hovered in a vertical position as if skewered through head and groin. Tak-Elno was dead, the others unconscious, presumably under the influence of the Paludis sleeper.

It seemed an eternity since he had brought the last body, Michelle Sanson, into the sphere. Subsequently, keeping awake had required tremendous concentration. The effort of moving them all from the dome to the sphere had sucked him dry. He felt as close to death as he had ever been and was convinced his body, and hence his mission, was failing. His mind was drained and totally incapable of getting them back to Paludis. The temptation to drift into sleep was now overwhelming and, like the polar explorers of ancient Earth, Serpentine began to welcome the thought of dark oblivion.

He turned his mind inward, away from the stars, to visions of Selma and Joby and Brel-Elno, endeavouring to concentrate on the human and alien interactions that had led him unerringly to his current situation. Strange, was it not, that so many small twists of fate had led him to cross vacuous space – the Muskan evil terrain – by a means totally beyond his understanding. Had he really seen his mother? Or had it been a figment of his over-active brain cells?

Darkness swept over him and he suddenly jerked in the moulded chair of the sphere, sweat seeped onto his brow, his eyes closing in protest.

He took a deep breath, placed the key-crystal on the wall of the sphere, and tried to move his mind beyond the confines of the craft and into the heavens once more. Much to his surprise, he managed to do so but was met with only darkness. He twisted and turned, searching for Paludis; just a glimpse, the merest of crescents.

There was nothing, only obscurity and cold, useless pinpricks of light.

He felt his mind retreat inwards and succumb to the soft caressing fingers that massaged dark threads of agreeable oblivion into his consciousness. His head dropped to his chest, and Serpentine slept.

Inside the sphere the four upright bodies rotated on their own axes, faces frozen in time. Outside, the starry and endless firmament turned at a much slower pace.

Serpentine could see Paludis. And to his surprise he had awoken feeling fresh. The bodies were still there, eerily rotating as if driven by clockwork. He had sent his mind soaring outside the Muskan sphere, and he had seen Paludis rise. He focused upon it and took the sphere away from the moon, driving into the Garnian dimension where all the spirits of the universe appeared to surround him, assailing his ears with strange whisperings, joining unbidden to his mind.

* * *

Stefan Lattanzis awoke abruptly. The Muskluna dome seemed to be spinning, its walls blurring past him in hazy outline, without colour or form. He found he couldn’t focus and thought the sleeper must have induced some weird side effect that had upset the functioning of his brain.

He began to feel sick, a gnawing in his stomach. Then the walls slowed and stopped and he could look around with some rationality of vision.

Before he could finally focus, strange, unintelligible voices started to echo through his mind, probing nooks and crannies he did not even know existed.

And then a more ardent, commanding tone: “Go. Go. You are out of order. Your vibrations are wrong.”

Stefan blinked. Grey shapes whirled around him. Then, for the first time, he saw Pas-Elno, Tak-Elno and Michelle Sanson – spinning, faces blurred, dead to him. But there were other shapes, weaving around the rotating bodies, flitting towards him and darting away.

“Why are you here?” Another voice and a strong pulse of light, a hand reaching tentatively for his shoulder, a strange, pleasant smell invading his nostrils.

And then he saw Serpentine, sitting near him, hands on the wall.

“Serpentine,” he said, “is that you?”

The seer turned and looked with amazement at Stefan.

“You are awake,” he said.

Stefan nodded. “I am – but where are we?”

“Please. Why don’t you go back?” Three voices in unison.

“You must return,” another said. “You cannot dwell here.”

Serpentine grinned strangely as a grey form drifted between them. “Somewhere between Paludis and its moon,” he said.

“But – this other – the voices.”

“Don’t worry,” Serpentine said. “Just love them.”

Stefan frowned, looked around further. He suddenly gasped. “Where is the child?”

“I saw a child,” Serpentine responded, “but how could I bring it? He needed the tank, the power. If I had lifted him to the sphere he would have surely died.”

“Return now – before it is too late.” Pleading, warning.

“We must go back for him,” Stefan cried, and Serpentine said, “No! It is impossible.”

Everything grew silent. The shapes and voices disappeared.

“We are arrived at Paludis,” the seer announced, “though heaven knows where with so much distraction.”

Stefan grimaced, put out his hand and the seer solemnly shook it. “Good to see you,” the agent said.

Serpentine grunted and explored outside the sphere with his mind. He sighed heavily with relief as he saw the waiting figure of Brel-Elno standing close by.

“Be patient,” he said to Stefan, “and I will take us all outside.”

-27-

The hut was about three metres high and five metres square, and as Clare wandered around it, she found a three-metre-wide extension on the back that ran for another seven metres. A squat chimney poked out of the gently sloping roof. The walls of the building, like the crosses, were made from aluminium and corrugated for stiffness. There appeared to be no windows. She went around to the only door, knocked and stood back.

She heard a shuffling sound from behind the door and it swung back to reveal a dishevelled male human of average height, but broad in build. He wore baggy black pants and a loose green smock with a significant tear on one sleeve. A short but unkempt grey beard adorned his wide chin, and a big, flat nose nestled between rotund, bulging cheeks. Large, rheumy eyes stared at Clare, blinked once slowly, and then a huge, grimy hand lifted and pointed a finger at her.

“Who be you?” the man said.

Clare tried a smile and replied, “My name is Clare. Can you spare some food?”

The man put his head on one side and his long, fading brown hair flowed over his shoulder.

“Me Crozzkeeper,” he said, and stuck out one of his huge hands. Clare stared in fascination. Never had she seen such work-worn flesh. His fingers and palm were covered in scars and calluses, his nails torn and grubby.

“Crosskeeper,” she whispered, plucking up enough courage to grasp the proffered hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleez to meet you,” Crosskeeper replied through his huge lips. “Go in now.”

He backed away, pulling Clare with him. Before she knew it, she was inside the hut.

“Pleez to zit,” he said, letting go of her hand.

Clare sat on an old wooden chair as Crosskeeper disappeared into the adjoining room. She looked around in the light from two skylights set in the ceiling and saw that the hut was sparsely furnished with a large bed, a table and the chair upon which she sat. There was no apparent form of heating. On the table stood a small figurine of a man attached to a cross.

“Jeez,” Crosskeeper said, poking his head around the door and pointing at the figurine. “Godzun,” he added, by way of explanation.

Clare smiled briefly and nodded.

“What do you do here?” she called.

“Crozzkeeper,” Crosskeeper called back. “Bury people and make crozz. Clean crozz. Write crozz.”

Bury people! Clare frowned. The room was cold and she pulled her robe tightly over her shoulders. A strong aroma of warming soup wafted through the door and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“Which people do you bury?” she asked.

“People who come in cars. Carry up. Bury.” There was a pause. “Carry alum, too. All way from road. Make crozz, bury people.”

“Where do you make the crosses?”

“Clare come.” Crosskeeper appeared at the door again, beckoning. “Look at crozz make.”

He led Clare to the back of the extension where a forge glowed red in the unlit interior. A pile of aluminium scrap littered one whole corner of the room and two crosses stood up against the wall. Crosskeeper blew on the coals and chortled as the fire glowed stronger.

Clare shook her head. “All day long you make crosses and bury the dead of Kentucky.”

Crosskeeper shook his head vehemently. “Not all day. No. Two dead a week, maybe one. Never all day.” He looked at her wistfully. “Only few dead.”

“Most people are cremated on Paludis, aren’t they?”

He nodded, “Cremmed. Yez.”

“So who comes here to be buried under crosses?” She stared into his large eyes and was surprised to see them suddenly filled with tears.

“Common people cremmed,” Crosskeeper responded. “Rich, affl’ent people ’ere. Undredz yearz. All time ’ere.”

Clare’s eyes opened wide. “For hundreds of years the rich people of Kentucky have been buried here and the poor people cremated in the city.” She looked at Crosskeeper with a furrowed brow. “Is that right?”

“Yez. Right.” Crosskeeper led the way from the forge to an old stove where the soup was about ready. He poured some into an aluminium bowl for Clare and she took it eagerly, sipping from the rim.

The warm liquid was delicious and she immediately felt stronger. She looked over the bowl at Crosskeeper.

“How do you know when a car brings a body?”

Crosskeeper shrugged, his huge shoulders brushing the lobes of his ears. “Same time I go to road, ev’ry day.” He held up three fingers and Clare presumed he meant three o’clock. “If no car, no body. If no body, I bring alum from big ’eap on road.” He looked suddenly tired and hung his head. “Always big.”

Clare nodded. The Kentucky authorities obviously replenished Crosskeeper’s raw material at regular intervals.

“And where does your fuel come from?” Clare finished the soup and put the bowl on the table.

“Fuel eezy. In ground. Come. I show.”

Crosskeeper ambled outside and led the way to where a large aluminium trap door was set in the ground between two small bushes. He seized the grip in both hands and, muscles straining, lifted the cover.

“Fuel ’ere. Many,” he said gleefully. “Go down, zee fuel.”

Clare shook her head. “No. Thank you – but it’s not necessary.”

The bunker was obviously purpose built, probably hundreds of years ago. She wondered how many crosskeepers there had been down the ages and if they had all been like this one. Like the aluminium, no doubt the fuel stocks were regularly augmented.

“I take crozz now,” Crosskeeper said. “You come?”

Clare checked her watch. There were plenty of daylight hours left but she had no intention of spending the night here, despite Crosskeeper’s apparent benevolence.

“Can you give me food to take with me?” Clare asked. “I have a long way to travel.”

Crosskeeper smiled strangely. “Better than food,” he said mysteriously. “But first come take crozz.”

Clare nodded. She had nothing to lose.

Crosskeeper returned to his hut and emerged with a cross on his back. Clare was amazed at his strength. She followed him through the forest of aluminium for almost fifteen minutes before he eventually grounded his burden and pointed at a hole in the soil.

Clare walked over and peered in.

“There’s nothing in here,” she said in surprise.

Crosskeeper chuckled, and for one awful moment Clare froze. He’s going to push me in!

Then Crosskeeper said, “Look ’ere. Look ’ere.”

Only then did she see the name etched into the arms of the cross. It read:

IN MEMORY OF SHEAN ULYSSES JAMES

RIP

Crosskeeper spat on the ground. “Zoon ’ere,” he said ferociously. “Pig man.”

* * *

Clare lay on her stomach among a cane-grass grove and stared down at the Tanberg University campus. To her left she could see the Great Southern Ocean sparkling in the early morning sunlight. Above her head the cane-grass needles rattled as if disturbed by her presence, and several small lizards darted around her feet, some venturing onto the folds of her robe.

Since taking her leave of Crosskeeper she had not spoken to a living soul, and memories of happier times at Tanberg had flooded her mind, as if a valve had suddenly been opened to relieve the solitude.

The gravedigger had given her free rein over his acquired wardrobe, no doubt taken from his deceased charges, but she had taken little: just a tunic and trousers, over which she wore her robe.

Nearby, leaning against a large stem, stood Crosskeeper’s scoot. She permitted herself a smile at his generosity for his surprise had, indeed, been better than food. His verbal abuse of Shean James had soon subsided, and he’d led her back to the hut. There, among the nearby crosses and covered with a soiled green plastic sheet, was a small single-seat hoverbike, known on Paludis as a scoot.

“You take,” Crosskeeper had said. “No more walk.” Then, with his huge head on one side, he’d added, “No get captured.”

She had refused, of course, remonstrating that she could probably never return the bike.

Crosskeeper had waved his hands in the air. “You take,” he’d said fiercely. “Crozzkeeper get ’nuther. No ’azzle.”

He had explained in his remarkably concise vocabulary that he used the bike to get food from Kentucky, that a replacement would readily be available, and that she had better get going.

So she had taken the scoot and ridden down the highway after sunset. Three nights of clandestine riding now found her perched above the university, planning her next step.

Clare nibbled at the last portion of Crosskeeper’s food and pondered. There were no visible signs down below that suggested they were waiting for her, but that meant very little at such a distance. She determined there were two possible ways in – by mingling naturally with the students, or by stealth under the cover of darkness. After some agonising shifts of opinion, Clare opted for the cloak of nightfall, since her bedraggled appearance would attract immediate attention among a crowd. God! She needed a shower and a change of clothes.

She rolled over onto her side and tried to sleep.

* * *

The moon hung in the sky escorted by dark, threatening clouds that seemed unwilling to encroach upon the orb’s golden perfection. Spots of rain fell, dotting the soil and cooling the face of Brel-Elno as she looked passively skywards. Not far from where she stood, the sea resembled a featureless black mirror and the night wind stirred tirelessly off its surface, breathing gently over the cliffs and between the trees. Later, the wind would rise and a rain storm would come. It was a full five minutes since the human had left.

Suddenly, the sphere materialised before her and seconds later, the dark silhouettes of bodies emerged onto the grass.

“Serpentine,” she whispered, “is it you?”

“It is I,” the answer came, drifting in the breeze.

Two bodies stood and another three lay prone on the ground, faces bathed in the moonlight. Brel-Elno stepped forward and hugged the seer gently. She knelt and cried, “Oh, Tak,” as she touched her husband’s face. Then she turned and placed her hands on Pas-Elno’s chest.

“Is he also dead?” she enquired of Serpentine.

“No,” the seer replied instantly. “He sleeps only, but he has taken the sleeper. He will awake.”

“Garn be praised,” Brel-Elno said softly. She rose and walked some distance away, returning with Tak-Elno’s cane-grass stem, the end of which she placed against her husband’s temple. Then, mewling a strange Muskan anthem, she lowered the other end of the stem on to Pas-Elno’s brow.

“Thank you, Serpentine,” she eventually whispered. “You did well.”

The seer shrugged, glancing at Stefan. “I did what I could.”

“When will Pas awake?” Brel-Elno didn’t look at the body of Michelle Sanson. It was as if she wasn’t there at all.

Sombre clouds caught the moon and the wind grew colder, the sea darker.

Stefan looked uncomfortable, feeling out of place. “Two weeks,” he said. “The lady was our prisoner and took a sleeper herself. We didn’t know how long for, so we shackled her legs and one arm, leaving the other free for eating and drinking or another pill, at her own choice. Then we agreed to take a sleep for two weeks. However, I wanted to check things out so I only took a short duration pill.” The moon came out and revealed his pallid face. “I’m sorry. There seemed nothing else to do. There was little air left...” He did not mention that Pas-Elno may have killed Michelle had he been left alone with her.

Brel-Elno held up her hand. “I understand.” She didn’t. She understood none of it, but it did not matter. It was human and alien to her. Pas was alive; that was what really mattered. And Tak is dead, whispered a small voice in the back of her mind.

“What are you doing here still?” The Great Elder spoke out of the darkness. Stefan didn’t know whether he had been there all the time or had only just arrived.

The old Muskan looked directly at the agent. “You must tell us all your news – but not here. A storm is due, I believe.” He held out his arms to the sphere. “Will you take us below, Serpentine, or will I?”

Serpentine sighed heavily. “Could you? I am just a little tired.”

The Great Elder glanced eastwards over the sea and murmured, “There are clouds on the horizon.” He placed his hands on the sphere and, before Stefan completed his gasp of surprise, vanished within it.

It was then the agent fully realised, with incredulity, that the sphere belonged to the Muskans. He felt suddenly faint and was glad that the sphere’s power gathered him up and took his exhausted body to a place where pain and hurt were extinguished.

* * *

They sat around a table in an underground chamber far beneath the temple. The sleeping bodies of Michelle Sanson and Pas-Elno were in an adjacent room, and Tak-Elno lay in his death-robe in the crystal hall.

Stefan explained how the Earth ship had visited the moon and abducted Clare Cavanna, leaving the rest of them behind. He described the confrontation and the deaths and the bizarre mission that Sanson had apparently led and Vidmar had killed for.

The Great Elder blinked slowly and exhaled noisily through his encrusted back-tube. “Human nature is exceedingly strange to us,” he said. “To sleep is not to live, and who says the future is better than the now?”

“There is one other thing,” Stefan added with a sideways glance at Serpentine.

“Of course,” the Great Elder said.

“There is a child,” Stefan and Serpentine chorused together, much to each other’s surprise.

“Of course,” the Great Elder repeated.

“We found a baby on the moon,” Stefan said, biting his lip and looking at Brel-Elno. “It was an experiment in genetics – a hybrid, Muskan and human.” He shook his head savagely. “It’s wrong. I don’t agree with it. Tak-Elno and Michelle Sanson are said to be the parents.”

Brel-Elno leapt to her feet and cried, “No! It cannot be so! Tak would not do such a thing.”

Serpentine put his hand on her shoulder. “Wait, Brel-Elno. It is an engineered child. No familiarity took place.” He gazed at Stefan for help.

“They probably took Tak-Elno’s cells when he was asleep at Tanberg,” the agent said. “Doubtless he would have known nothing.”

Brel-Elno screwed up her lips in anguish then whispered, “I do not know whether to weep or to be joyful.” Then, as the thought suddenly struck, she turned to Serpentine and added, “The child is the only living thing on Muskluna and you left it there.”

“You do not understand,” Serpentine responded calmly. “The babe breathes in fluid, not in air. It is not fully formed yet. To have brought it into the sphere would have surely killed it.”

Brel-Elno sat down in confusion. She did not understand, did not want to understand. “The child is alone on the moon,” she said, blinking her eye membranes to clear unbidden tears.

The Great Elder, who had sat quietly with calm assurance, abruptly clapped his hands. He too blinked, membranes wrinkling beneath his crusted eyelids. Silence fell.

The old Muskan said, “The chronicles tell us that a man-baby will be born in the dark and cold and evil void and that the child shall bear the likeness of captive and captor. There will be a savageness upon the world and the babe will not be a part of the world until light and peace return. But he will be a part of the world.”

“And how shall he come?” Serpentine asked.

“When he can breathe air, so he will come,” the Great Elder replied mysteriously.

“He is on the moon alone,” Brel-Elno wailed. “He must be brought now.”

“No!” the Great Elder responded. “He must remain. He cannot yet enter the Garnian dimension.”

Brel-Elno hung her head and murmured, “He is Tak’s child.”

“He is everyone’s child,” the Great Elder said softly. He put one hand over Brel-Elno’s. “Go and prepare for your husband’s farewell. Think of the past and the good times and take Tak-Elno to Garn. Let the future bring what it may bring.”

Brel-Elno went from the room and Stefan suddenly said, “I need to find Clare Cavanna. Can anyone help?”

* * *

The hospital room was clinically white. Jean-Claude Bourget sat staring at the president, who lay propped up in bed, his face ashen and slightly drooping on the right side from apoplexy. The general, perched on the edge of his chair, looked nervous and hesitant.

The heart attack that had felled Shean James had been swiftly dealt with, but had been followed by a cerebral embolism, which had left him partly paralysed and unable to talk clearly. His head was now enclosed in a helmet, which pulsed intermittent magnetic fields into his brain in an attempt to encourage reparation. A small keyboard was strapped to his right palm. The embolus, a piece of material from his freshly-diseased heart, had earlier been nullified by non-invasive surgery.

James beckoned to Bourget with his left hand and tapped into the keyboard. Bourget leant forward and read the words on the screen by the bedside table. The screen read:-

Get Seer

Get Cavanna

Get Emminger

Bourget sat back in the chair. James twisted his head, looked at him briefly, and then slowly closed his eyes. Bourget stood and left the room, switching off the lights. The words still glowed in the darkness.

-28-

Trypanosomic gas canisters rained down on Saltzburg, dropping through the low lying clouds in their thousands, shrieking like banshees until they hit the ground or buildings, or landed among screaming crowds of men, women and children. It was mid-morning on a dull, dry day and people didn’t look up until the first wail of the first weapon assailed their ears. Then the sky was full of them, dark avengers from another world.

When each canister landed, the top instantly whirred into action, spinning and separating from the main body to release a vast amount of choking yellow vapour, which swiftly entered the lungs and bloodstream of all living things within its deadly range. People collapsed instantly. Streets were littered with bodies, vehicles ploughed into buildings, walls and each other, some still hovering, twisting in the air like manic bats. Too late, sirens started to howl – the only sound as all others were extinguished. Then they too ceased and the city lay silent, swathed in a two-metre mantle of gas that hugged the ground like a newly laid carpet.

People in higher buildings escaped the gas. They peered down at the carnage below. Some even briefly opened the windows and yelled at the prone bodies, unable to believe they would not rise and answer.

Videophone stations became crammed, tempers flared. Many people were in tears, desperate to contact relatives. Some tried to phone the police or the military but all the lines were engaged. Inside the high buildings there was chaos. People were marooned, unable to venture into the streets. On the streets, all was quiet.

Saltzburg defences were meagre compared to the new installations around Kentucky and Spaceport, but what little it had was marshalled and put on alert. Missile posts were sealed and the freshly formed military were issued with breathing masks. Many of the voluntary contingent, however, were either unconscious in the streets or trapped in the high-rises. Nobody went outside for fear of another attack.

They had received no warning from the West Paludis-controlled satellite warning system and did not know who or where the assailant was.

* * *

Three of the Earth troop carriers hung around the mother ship in far orbit. Jason Ming raised his hand and palmed a switch on his control console. Ten military shuttles spewed forth from each of the ships and swiftly entered Paludis’s atmosphere. There were one thousand troops on each shuttle.

Orbiting satellites recorded the shuttles and the lines between the Paludis continents suddenly hummed. An array of missiles left Saltzburg as the Earth ships closed above, and the sky was crowded with burning plumes. Forerunner scouts destroyed many of the Paludis missiles but four shuttles were destroyed, exploding in balls of flame large enough to be seen from the ground. Despite damage to several other vessels, the rest of the Earth fleet landed at their allocated positions around the city and the battalions disembarked immediately. They had touched down at three locations to the south, north and west, and were twenty kilometres from the Saltzburg outskirts.

* * *

The defence control centre at Saltzburg was on the verge of panic. The commander wanted to know why they hadn’t picked up the gas canisters. All they could do was shrug and say, “They looked like rain on the screen, a heavy rain storm, that’s all.”

“And what the hell dropped them?” the commander asked furiously.

“Clouds,” came the answer. “Nothing up there but clouds.”

The shuttles soon stood out though, peeling in from the top of the screen.

“Big bastards,” the commander said. “Troops, missile carriers.” He suddenly barked at the operatives. “Can we launch? Can we launch?”

“Optimum launch three waves. Launching now.”

Switches were palmed, brows furrowed, screens came to life with trails of white.

Most of their projectiles, they saw despondently, were destroyed before impact. It seemed somehow surreal as they watched it on the screens, as if they weren’t taking part at all.

“Twenty-six alien vessels touched down,” an operative said. He stabbed at the image of a map. “There, there and there.”

The commander paled. Christ! They really were being invaded! A three-pronged attack!

Twenty minutes later, fireballs hurtled through the sky towards Saltzburg, destroying the high rises and incinerating the people within them. Every tall building was targeted and within half an hour the city was devastated. Black trails of smoke pirouetted towards the grey sky. The sound and smell of burning filled the air. There was absolutely no defence, for the fireballs were pure energy and impossible to stop.

Above the broken city, the clouds, driven by the fierce heat, began to disperse and the fourth Earth troop carrier pushed out towards the Einstein Rosen bridge.

* * *

Despite knowing the risk he had taken with the shuttle, its destruction spawned great weariness in Emminger, for with the loss of Vasquez and Cavanna, any hopes of completing his mission to obliterate the kelp had vanished. He paced up and down the cabin in frustration, consumed by a desire to be rid of this troublesome world. He stopped pacing, slumped in his chair and idly palmed a switch. A screen sprang to life. The picture revealed Jorgensen at his post, reclining with his feet up on the console. Why were such imbeciles foisted upon him? The other two crew members were sleeping. They are a little better, Emminger thought, but he felt an intellectual loneliness now Vasquez was gone.

He shut down the screen and opened the blinds to reveal a bright, sunny sky and sparkling, snow-covered plains and mountains. He recognised the restlessness within himself as he stared outside. Freedom. He wanted to leave. But what to do? He ran his fingers through his hair, frowned, felt the urge to urinate, but pushed the need to the back of his mind.

They would detect the Huntsman once launched, of course, but that had always been the case, and with his superior defences there was an excellent chance they would get through to orbit. Everything was automatic so he didn’t need the crew who died in the shuttle and now, with the destruction of the kelp not possible, there was no reason to stay on the surface. He could hold off at a distance, contact Earth, and try to persuade them to let him cripple the planet by direct, destructive means.

But, of course, that hadn’t been the plan. Destroy the economy, not the cities – that had been the plan. Ensure that the sleeping pill could never be made on Paludis again. Ensure no Paludis ships left to attack Earth. Ensure the inevitable collapse of the planet, but maintain its infrastructure. Ensure Earth will dominate. Ensure... Ensure... Ensure. Emminger slapped his hand against the side of his chair. Ensure everything except their own survival! Play cat and mouse. Well, maybe not anymore, he thought.

He stared at the unending whiteness of the polar caps and determined they should launch just after darkness. He felt better for making the decision and wondered whether, when he made orbit, he would turn around and blast the hell out of Spaceport and Kentucky and Saltzburg and all the other piddling citadels of Paludis pretence.

It was noon and he felt hungry. He would relieve himself first and then eat. Emminger rose and Jorgensen’s voice broke into his thoughts, high-pitched, excited.

“Coded message coming in, sir. Direct to you.”

Emminger leapt to the console and palmed the decoder. An electronic voice rang uncomfortably in his ears.

“Space Commodore Jason Ming calling Captain Emminger of Huntsman. There has been another large-scale attack on an Earth city. Millions have been killed. There are several troop ships around this planet. We have permission for full-scale attack of Paludis.

Please note you now come under my command. Do nothing rash. Stay where you are. Do not join hostilities. Estimate is for a short conflict.

Repeat. Do not join hostilities. Stay where you are.

Jason Ming. Out.”

Emminger was trembling, white with anger. They’d called in the heavies. They were going to blast the planet, himself included, if he just happened to be in the way. One thing was for sure – he was not going to stay where he was. He left the cabin swiftly, more determined than ever to leave at nightfall.

Just before dusk, Jorgensen picked up the faint trace of a small vehicle as it approached them low over the ice. It was sending out probe signals, obviously searching for the Huntsman. He immediately called Emminger.

“We have an incoming aircraft – must be unmanned reconnaissance.” Panic edged his voice and he felt his stomach churn with unease.

The words hit Emminger like a sledgehammer. They almost certainly were found. How long before a missile zoomed over the horizon? Seconds? Minutes? He went into automatic, yelling through the intercom at Jorgensen.

“Wake the others! Launch mode!” His hands worked feverishly on the console and the whine of engines echoed through the ship’s structure. He barked at Jorgensen: “Release two motion seekers!”

Jorgensen hesitated before he complied, unwilling to actively give away their position. Then he realised that the probe would probably detect them anyway, despite their camouflage. He palmed the switch, entered the code and watched two traces move towards the approaching vehicle. Within seconds an electronic voice resonated in his ears.

“Enemy destroyed. No further launch required.”

He stared at the screen, biting his lip, expecting at any second a larger and faster trace to appear. The engines reached climax and Emminger’s voice rang out over the intercom. “Launch position! Auto defences live. Maximum thrust.”

Jorgensen groaned and sweat trickled down his temples. Jesus! We are going to shoot out of here! The engines screamed, the hull shook, and Huntsman rose and accelerated skywards at five times the force of normal gravity. God! It’s unbearable! Jorgensen clutched the sides of his seat, struggling to focus on the monitor. Something sparkled. A trace? Movement on the screen. His vision blurred but he thought he saw two traces. Two became three. He prayed that the Huntsman could cope. One of them vanished, then another. He closed his eyes, opened them. The last trace was still there, curving closer. He felt sick, was sick, bringing up his lunch in his lap. Closer. Closer. He braced himself for an explosion, but suddenly the trace was gone. Gone!

His head dropped onto his chest as he sighed with relief. When he raised his eyes, he couldn’t believe what he saw: two further traces dominated the monitor. Not from the planet’s surface, but from space! They were fast, shimmering, and unerring in their approach.

Huntsman’s engines started to die as they neared orbit, but almost immediately surged back into life as the ship’s systems sensed the intrusion and switched over to flee mode. The lights around Jorgensen dimmed and flickered as energies were devoted to a final defence. He looked at the screen. The traces were still there, brighter and seemingly upon them. Before he started to scream he heard Emminger cry out over the intercom, “What the—”

For the briefest of moments, the monitor was alive with light and Huntsman sparkled with lethal veins of destructive energy. Then, in the space of a few seconds, she vanished from orbit, as if swallowed by the invisible mouth of a greedy and callous god. The lives on board were

* * *

It was pitch black when Clare stole down the hill and entered the gardens of Tanberg University. The scent of flowers invaded her nostrils, and small lizards scuttled up and down the slender floodlight masts scattered around the lawn area. She moved furtively, keeping to the shadows, eventually pausing under the needles of a small cane-grass plant.

The doors of the main entrance hall were shut but several office windows glowed with yellow light. Above her head, a strange shape glided across the moon and she recognised the silhouette of a nesvin-cra. Unusual, she thought, this far south. Its strange cry sent a shiver down her spine and she moved forward, working her way down the side of the building until she came to a porch and a door which, she recalled, was the nearest entry to her office. Glancing around, Clare stepped onto the small step and tried the door switch. To her relief, the panel slid open and she nervously entered the passageway. The door closed behind her.

Suddenly, her heart was in her mouth, her mouth dry with fear. If the president’s henchmen were around, she was about to meet them!

Clare moved swiftly and silently towards her office. There appeared to be nobody about. Her door beckoned at the end of the dimly lit corridor. She hastened towards it, passed through, shut it behind her and leant against its comforting solidity. She tried to calm her pounding heart. In the dark, she searched for the lock and engaged it. Only then did she palm the light switch.

Everything was the same, exactly the same. She couldn’t believe nothing had been touched. The computer stood in one corner, and she slowly crossed the floor and brought it to life.

“Manager,” she whispered, “code homestead antipodean, cavanna, earthlog, outwards.”

The monitor flickered and a list of files hit the screen.

“Total of seventeen files,” the computer told her, filling the room with its electronic bark. “As shown for your eyes.”

Clare blinked and swallowed nervously. Too many. Far too many. To the best of her recollection she had only called Earth four times, mostly concerning financial matters. She cleared her throat and picked a file. “Earthlog, outwards fourteen.”

She sat down slowly as she read the words on the monitor:

“Find hereunder further data on definitive genetic code and DNA characterisation of the Paludis kelp genus fucus laminaria marshus. Undoubtedly this could be constructed on Earth from base modules as shown below…”

There followed a series of genetic and molecular diagrams and then...

“There would appear to be a weak link across nodes 2-17 and 2-30, suggesting an attack on chromosome segments could destroy the plants’ ‘right to life’ fringes as described by Nguyen and Henshaw.”

There was more but Clare shut the screen down and dropped her head onto her folded arms. It was true. All of it. Jesus! If James ever found out she’d be crucified. She arched the back of her neck and rubbed it ferociously against the chair’s headrest, as if trying to erase the stigma of the implant’s effects.

Then suddenly, the computer sprang back to life and its monotonous voice echoed around her office. “Well, Miss Cavanna, you return to the scene of your crime.”

Clare sprang back, wide-eyed, knocking over her chair. God! They had hacked her computer. She turned, desperately making for the door. The lock did not respond! She tried again, feverishly palming the plate again and again.

“You will find the door locked, Miss Cavanna,” the computer whined. “Please be seated and await your collection.”

Collection! God! Clare thought. What am I to these people? Three seconds later the light went out. She stifled a scream and stumbled to the chair by the light of the monitor. Then it, too, flickered out and the room was in complete darkness. Clare hunched over and sobbed. Crucify! They would crucify her!

* * *

Selma stood and regarded Kentucky with a wistful expression on her face. She had returned but she didn’t really know why. Something had taken her away from the comfort of her all-too-brief days with Joby and Marta in the valley near Trenkesh-Naisom. Something had tugged at her heartstrings. Another dream? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe something more sinister.

Anyway, she was back, initially helped by Joby and his amazing steed, Sal; brought to the place where she and Serpentine had earlier abandoned her hovercar. From there she had driven the southern road back to Kentucky.

During her short stay with Joby and Marta, her heart had been greatly touched by people whose generosity knew no bounds. Joby, in particular, had been so keen to help it made her want to weep. He had returned from guiding Serpentine and she had immediately asked him to assist in finding her hovercar. There had been an air of lethargy about him, found only in the over-taxed young, as they had said their final farewells. She knew they would never meet again.

Selma had left the car outside the city and climbed a hill to overlook her destiny. Standing with pursed lips as she gazed upon the burnished dwellings, she wondered if anyone would recognise her now. Her hair had been cut short, thanks to the expertise of Marta, and she wore the dress and red sash of the Natural Order. Unlikely, she decided, that anyone would even be remotely concerned about her.

She took a deep breath and started down the hillside. Rain clouds appeared to be building to the south.

* * *

There was only one major ground battle for Saltzburg. After the shuttles had left for orbit, the troops to the north and south assembled their shelters, primed their defences and waited. The troops to the west, fully suited and numbering nine thousand, marched eastward preceded by four lumbering missile conveyors. The road, which normally took the inhabitants of Saltzburg to the beaches of the Amity Ocean, groaned in protest under the alien assault.

Paludis Command Centre in the city traced the enemy approach and assembled the remnants of its ground forces, still encumbered by breathing masks, to meet them. There were over thirty thousand of them, male and female, most mourning relatives or friends already killed. Anger was in their hearts, but so was fear.

Ten kilometres west of the city the Earth battalions stopped, but two of the missile conveyors rolled on. Saltzburg projectiles carved the air asunder as they drove down on their prey, but abruptly went berserk as they passed over the leading vehicles. Only two made the ground, one exploding harmlessly to the south, the other slamming by chance into the edge of the assembled Earth troops and killing over nine hundred. The rest of the Saltzburg missiles curved high into orbit, as if attracted by a huge invisible magnet in the sky. Some minutes later they would seek to return and burn up in the atmosphere.

As if stung into action, all four conveyors released their weapons simultaneously, seeking out the source of the Saltzburg attack, while from the other camps to the south and north other Earth weaponry bore down on the Saltzburg ground force. A final Saltzburg missile somehow took out the third conveyor. Smoke stained the sky and shrieks of terror echoed over the city outskirts. Within five minutes of the commencement of hostilities, the Saltzburg commander put out a surrender call on open frequency, and a brooding silence hung in the air.

The Earth troops marched into the city.

* * *

A satisfactory capitulation, Commodore Jason Ming mused smugly as he gazed down from orbit. The losses among his own troops were less than anticipated, though the destruction of some of the descent shuttles was unexpected and annoying. And, of course, he had a good proportion of his force still in orbit and unused. By now the West Paludis military would know what had happened and would, no doubt, be making their preparations. Just a few days, Jason Ming thought, while I secure the eastern continent. Then I will conquer the west.

-29-

General Bourget viewed the monitor with a forlorn expression and a brow full of deep corrugations. It was apparent the planet was under full-scale attack and West Paludis would be the next target. He felt like he was being dragged into a maelstrom over which he had no control and which was being fuelled by the president’s insanity.

All his life he had considered himself a servant of the public, a military man who obeyed orders without question, but now, haunted by the appalling consequences of the destruction of Huntsman’s shuttle, he was near to rebellion. And he still did not understand Earth’s malicious actions, for no evidence of Paludis activity against the mother planet had been uncovered, no group had come forward to claim responsibility.

The search had been thorough. No leaf had been left unturned except for – well, except for the Muskans. He dismissed the crazy thought from his mind and switched the screen over to the satellite map of the eastern continent, zooming in to see smoke still hanging over the west of Saltzburg. He did not blame the city’s commander for surrendering. No doubt, in the circumstances, he would have done the same.

Of course, West Paludis could send out a message of complete surrender. Lives would be saved and destruction avoided, but while Shean James was in power, capitulation was out of the question. The president still lived with his dream, even though his body was mostly broken.

He wondered how they could possibly have a chance. The Earth war machine was as strong as ever and doubtless equipped with all the latest weapons developed on Centurion. The only advantage Paludis had was superiority in numbers, for the aggressors could hardly transport millions of troops across the heavens. However, Paludis weaponry was probably a generation behind and their mobility totally inadequate. At least they now had a defensive umbrella in place above both Spaceport and Kentucky but that gave little solace against a ground invasion.

Bourget winced as a sharp pain shot through his midriff. I really must see a medico soon, he thought. But as soon as what – all this bewildering mess is over?

And what of the people? How would they react once news of the East Paludis invasion was widely known? James had done a good job preparing them for hostilities, both mentally and logistically, but they were untried, a huge army of raw recruits battling with pitchforks against muskets. Would they fight or demand surrender or would they argue among themselves? Whatever they did, they deserved to know the truth, rather than be subjected to rumours emanating from those few videophone calls that had managed to cross the Amity Ocean prior to enforced communication shut down. Only a handful of military lines remained open.

The east had already asked for help, fervently requesting West Paludis to repel the invader. The assault had clearly been devastating with hundreds of thousands dead or dying. Hospitals were jammed to the roof – if they still had one – and Earth battalions were patrolling the streets. Commercial buildings that remained inhabitable were occupied by those who had lost everything and, Bourget mused, it was doubtful if there had ever been such deprivation and misery on the planet, even hundreds of years ago at the time of humankind’s invasion and the slaughtering of the Muskans.

Sick at heart, the general’s thoughts turned to Shean James. The man was unbelievably resilient. He had now dispensed with the cranial helmet and was starting to form sentences. The medicos judged, with correct care and supplementary treatment, he would be back in his office in two weeks. At least, Bourget thought, the attack on East Paludis should obviate the president’s obsession with personal vendettas. How they dealt with people such as the seer and Clare Cavanna, who could have absolutely no influence on the future of Paludis, paled into insignificance with the advent of the horrendous attack on Saltzburg by the might of Earth’s military.

Bourget sighed and consulted his watch. In one hour he was due to see Shean James, and he was sure that the immediate future actions of his own military forces would then be decided.

The monitor suddenly flickered and the excited face of a communications officer filled the screen.

“General Bourget, sir,” the officer said, “we have received news the Huntsman has been destroyed in orbit.” Bourget’s eyebrows raised and he stroked his chin as the message continued. “She launched rapidly from the north polar icecaps following detection by one of our drones. There is some doubt whether she was hit by our missiles or others that appeared to originate from off-planet.” The officer paused, uncertain what to say next, then he added limply, “We just can’t be sure, sir.”

Bourget raised his hand in acceptance and closed the monitor down. It didn’t really matter which missiles had destroyed the Huntsman. The fact that an Earth ship had perhaps attacked her, ruthlessly applying the edict for no ship to leave Paludis, only served to emphasise they were dealing with a vicious enemy indeed. In light of the Saltzburg attack, it was cold comfort to know the Huntsman was no more. In fact, it made him very nervous. Even if the Huntsman had been obliterated by one of its own, Earth would still blame Paludis – for it would be further fuel for its policy of destruction.

The general wondered how much Shean James had been told of the invasion. In his condition, they may have held back on the totality of the devastation. At least he could tell him about Huntsman. No doubt his blinkered mind would receive that news with great joy.

* * *

Stefan Lattanzis looked at Serpentine and said, “Are you sure about this? Is it the only way?”

The seer nodded. “The only way.”

They were in the cave that the Muskans had given to Serpentine and which they now shared as a resting place. Another bed had been introduced and a small table added for meal times.

“You realise the danger to yourself if you get caught?” the agent asked.

Serpentine shrugged. “If you are with me, the danger is to you, too. You will be accompanying a traitor and an escapee.” He smiled. “Our president would have your guts as well.”

Stefan nodded. “I guess so.”

“So you are happy we will do this?”

“If it’s the only way, then so be it,” Stefan replied. “I presume the Muskans will let us have one of their vehicles.” Remarkable, he thought, that I can talk about the spheres as if they were as mundane a form of transport as a hovercar or a scoot.

“I haven’t asked them.”

“You are going to, of course.”

“I don’t think so.”

A pained expression passed over the agent’s face. “You intend to steal it.”

“Borrow it.”

“Don’t you think they’d give you permission?”

Serpentine pursed his lips. “I went to the moon in the sphere to fulfil a Muskan prophecy. It was at their behest, under their conditions, and to rescue their own kin. I’m not sure how they’d take to using a sphere to recover a lost human, especially when the motives appear so...” he carefully sought the right word, “… personal.”

Stefan didn’t object. “You mean it’s not worth the risk alerting them to our intentions because if they react negatively our chance of getting to Tanberg swiftly is lost.”

“Exactly.”

“You sure you can control that thing?”

“Remember, I went to the moon.”

Stefan grimaced. “How could I forget?”

The plan, the only possible thing to do if they were to locate Clare, was to use one of her possessions from her Tanberg office and for Serpentine to try to trace her through it. Stefan felt uneasy for he knew she could be anywhere, perhaps even on her way back to Earth, but he needed to know and he felt intuitively she was still close by. Or maybe, he mused, that’s just wishful thinking. He also had no doubt that Pas-Elno would have loved to accompany them, but that was obviously out of the question.

Serpentine rose, making for the door.

“We’re going now?” Stefan asked nervously.

“Now,” the seer responded, “whilst the night is with us and to return before the cock crows.”

Stefan frowned and looked around the cave, wondering whether he would ever see its au

* * *

Clare jerked awake, grabbing the arms of her chair for support. She stretched her legs, glanced at her watch, which read just past one thirty, and yawned noisily. The oppressive blackness still held her under siege. The severity of her predicament surged back into her thoughts and she reasoned that they would come for her some time before four o’clock – four-thirty at the latest; well before the campus awoke to the rigours of the day.

She tried to picture the room as she had left it, endeavouring to recall something that could be used as a weapon against the door lock. There was nothing that immediately sprang to mind.

Clare rose and fumbled around the room, feeling with her hands. There must be something, damn it! She found a screen eraser – too small, an aluminium holoframe, an empty plastic plant pot and an aluminium dinner plate. Grasping the plate between her fingers she tried to bend it, grunting with the effort. The metal yielded slowly and she finished the job with her feet, standing on the flange to fold it over. She picked up her improvised tool and sought the door, running her fingers over its facade until she located the lock. Clutching the plate in both hands, Clare then attacked the door, using the misshapen utensil like a knife.

It was noisy but she didn’t care. After ten seconds her fingers felt like they were down to bone and gristle, blood seeping unseen from the broken flesh. She removed her robe, wrapped it around her hands and tried again. Three seconds into the renewed offensive, an alarm sounded from somewhere outside the room. Clare blasphemed loudly, stopped, but then started again with a vigour born of desperation. What the hell! It’s all or nothing!

* * *

Serpentine guided the sphere directly into the main auditorium of the university. It rested there in soundless solitude bathed only by two meagre lights stationed high on the hall walls. The two occupants carefully disembarked.

From orbit, the seer had snatched a glimpse of the dark cloud over Saltzburg, and noticed where others, too, were gathering. He had no doubt that East Paludis was under some threat, either current or in the immediate future. The vision was strong, very strong, torturing his mind with its veracity.

Stefan tentatively ran the beam of his torch around the vast hall, caressing the columns and archways with strong yellow light. He highlighted the sphere and could not help thinking the Muskan vehicle did not seem out of place beneath the pillared symmetrical architecture from ancient Earth.

As Stefan tried to gain his bearings, he failed to notice Serpentine was looking ghastly, most of the blood drained from his face.

“Let’s go,” Stefan called, starting to run, his torch blazing the way.

Suddenly, a distant alarm sounded, breaking the empty silence of the huge hall. Stefan cursed and stopped. Surely they couldn’t have been detected. He glanced at the seer, who seemed rooted to the spot, ran back and grabbed his arm.

“Come on!” he yelled frantically. “I think I know the way!” He yanked Serpentine after him, keeping a grip on the seer’s tunic, and they hastened from the auditorium. Their panting breaths filled the air and their footsteps echoed in all directions as they careered around bends and down corridors. The alarm still sounded, protesting at their invasion.

As they neared Clare’s office, Stefan realised that the siren emanated from its vicinity and slowed his pace, caution replacing alacrity. They approached the door cautiously, the agent holding his pistol at the ready.

They tried the switch with no response. There came a sound, barely audible above the shriek of the alarm – a thump against the door. Christ! Stefan thought. There’s somebody in there!

“Stand back!” he yelled at the top of his voice and levelled his pistol. A single shot and the lock disintegrated. The agent lunged against the door and it gave way. His torch searched inwards and he found Clare, dishevelled and wide-eyed, cowering in the corner of the room.

“Clare,” Stefan said hoarsely. “Is it really you?” He trained the torch back onto his face so she could see.

“Stefan,” she whispered, half-drowned by the pulsing siren.

He surged into the room and grabbed her hand.

“Let’s go,” he snapped, logic rapidly taking over from emotion as he pulled her roughly into the corridor.

“There’s a – side door,” Clare mumbled between gasps for air as they scurried down the passage.

“We’ve transport,” Stefan responded. “In the main hall.”

The alarm stopped and all they could hear was the pounding of their own feet and their laboured breathing. They sped on in blind panic, anxious to escape and, even as they approached the hall, Stefan sensed something had changed. The main doors were flung open, the lights ablaze and three uniformed figures, alerted by the noise of swift footsteps, stood gazing in their direction.

Stefan, almost yelling out, grabbed at both Serpentine and Clare. Too late, though, for they were seen.

“Hold it!” one of the guards yelled. “Don’t move!”

“No way,” gasped Clare. “Follow me.”

They tumbled back into the corridor and two shots seared the architraves, bringing stone down around their heels. They didn’t look back, they just ran, twisting and turning, following Clare’s lead until they were outside, through the side door where she had previously entered.

They sped into the darkness, away from the main garden, up into the surrounding high terrain, seeking the shelter of the trees and the rocks. Despite his long legs, it was Serpentine who stopped first, his burning lungs gasping for air as he leant against a boulder for support. Stefan cocked his ear against the night. As best he could tell there was no sign of a close pursuit. He looked at Serpentine, who was waving them further up the hill and, ignoring the seer’s breathless protestations, searched the nearby terrain for a vantage point that gave him a view over the campus. The main doors were still open, shedding light onto the lawns. There was no sign of movement. He returned to the others.

“I don’t think they’re following,” he said. “They probably don’t want to leave the sphere unguarded.”

Clare shook her head nervously. “We must move further away, further up.” She regarded Stefan desperately and he realised she’d suffered greatly, for her eyes were sunken, her whole appearance frail and tense. The garments she wore offered little protection against the cold night air, and he removed his jacket and put it over her shoulders. She managed a wan smile of thanks.

“I’m all right,” Serpentine said suddenly. “Let’s move on.”

As they journeyed upwards, Stefan cursed both their ill luck and foolhardiness. They had lost a Muskan sphere! Not only lost it but delivered it into the hands of an apparent enemy. If the Paludis authorities worked out what it was, somehow connected it to the Muskans, maybe also linked it to the attacks on Earth, the consequences would be dreadful. With every step up the slopes, the agent’s heart grew heavier. How could Serpentine have been so reckless? How could he have agreed so easily?

Two of the guards in the hall had given chase but being unfamiliar with the building’s layout, had lost their quarry. They eventually made a cursory examination of Clare’s office and returned to the sphere, which stood glistening enigmatically under the lights. Their colleague was running his fingers over its surface, shaking his head.

“You lost them,” he stated without turning as his partners approached.

“No big deal. They won’t get far,” one of the others replied. He nodded at the Muskan craft. “What d’you make of it?”

“It’s weird. Never seen anything like it.” He knocked on the sphere with his knuckles as if expecting a door to open. The noise echoed around the hall.

“Copters up?” the other guard asked.

“Sure are. They’ll find ’em.”

A chirping sounded in their helmets and simultaneously they translated its message.

“Tanberg military precinct, immediately,” one of them said. “Code Red.” He glanced at the others. “What the hell’s up now?”

* * *

Serpentine was not in the best of moods and did not take kindly to Stefan’s comments on the foolhardiness of taking the Muskan sphere, especially as it was the agent who had wanted to find Clare.

“The sphere,” Stefan said, to emphasise his point, “will be worth a fortune to them if they ever figure it out.”

They were sat beneath the shelter of a large rock at the top of the hillside, waiting for dawn to relieve the darkness, for light to see by in order to search for water and food.

Serpentine shook his head. “They’ll never do that. They couldn’t.”

The sun began to filter through the spindly cane-grass canopy above their heads. Stefan yawned uncontrollably and rubbed his eyes. The whine of copters and the constant play of searchlights had plagued their journey up the hillside, but to the best of their knowledge they had escaped detection. They were, however, tired and on edge.

Stefan stole a glance at Clare. The growing light only served to highlight her gaunt appearance. She still wore his jacket over a rather bedraggled tunic.

“I think we’ve got bigger problems,” Serpentine added. “More universal ones.”

Clare and Stefan just looked at him, not in the mood for riddles.

“Just for a second, as we zoned in on Tanberg,” the seer said, “I was able to see East Paludis.” He looked at them sadly. “There was a huge darkness, spreading, devouring.”

Clare laughed nervously, unused to the seer’s melodramatic mode of expression. “Whatever do you mean?”

Serpentine took a deep breath. “I believe the continent is under dire threat – or will soon be.”

“What?” Stefan said incredulously. “You mean like on the moon? You mean nuclear attack?”

Serpentine shrugged. “I don’t know. But it was very dark, very ominous.”

“But we can’t do anything about that,” Clare said. “We have our own problems. What do we do next?”

“Can we possibly rescue the sphere?” Serpentine asked, still feeling guilty at its loss.

Stefan shook his head. “They’ll guard it round the clock. Probably move it soon, anyway.” He glanced at the seer. “Could they possibly link it to the Muskans?”

“Just cannot see how,” Serpentine replied.

Clare frowned. “What exactly is it? What can it do?”

The seer explained and a look of sheer bewilderment passed over Clare’s face.

“I find it hard to believe,” she said. “You mean the Muskans can do this? That they somehow attacked Earth.”

The seer nodded. “Apparently. They hooked onto the tails of the Earth ships. And no Paludis humans know – except us.”

“Oh my God,” Clare breathed. “It’s frightening.” A thought suddenly struck her. “What will the Muskans think when they find you gone?”

“The worst, probably,” Stefan said. “That we’ve deserted them, that we’re even now talking to Shean James and his thugs, that we’ve handed over the sphere.”

Serpentine put his head in his hands. “They’re probably expecting to be attacked by human forces.” He looked despairingly at Clare. “If only you hadn’t set off the alarm we would be back—”

“Well stuff you,” Clare interrupted, hackles rising, despite her fatigue. “What was I supposed to do, sit on my backside until they came to carry me away?” She glared at the seer. “Do you know what I’ve been through? Have you any idea—”

“No, we haven’t, Clare,” Stefan interjected. “We couldn’t...” Clare grew silent, a picture of misery, and looked at the ground. “But you’re right about one thing – we must think about ourselves, despite what else may be happening on this world.”

“Easy for you to say,” Serpentine said. “Not so for me.”

Stefan gave him a hard look. “Are you with us or not?”

“Of course I am,” Serpentine replied.

-30-

Bourget looked hard and long at the president. James did, in fact, appear a great deal better though the muscular tone of his face was not yet fully replenished. The small keyboard which had been attached to his hand was no longer in evidence.

“So,” Shean James said, grinding the words out slowly, “Earth has – attacked – Saltzburg.”

The general nodded. “They’re occupying.”

Shean James held his head on one side. “What do – you think – we should do?”

Bourget bit his lip. He had hoped for direct orders, not a requested opinion.

“The east has suffered badly,” he said at length. “If Earth uses nukes we’ll be wiped out and—”

James held up his hand slightly. “Would – they?”

“I’m not sure.”

“They didn’t – in the – east.”

“They’ll see us as a harder nut to crack.”

James smiled, gave a weird kind of chortle, bizarre shadows playing over his face in the dim light from above the bed. “Oh, yes,” he said. “They – will – indeed.”

Silence descended and Bourget looked around the room uncomfortably. Through the window, dawn was getting a hold on the sky.

“You will – receive – written orders – shortly,” James said eventually, his eyes suddenly gaining fire. “Make – sure you – follow them.” He clutched at Bourget’s sleeve. “Exactly.”

When he got back to his quarters, Bourget found a full report waiting on the discovery of a strange sphere at Tanberg University. He regarded the images on the screen in sheer disbelief. The uncanny object was perfectly round, apparently flawless, about four metres in diameter. He wondered if it was connected to Clare Cavanna; whether it came from the Earth ship that had allegedly taken her off the moon. It could even be a weapon. What the hell were they to do with it? He decided to let the university scientists deal with it on site. The university had already been evacuated. The further away from Spaceport and Kentucky the better, if it was some kind of weapon. He studied the pictures again and shook his head. The last thing he needed now was a mystery.

Fifteen minutes later, the orders came through from Shean James. Bourget stared at them and blanched. Pain shot through his midriff, worse than before, and he held on to the desk until it subsided. The message read:

West Paludis forces are, without delay, to instigate a strike against the occupying intruders on the eastern continent. The attack will consist of the following phases:

Launch of missiles against East Paludis containing the Carides cocktail, which has a life of three weeks and produces human expiry within a few days of contact.

Following the three-week period, a small team of medical military personnel to check out the status of life in East Paludis.

Following the all clear, a land invasion force of a quarter of our infantry to restore order on the eastern continent.

During this time, our defensive umbrellas in West Paludis are to be maintained and expanded.

By Order

Shean James

President of Paludis

Bourget switched the screen off and stared into space. The whole thing was appalling, a nightmare. And, of course, the ravings of one man. He had come across the Carides cocktail in the early days of his training. It was a lethal mixture of bacillus, including Corynebacterium Diptheriae, which caused swift death to any human who contacted it. He shook his head in disbelief. He wasn’t even aware that they had kept the strain alive, but obviously someone had preserved the bacterium. The thought disturbed him immensely.

They would, of course, be exposing their own people in East Paludis, sentencing them to a horrible death as well as the Earth forces. It was the act of a madman. Surely there was no way the West Paludis congress would allow such a thing! But he knew they would – they agreed with James’s tough stance and they feared an invasion of West Paludis above everything else.

For the first time, Bourget actively brought the question of the president’s sanity to the forefront of his mind. Even considering the fact scared the hell out of him. What should he do? Dare he disobey?

He caught a glimpse of himself in the monitor. He really was getting too old for this. If only he could walk away from it all. Palming the screen on again, he stared at the cold words that would change Paludis forever.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon and they were sitting on the warm earth, easing aching muscles. They had initially trekked east, skirting the coast, catching glimpses of the sparkling Amity Ocean through the undergrowth. Then they moved north through an untamed valley towards the main highway.

“They won’t find us now,” Stefan said, munching at a fruit that Clare had picked, “unless we give ourselves away.”

“But we can’t walk to the North-Eastern Peninsula,” Clare pointed out.

“I know,” Stefan responded. “We need a copter.”

Serpentine raised his eyebrows. “A copter! Can you fly one?”

The agent shook his head. “Not my line of operations – but it’s our best course of action.” He looked earnestly at the other two, his gaze lingering on Clare’s face until she turned her head away. She obviously hated him seeing her like this, unkempt and tired, dressed in tattered and makeshift clothes. “I’ll do it,” Stefan continued. “The authorities are interested in you two. They probably think I died on the moon.”

Clare shook her head. “They know I got back by an Earth ship. They could think you returned with me, even though I told them you were left behind.”

“Point is, they can’t know.” He paused to take another bite of the fruit. “And I haven’t crossed James. Your faces are likely to be on every guard’s mempad.”

Serpentine sighed. “I suppose using a car would take too long.”

“Days,” Stefan replied. “I’d like to get to the peninsula as swiftly as possible.”

“And the scoot’s pretty useless,” Clare said. “Too far away now, anyway.”

“So what’s the plan?” the seer inquired.

The agent summoned a grin and stood up. “How do I look?” he asked.

Serpentine frowned and Clare said, “Terrific.”

Stefan drew out his identification and waved it in front of their faces. “I’ll go down to the highway and flag down a car going to Tanberg. Then I’ll commandeer a copter.” He patted his sidearm. “With a little help.”

“Pardon me for saying, but you do look somewhat unkempt,” Serpentine observed.

“All the better,” Stefan responded. “I’ve been searching for you two, haven’t I?”

Clare rose and kissed Stefan on the cheek. “Good luck,” she whispered.

“Thanks,” Stefan said, kissing her on the forehead. He gazed into her eyes, saw the look of concern upon her face. “You know Hourglass Bay, to the north of here?”

She nodded. “I know it.”

“Make for there. Stay out of sight until nightfall. If a copter lands on the beach, it’ll be me. If it doesn’t, stay hidden.” He stared at Serpentine. “Understand?”

The seer nodded, stood and shook Stefan’s hand. “Keep safe.”

“We’re right in all this,” Stefan said. “So if there’s any justice...” He glanced at his watch. “I should be on the beach before ten but don’t worry if it’s longer. I’ll be waiting for the right moment.”

“We’ll be there around seven,” Clare said. She shook his hand. “Take care.”

“You, too,” Stefan mumbled, hugging them both. Then he was gone, disappearing between the tall vegetation. The cry of a nesvin-cra echoed among the canopy, ending in an alarmed screech as a copter skimmed over the nearby terrain.

“So,” said Clare, “let’s go to the beach.”

* * *

Getting to Tanberg had been easy. Stefan had waved down the first car heading south and explained he had to reach the city urgently. The driver, acknowledging his ID, had been most obliging. Conversation had been stifled by Stefan’s fatigue but they had managed a stilted interchange in which Stefan had turned to the subject of the sleeper. The motorist, a junior lecturer in planetary biological diversity, appeared to have some understanding of the topic and indicated he thought a pill had been developed for the Muskans. “A most interesting challenge,” he had said. “Most interesting.”

“In large numbers?” Stefan had asked.

The driver had shrugged. “Maybe. Perhaps not. Although they can make thousands of our pills in a day.”

Rain had started to fall before they reached the campus and the sky was turning purple when Stefan left the car. He thanked the driver for his courtesy and swiftly sought shelter from the rain beneath a patch of vigorous overhead vegetation. Finding a decent vantage spot, he sat down on the grass and began his wait.

Stefan observed the scene below. The doors to the university were closed and there were several guards patrolling outside. There was a strange half-light in the air, the sun seemingly reluctant to release its hold on the sky. Standing on the university lawn were two copters, silhouetted against the pale buildings, but it would be impossible to reach them unseen until it was completely dark.

He shifted slightly and mulled over his simple plan. If he could gain access to a copter undetected he would hide in the tail boom until the pilot entered, then direct his prisoner to take the craft to Hourglass Bay. He lay back and closed his eyes, awaiting darkness, thinking about Serpentine’s dire words concerning East Paludis. He had enough faith in the seer to believe there must at least be some truth in what he had said.

* * *

When it was as dark as it was going to get, Stefan left his hiding place. The rain had stopped but thankfully the clouds remained to hide the moon. He slowly made his way down through the bushes and cane-grass until he crouched at the edge of the lawn. The copters stood some thirty metres away, resembling giant ants sucking moisture from the sodden grass.

Stefan glanced towards the buildings. A few lights were still on, though not enough to relieve the enclosing darkness. He couldn’t discern the guards but doubtless they would still be there. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and started to walk towards the nearest copter, silently praying that the clouds continued to obscure the red moon.

He reached the machine safely and carefully clambered aboard. The cockpit was clean, uncluttered and smelled, the agent thought, like new. He squeezed between the rear seats and settled down in the compact space of the tail section. Glancing at his watch he saw it was almost nine. Through the vehicle’s canopy he could see the university buildings where only three lights now remained to protest against the deepened gloom. There was no sign of any other life.

He settled down for a lonely vigil.

* * *

The Great Elder studied Michelle Sanson through slitted eyes. He noticed the human female could barely disguise the Cimmerian shadow that ensnared her body and which was mirrored in her overall demeanour. Although her appearance had improved since her awakening, there was an air of sickness about her that saddened the Muskan, even though she was human and unknown to him.

“So you are alone with us. Your friends have deserted you,” the Great Elder said.

“They’re not my friends,” Michelle responded swiftly, instantly regretting her alacrity. It was a test, of course, a way for the Muskan to check their story.

“Never fear, for I think they must soon be back.”

Michelle shrugged. They were in the Muskan temple, having slowly ascended various passageways and flights of stone steps to reach it. The journey had taken a full half-hour and both were slightly breathless.

She thought the temple was amazing despite its lack of adornment. There were a few scenic pictures around the walls but no religious icons, no embellishments of any kind, and she found it intriguing the Muskans apparently had no need of such artefacts.

“I am intrigued,” the Great Elder went on, as if picking up her thoughts, “by your reasons for doing what you did on the moon.”

Michelle grimaced. She really did feel tired after the climb up from the Muskan caves, weaker than she knew she ought to be.

“Like the others,” she volunteered, “I wanted to see the future, to be part of it.”

“Maybe even to change it?” the Muskan said, holding his head on one side.

“Change it?”

“The child would have changed it, would it not?” He breathed deeply through his back-tube. “Such a child, a fusion of our races.” He seemed to hold his breath, waiting for her reply. To his surprise, she smiled.

“Only for the better, I think.”

“Ah, for the better.” He studied her aura again, grey for the most part, not yet turning black. “And what would the future hold?” the Great Elder enquired.

For a moment, Michelle’s eyes sparkled. “New worlds, new people, new experiences.”

“Ah, an escape.”

“If you like. Why not?”

A hard edge crept into the old Muskan’s voice. “For thousands of years Muskans toiled to better this world. Never did they think of what lay beyond it, what goodness or evil lay trapped in the stars. They were content to live and die in the truth of their religion.”

“Ah,” said Michelle, mimicking the Great Elder, “your own escape.”

The Muskan bristled slightly. “Not an escape – a certainty. For while you sought to find new physical worlds, we found our new worlds in the Garnian dimension.”

“We have our religions, too, you know,” Michelle responded.

“Ah, so I have read. But your adherence is a little – loose, is it not?”

Michelle smiled and simply nodded. “Tell me about the Garnian dimension.”

“If you are sure,” the Great Elder said. “I do not wish to tire you unduly.”

“I want to know,” Michelle said. “Tell me. Please.”

“Very well, but let us take the praying position.” He lay prone on the floor and Michelle followed his example, resting a metre away from the Muskan.

“A long time ago,” the Great Elder began, “well before humans came to Musk, a cave was discovered that held a huge crystal. In the crystal shone a great light. The finder was so entranced by the light that he broke off a piece of the crystal and took it back to his village. He slept with the crystal next to his bed and during the depth of night, he found he was able to see and converse with his ancestors.

“Next morning nobody believed him, so he offered the crystal to others, who experienced the same thing. Thus, a party journeyed back to the cave and took away other slivers of crystal. However, one of the party vanished before their eyes and this was taken as an omen. Naturally, they assumed the individual had been taken by the ancestors. No more crystal was taken for many, many years.”

The Great Elder paused and breathed deeply before continuing, the harsh sound echoing around the temple.

“But such was our curiosity that it was soon discovered that in certain caves – we called them Spendak-carn – the crystals could move objects from one place to another. On occasions the objects just disappeared, never to return.”

The Muskan turned his head to stare at Michelle. “You must realise this was a great wonder and mystery to our people, who spent their lives organising the basics of life, working with the waxing and waning of the seasons just to survive.”

Michelle nodded.

“And then, of course, the humans came and we found ourselves in a conflict not of our choosing. Only after peace returned, at great cost to ourselves, did we begin to study the crystals in earnest – and in secret. Certain enlightened ones, who we came to call grand elders, realised that the power of the crystal may lead to our salvation. It was our great purpose, our only obsession through many, many generations. And over time we broke through the mysteries.

“After many trials and the loss of many of our scholars, the great event occurred over fifty years ago when one of our number used the power of the crystal to enter the Garnian dimension – and successfully return to us.”

“And what did he tell you?” Michelle breathed.

“Of peace, knowledge, tranquillity,” the Great Elder replied, closing his eyes. “Of conversing with the spirits. But also of hastening back, for the intrusion cannot be maintained for long.”

“We call it the other side – heaven, nirvana, Elysium. We have lots of words,” Michelle said, staring dreamily at the ceiling of the temple.

“So we worked on,” the old Muskan continued, “and in the space of one more generation the spheres were finally developed. Every grand elder must now journey to the Garnian dimension at his inauguration.”

“There must be a connection with time and space,” Michelle volunteered, “for space to be crossed in such a brief moment.”

The Great Elder smiled. “I truly believe in many dimensions. We see and feel only that which we need for survival. Only with the blessing of Garn can we hope to cross the boundaries, to understand the whole picture.”

“Do you really understand?” Michelle asked. “Do you really know how your people can travel through time and space by entering the dimension of the dead?”

“Ah, the dead,” the Muskan responded. He turned his old, wise head towards the Earth woman. “But they are living, are they not?”

Michelle pursed her lips. She hardly dared say it but she did. “The one who was the first to return – was it you?”

The Great Elder chuckled, the sound reverberating a multitude of mirth from the surrounding walls. “Ah, you have guessed well,” he replied.

“And you feel Garn blessed the attacks on Earth?”

The Muskan held out his hands in the full attitude of prayer. “He lets us into his realm but briefly. We presume it must be for good purpose.”

An old chestnut, Michelle thought. They lay in peaceful silence for a while and then Michelle looked towards the Muskan.

“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked.

The Great Elder returned her gaze, a gentle expression on his face.

“You are the mother of the child, are you not?”

“I am,” Michelle answered.

“Then that is as good a reason as any.”

* * *

Jason Ming checked over the message to Shean James once more. As usual he wanted every word to be perfect, every persuasive adjective to carry the perfect annotation with respect to the thrust of the sentence. For, in his experience, the wording of such messages had an enormous impact on how the recipient initially reacted and consequently behaved. The almost subliminal connotations were, he considered, the prime elements of allurement and to be analysed down to the last punctuation mark.

He took a sip from his glass and closed his eyes in a moment of quiet contemplation. Jason Ming was a small man with not an ounce of fat upon his lithe body and he seemed somewhat dwarfed by the vastness of the great ship’s control deck. Within his body, however, was a will of iron and such a determination to succeed that it was not unknown for him to go without sleep for three or four days on end. He regarded the wine in his glass and smiled.

Things were going well in East Paludis. So well, in fact, that his mood had mellowed appreciably. Hence his message to Shean James. The fact that the West Paludis authorities had not responded to the occupation of the eastern continent could mean only one thing – they were just not prepared. The thought gave him immense satisfaction and no little amount of pleasure.

He stared out of the port towards the far distant planet. Green, mostly green, almost staid in its verdancy, yet pretty in its own way. He had read that the natives were a strange race, reptilian and backward, ugly to behold. Some of the human variants, he thought, were no better. Some planets, indeed, had retarded into a state of bestiality, which would have shocked the devil himself.

Jason Ming sighed and studied the message again. Then he erased it. What was he dealing with here, anyway? He composed another, short and to the point. It read:

Surrender or we’ll blow you to the ends of the universe.

Regards,

Ming

He looked again at the planet below. No rush, probably make them sweat a little longer, he thought. All the time in the world.

-31-

Doubts started to invade Stefan’s mind after an hour of waiting. What if the pilot didn’t return until morning? What if they had given up the search? He glanced at the controls. Simple enough but lethal in the hands of a novice, even if he could switch on the power. Suddenly, as if in answer to his subconscious prayers, searchlights played over the lawn and three dark shapes whined overhead, descending to land close by. Instantly, he changed his plan. He would have to abduct one of the incoming pilots and seize his machine.

Stefan scrambled to the front seat of the copter, crouched low and observed the landed craft. The nearest was no more than ten metres away, engine running down, lights still on. He leapt from the cockpit and raced across the grass. The other two copters were sheltered behind the one he was approaching. He closed on his target from behind, waited until the pilot started to open the door, then leapt forward and slammed the muzzle of the pistol into the pilot’s teeth.

“Back inside, quick!” Stefan snarled.

The pilot jerked his head away and stared wide-eyed at his shadowy assailant. He opened his mouth to yell but Stefan pushed the pistol into his face again.

“Not a sound. Back in.” Stefan sounded hoarse, like an animal.

The pilot, bleeding from the lips, retreated into the cockpit, shear dread on his face. Stefan clambered after him, casting a swift glance over to the other two machines. Their pilots were both kneeling down near the tails of their respective craft, no doubt performing some post-flight check.

Stefan held the weapon at the pilot’s head. “Up. Hover at five metres.”

The whine of the twin engines rose in crescendo as the pilot pushed the throttle forward. As the copter rose, Stefan leant out of the door and swiftly put two rounds into each of the four canopies below. At least that would keep them busy for a while.

He moved the gun back onto the pilot, somewhat belatedly checking he was unarmed.

“Right, friend,” he said. “Move east to the sea.”

The pilot was another of the president’s mercenaries; Magellan of course, no doubt originally brought in to work on the dredgers but now seconded to the military. He looked in bewilderment at the agent.

“You’re police,” he sneered. “You’ll be burnt in oil for this.”

“Probably,” Stefan replied as they gained height and moved away from the campus. “Keep low. Fly east till we hit the sea. Then follow the coast north.”

The copter droned and they flew on, a dark shape in the night sky. Stefan glanced at his watch. Ten fifteen. Not too bad. The clouds had parted and the moon had found the heavens. Ahead he saw a glint of ocean.

“North up the coast,” he told the Magellan.

The pilot was sweating, strange pale red secretions trickling down his brow.

“They’ll bring us down,” he rasped, “as sure as—”

He never finished the sentence for the copter was suddenly caught in a ferocious gust, which tumbled the craft like a helpless feather in the wind. Stefan was flung against his restraints and he saw the horizon twist and somersault as though gravity had lost control of its own nature. The copter’s correction devices pulsed into action and then a fearful booming sound echoed all around them, shaking the bones in their bodies and the teeth in their heads.

Within a minute, they were picked up and hurled five kilometres out to sea. Waves tossed and turned direction beneath them and, it seemed, the remaining clouds scurried to keep pace, changing shape and colour before their eyes. Following his initial blaspheming, the pilot had managed to correct the craft and, when the wind ceased its violence, he switched to automatic hover. Both men were battered and bruised and not a little disorientated. Blood trickled down the Magellan’s chin.

“Face the coast,” Stefan ordered, his eyes seeking land.

The copter rotated and they saw what appeared to be thousands of shooting stars climbing into the sky above the city of Tanberg. Immediately, Stefan thought Tanberg had been attacked. Has Serpentine’s dark shadow already spread west? A terrible wave of depression overcame him and for the first time he began to entertain misgivings about Paludis’s future and very survival.

“Shit!” the Magellan said suddenly, palming a switch. “There’s a missile approaching.” He watched the trace intently and then relaxed. “It’s hit the water.”

Stefan nodded. “Blown off course.” He eyed the pilot. “Get back to the coast. We’re going to Hourglass Bay.”

The pilot nodded, just thankful to be alive. “I know it.”

“Fine,” Stefan responded, keeping his pistol trained.

“What was it?” the Magellan asked, as they skimmed over the waves.

Stefan shrugged, studying the map display on the canopy. He cast a glance towards Tanberg. There were fewer shooting stars now, just occasional silver bursts into the sky.

The copter was banking even before Stefan issued the next order, and then the shore came into view, a broad silver line etched onto a dark coast, and somewhere down there, Clare and Serpentine.

“Three minutes,” the pilot said. Stefan checked his watch again. Ten twenty-one. He fervently hoped Clare and the seer had made it safely.

Soaring in over the surf they saw the seashore was strewn with debris, and several uprooted cane-grass plants had toppled onto the upper reaches of the sand. The copter settled down gently and they disembarked. A still peace belied the devastation that littered the beach. The moon shone through silver-lined clouds, illuminating a large lizard scuttling for the cover of the bushes further down the shore.

Stefan gestured the pilot away from the machine. There was a strange smell in the wind, like burning electrics and bad cooking mixed together. As he surveyed the sand in more detail, the agent shuddered. The branches, leaves and dead wildlife littering the ground seemed to represent the decay of the entire world. He peered towards the trees and bushes that lined the beach and called Clare’s name. There was no response. He called again and a dark, stooping figure burst from cover and made its way onto the beach a little distance away. The seer?

“Is that you, Serpentine?” Stefan yelled.

The shadowy figure staggered some way towards them and stopped, beckoning for them to follow.

“Can you come,” the shadow called. “Clare’s hurt.”

Stefan’s sigh of relief was mixed with fear, but, he thought, at least it was them. “Let’s go,” he said to the pilot.

As soon as they set off, the seer turned and headed back into the bushes. They followed and found Clare lying on the ground, a compress of sand and leaves applied to her forehead. Stefan shone his torch and cursed. There was blood all down one side of her face. With one eye on the Magellan, he knelt and looked closer, felt her pulse.

“She was hit by debris during the storm,” Serpentine explained. He looked sadly at the agent. “She needs treatment.”

Stefan nodded. “We can’t go back to the Muskans now. We’ll have to take her to Kentucky.” He looked at the Magellan. “How long?”

“Perhaps two hours. If the fuel rod holds out,” the pilot replied sullenly.

Serpentine was looking at Stefan as though the agent was crazy. “Why Kentucky? What’s wrong with Tanberg for God’s sake?”

Stefan stroked Clare’s cheek as he replied. “I thought you’d have guessed. There were stars shooting out from Tanberg, millions of them. Something bad has happened there.”

The seer shrugged and shook his head. “I think the fools may have tried to break into the sphere. The energy release...”

Stefan cried, “Then it’s our fault.” He looked at Clare, so vulnerable on the ground. For the sake of one life, many had probably been lost.

Stefan looked at the Magellan, who seemed restless, and trained his gun at the pilot. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, recognising the signs. He gave the pistol to the seer, beckoned the Magellan to take Clare’s feet, and lifted her limp body by the arms. Thus laden, they made their way back to the beach.

Considering their burden, they made reasonable progress, but by the time they stood in the insect-like moon shadow of the copter Stefan’s arms were screaming for a rest. The Magellan appeared less distressed but nonetheless heaved a sigh of relief as they placed Clare gently into the rear of the copter. Serpentine stood and watched, still levelling the pistol in the general direction of the pilot.

Stefan looked at the seer, held his hand out for the weapon, and said, “You can sit next to her, keep an eye on her. I’ll look after the pilot.”

To Stefan’s surprise, Serpentine backed away a step. “I can do that,” the seer said, “but we cannot go to Kentucky or for that matter, Spaceport. It would not be wise – for many reasons.”

Stefan was astounded. “Just give me the gun,” he said. “Clare needs immediate attention.”

The seer shook his head. “I know she’s hurt but I know she will be alright. We will take her north to some friends of mine.”

Stefan raised his eyes to the sky and the Magellan shuffled his feet nervously in the sand.

“North?” the agent said. “How far north?”

“Near Trenkesh-Naisom.”

“That’s much further,” Stefan protested, despairingly. “She could die.”

“She will not die. I’ll treat her in the copter,” Serpentine said, waving the pistol. “Get in both of you.”

Stefan cursed under his breath as he and the Magellan clambered into the front seats and the seer sat in the back next to Clare.

“What’s the fuel situation?” Serpentine asked before the Magellan fired the engine.

“There are spare fuel cells aboard,” the Magellan answered gruffly. “We’ll get a warning when a new one’s required. We’ll have to land to change.”

Serpentine seemed undecided for a moment, but then seemed satisfied. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Towards the barrier.”

The pilot palmed the engine and touched a red button. “Emergency call,” he said. “It might just prevent us from being shot down.”

The copter rose, twisted and headed north, skimming the cane-grass canopy.

“Why are you doing this?” Stefan asked when they had reached maximum speed. “What the hell’s come over you?”

Serpentine pursed his lips. “I told you. Kentucky is not a safe place to be, neither is Spaceport.” The seer put his left hand on Clare’s brow as he spoke, gently massaging the temples. Stefan turned and watched him fearfully. “It’ll help keep her in this world,” the seer added, by way of explanation.

“Not safe for us or for everybody?” Stefan asked, drawing an inquisitive glance from the Magellan.

“For us definitely, for everybody probably.”

“Jezza! What’s happening to this planet?” the pilot interjected.

“Because of what occurred at Tanberg?” Stefan asked.

“I don’t really know what happened at Tanberg. I thought it was just a bad storm,” the seer responded. “I don’t believe it’s an Earth attack.”

“East Paludis then.”

“I only know what I feel,” Serpentine said. “There is a great darkness.”

Stefan glanced at Clare, thankful to see there appeared to be a little more colour in her cheeks. “You risk her life on one of your whims,” he said.

“Have faith,” Serpentine replied. “She’s a survivor.”

The copter flew on, drifting over the lights of inland villages. There was no sign of any other air traffic, although several large flocks of nesvin-cra, outstretched wings reflecting moonlight, could be seen cruising lower altitudes. The clouds gradually disappeared as they moved north, to reveal a sky teeming with stars. It is quite beautiful, Stefan thought. Surely it could not be destroyed.

Two hours into their journey a warning beep sounded in the cockpit and the pilot brought them down onto an isolated knoll covered by moss and boulders.

“Where do these machines store their fuel cells?” Stefan asked the Magellan.

“Tail boom. There’s a coded access panel,” the pilot replied, turning to look at the pistol in the seer’s hand. “I’ll have to get out.”

“How far to Kentucky?” Serpentine asked.

“An hour, maybe less,” the pilot replied, looking at the seer as if he was deranged.

“And to the mountains of Trenkesh-Naisom?”

“Around three hours. Why?”

To Stefan’s surprise, Serpentine offered him the pistol. “You choose now. You know my thoughts.”

The agent looked at the weapon, then slowly extended his hand and took it from Serpentine’s grasp. They looked at each other searchingly, and Stefan shook his head. The Magellan stayed in his seat.

“I still choose?” Serpentine asked.

“Let’s get back to civilisation,” the pilot said. “This guy has severe problems.”

“Go and refuel,” Stefan ordered. “And remember, I have the pistol.”

With a grunt, the pilot dropped from his seat and walked to the back of the copter. There was a hiss as he released the access panel.

Stefan got out and stretched his legs. He leant on the door frame, watching the Magellan load the new cells. Above them the sky was bright with light but the moon and the myriad stars did little to ease the agent’s mind. He cast a glance at Clare, still deathly pale in the back seat, and rued the day he had journeyed to Serpentine’s lair.

* * *

Bourget hated what he saw. There before him stood a row of missiles each carrying a germ warhead and all programmed to fall out of the sky above Saltzburg. The thought of releasing them made his flesh creep. Various adjectives swam through his mind: barbaric, evil, immoral, frightening. None of them had the power to express the feelings that threaded purposeful tendrils through every sinew of his body. In his heart he felt despair deeper than any he thought the human spirit should be allowed to suffer. Was he to release these dark angels of death and suffering? Never had he been responsible for an action that would cause such a catastrophic loss of human life. Yet he had been directed here by presidential edict, and the foe had devastated Del-Shangi and Saltzburg.

He turned and made his way up the ramp to the control room, glad to be rid of the sight of the missiles. Some, perhaps many, wouldn’t breach the Earth force defences, but even those would release their deadly cargo in the air above the eastern continent and the Carides cocktail would fall gently to earth. He shook his head and looked at his watch. President James would soon give him the order. He was to sit and wait, alone.

The place was Doon, a long-established military training camp at the head of the Tanberg Gulf. The area teemed with militia and military vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Hidden underground, at least for the moment, were the laden missiles, crude but deadly. The arming of the missiles with their lethal cargo had taken just a few hours. Many of the Tanberg University technical staff had been stationed at Doon weeks ago, seconded to the military effort, and to them had fallen the task of ensuring the missiles were safely prepared.

Bourget was quite shocked that a man in his position had been left in the dark concerning some of the university research, yet here he now was in control of one of the more deadly outcomes. His stomach churned, and as he settled into a chair, watching several personnel scurry around the base enclosures of the lethal projectiles, he was near to revolt. He could disappear. Get lost. Become a member of the Natural Order.

Or, when the time came, he could palm the button.

* * *

Rain was falling in a steady drizzle as Selma turned into the road that led to her domicile. It was not yet fully dark and the final vestiges of sunlight creeping through a solitary hole in the clouds had turned the aluminium domes of the dwellings to a blood red. The roadway, smooth and black and shiny, snaked like a ribbon through the glistening streetscape and dark, low clouds threatened to crush the buildings beneath their ponderous weight.

Strangely, she’d encountered few individuals as she walked through the streets and, like on the drive south, very little traffic. It was as if a giant hand had been placed over the mouth of Kentucky, stifling its usual raucous behaviour. Selma assumed most people were indoors and she wondered if a storm was approaching.

She stopped outside her home, unable to resist a glance back to that part of the road where she had been abducted by Serpentine. Serpentine! Where was he now? She palmed the switch, pressed the code buttons in the right sequence and her door slid open. Entering, Selma turned on the light and the door closed behind her. The rain suddenly increased in ferocity, and she heard its rattling on the dome of the house. She looked around. Nothing had been disturbed, nobody had gained entry.

She strolled into the lounge and sat down. The videoscreen stared at her blankly. Selma switched it on. There was a message scrolling across the bottom of the monitor. She stared at it in amazement, leaning forward in the chair. Then she shook her head and palmed the screen off, then back on again. The message was still there, scrolling innocuously over a documentary film displaying the attractions of Martian architecture. A change of channels did not remove the words. A cold, dark chill seemed to grip her mind and Selma just sat there, unable to move even a finger. The words clutched at her sanity:

Following a savage attack on Saltzburg, Earth forces are now occupying East Paludis. West Paludis authorities have every reason to suspect an assault on our continent is imminent. Our forces are well prepared and confident of repelling the aggressor. If you are not involved in any military or civil defence body, please stay in your homes...

After several minutes Selma rose, left the screen on, and walked through to the bedroom. She changed into her work uniform and sat on the bed, staring at the red sash of the Natural Order as it lay on the cover. If Kentucky was to be attacked, she would have been better staying with Joby and Marta. Earth forces! It didn’t make sense. Why were they here? Should she go to work? Was nurturing babies not important anymore?

She left the house and went next door. There was nobody in, so she tried further along.

“Please,” she said, as an elderly man answered the door. “What’s going on? What’s this about an invasion?” Raindrops trickled down her face.

The man looked at her quizzically. He was tall and frail with a head full of grey hair, large bags hung under his bloodshot eyes. Selma could not recall seeing him before.

“I’ve been away,” Selma added. “I don’t understand the message on the screen.”

“It’s that fool, James,” the man replied eventually. “Thinks he can take on the entire universe.”

Selma paled. “So it’s true. We’re going to be attacked.”

The man shuffled his feet. “Won’t worry me none,” he said. “I’ve had my share of implants, transplants and injections. I’m about done for this world, anyway.”

Selma backed away, turned and ran back to her home. Something niggled at her mind, something she had to do. A copter swooped low over the rooftops, the sound whining through her head, and she panicked, expecting some kind of attack. Frantically, heart beating madly, she fumbled with the door code and burst into her home. The words were still crossing the screen. She slumped in a chair, pondering what to do. She just couldn’t wait here to die!

Tomorrow, she decided, she would go to work early. She was desperate to return to normality. Selma switched off the screen, walked into the bedroom and dropped like a wet rag doll onto the bed. Fatigue overtook her and, within minutes, she was asleep.

In her dreams, she was trapped in a cage. Only her arms could reach through the bars. A dark figure approached and leered at her: round, fat features, full of stupidity and venom.

“Earth person,” the lips sneered at her. “Earth maggot.”

She pushed her hands through the bars and grabbed at the man’s throat, feeling his Adam’s apple squirm beneath her grip. Selma squeezed and her tormentor dropped to the floor, his head rolling to face the cage. Only then did she recognise the face. It was a face she had seen close up before – it was Shean James, President of Paludis!

-32-

The copter swooped low over the valley, chasing its shadow as the morning sun ascended out of the ocean. Below was the river, a silver ribbon between folds of green. Higher up the enclosing hillsides, shades of grey and brown competed with each other, only merging and paling when they met the blue of the sky. To the north, the white peak of Trenkesh-Naisom dominated the skyline.

Serpentine peered downwards, searching for Marta and Joby’s settlement. The first thing he saw was movement – Sal, Joby’s lizard, upset by the noise, scuttling for the shelter of a group of high cane-grass plants. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed. The Magellan nodded and the copter arced downwards to land smoothly no more than sixty metres from the dwelling.

During the last few hours of the flight, Clare had murmured sporadically and on one occasion brought her right hand to her brow where Serpentine continuously massaged. She looked better but the seer worried that she might slip into a coma.

As the whine of the copter’s engine died, Stefan saw two figures slowly approaching from the homestead. He turned to Serpentine and said, “You know these people?”

The seer nodded. “They’re good people. You won’t need the pistol.”

The Magellan dropped from the vehicle, walked and stretched. Serpentine followed him and waved to Joby and Marta.

“It’s me, Serpentine,” the seer called, hoping to ease their fears.

Both broke into huge grins and Marta clapped her hands as they hastened towards him. Stefan watched from the cockpit.

“We have a sick girl,” Serpentine said after they’d embraced. “Head injury.” An expression of concern overcame his face. “She’s been unconscious for several hours.”

Marta peered into the cockpit at Clare, nodding to Stefan. “We need something to carry her on,” she said, feeling for her pulse. She glanced sympathetically at the agent. “The beat is strong. She will certainly live.”

Stefan nodded and introduced himself, and as they swiftly shook hands he noted the firmness of Marta’s grip. Joby returned to the house with Serpentine and Stefan walked to the back of the copter. He called the pilot over and, waving the pistol in his direction, ordered him to open the access panel. The Magellan didn’t argue and Stefan removed the fuel cells and the remaining spares, placing them in the ample pockets of his police uniform.

Joby and the seer appeared carrying an old door and a mattress. Together, they manoeuvred Clare out of the copter and took her into the homestead, placing her onto the bed that Selma had last occupied. Marta immediately began seeing to her needs.

Serpentine was distraught to find that Selma was no longer with Joby and Marta. He held his head and moaned in a peculiar child-like way. Then he asked, “When did she go and where did she go?”

“A few days ago,” Joby replied. “To Kentucky, she said. I took her to find the car you had left.”

The seer groaned again and Stefan knew there was more to them coming here than the seer had divulged.

The Magellan, sitting in the corner of the room, sniggered and said, “I told you he was mad.”

Stefan walked up to the seer, placed both hands on his shoulders. “What are you up to?” he asked. “What have you done?”

The seer’s huge eyes stared back at Stefan. “I have to go after her,” he said.

“To Kentucky!” Stefan was incredulous. “We’ve just spent hours going in the opposite direction.”

In the corner, the Magellan laughed.

Serpentine looked in despair. He grabbed Stefan’s arm and led him outside where they walked to the copter and stood in its shade. The seer began to talk.

“After the rescue of Clare, I would have brought the sphere here,” the seer said, “picked up Selma, taken you and Clare to the peninsula. There is little time loss, you understand. And then...” He looked desperately at Stefan, willing him to comprehend, “… then returned to Kentucky.”

Stefan took a deep breath. “You were going to steal the sphere anyway. You were going to come here and get Selma. Clare’s rescue just gave you the perfect excuse.” He frowned. “Why Kentucky?”

Serpentine observed the sky, the hillside, the grass. “The darkness approaching,” he said mysteriously, “it is the spawn of Shean James.”

The agent shook his head, not understanding.

“It is essential,” Serpentine continued, “if the darkness, the approaching wave of evil, if it is to be stopped, then Shean James must also be stopped. He must be the first cog removed.”

Stefan was stunned. He could not believe his ears for he had always regarded the seer as a peaceful man, by no means a revolutionary.

“You mean you – and Selma – want to eliminate the President of Paludis.” He could hardly say the words. The whole thing was preposterous.

“We must do something,” Serpentine responded, “if Paludis is to be saved. Maybe just kidnap him, get him away from his position of power.”

“Good God!” Stefan gasped, wondering whether the Magellan was correct in his opinion of the seer’s sanity. The agent shook his head. “Good God,” he repeated.

“With the sphere, it would have been easy – a few seconds work once we knew where James was.” Serpentine pursed his lips. “Now it will be much harder.”

A thought suddenly struck Stefan: “If you were to meet Selma here, why did she go on her own to Kentucky?”

Serpentine smiled strangely. “I did not expect her to leave here so soon. She must have had a stronger hatred for Shean James than I thought, or maybe she just sensed that time was critical.” He shrugged. “But we always arranged for a back-up rendezvous – and, of course, we were delayed. Not only that, but we lost the sphere.”

“But you could not have known about the sphere when you left Selma,” Stefan observed. “How were you going to accomplish all this without it?”

Serpentine smiled again. “You forget who I am and what I can see.”

It was the kind of answer that would normally have infuriated Stefan but he had other suspicions running through his mind. He grabbed the seer by the arm. “You made her do this, didn’t you? You got into her head and made her do this. That’s why you’re scared – in case she goes for Shean James on her own.”

The seer took a step backwards. “Please understand – it is necessary. James must be nullified but Selma won’t act on her own.” He looked cunningly at Stefan. “I could have left the peninsula without you. But Clare is your friend and you are still mine, I trust.”

Stefan felt weak under his gaze. “Did I make the wrong choice when you gave me back the pistol? We could have gone directly to Kentucky. Got Clare to a proper hospital,” he said weakly. “You could have waited for Selma there.”

Serpentine shook his head. “We would have been caught. Caught or shot down. Not just me, but you and Clare also.”

“But you can’t just go and murder the president!” Stefan yelled. It was against all his training, all his instincts, even if it was supposed to save the entire planet!

Serpentine held up his hands. “Often history tells us one man can cause the death of millions. Is it not so?” The eyes burnt into Stefan’s and the agent felt his will weakening. “This deed must be done.”

Stefan sighed. “How will you get there?”

“The copter – just me and the Magellan.”

The agent shook his head. “He can’t be trusted. He’ll find a way of getting you captured.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll need the pistol.” Stefan felt as if the last thirty years of his life had been in vain. Was he about to aid and abet a murder?

To Stefan’s relief, Marta called out from the door of the homestead. “It’s Clare. She’s regained consciousness.”

* * *

Selma rose with the sun, showered, ate breakfast, dressed in her spare uniform and left the house. Outside, the walkways were still damp but the sun was breaking through patchy cloud to create golden puddle images beneath her feet. The deserted streets were dreamlike, a parody of what they were normally, even at that early hour, as if the threatened war had already come and gone and left no survivors. In the distance, she could see the twin towers of the hospital dwarfing the surrounding buildings – a palace among the slums.

Weaving through alleys, Selma made good time and as she crossed a rare piece of vacant ground she saw her first person of the morning. She waved and called out but the man only turned to look at her, then ran in the opposite direction. Selma stopped for a moment, unnerved and breathing deeply. The sun disappeared behind a dark cloud and she hastened on.

Turning the corner that led to the hospital, Selma observed there were only a few cars parked in front of the entrance, and while this did not surprise her considering what she knew, or thought she knew, it looked strange and somehow added to her discomfort. She was early, of course, but not that early. Climbing up the steps she walked into the foyer.

To her complete surprise, the registrar was on duty.

“Selma el Fadil!” he cried. “You are returned.”

The registrar was a tall, thin man with sparse grey hair and a paradoxical dark, clipped moustache which gave him the appearance of a military gentleman from Earth’s ancient past. Despite the significant changes to Selma’s appearance, his well trained eye had recognised her immediately.

Selma walked over and perched on the corner of his desk.

“What’s happening, Jansen?” she asked. “Where is everybody?”

A look of pain sprang to his face. “Where you been, girl? To the moon? The young ones have all gone off to prepare for war, the old ones have fled the town. They don’t want a taste of what happened at Del-Shangi.”

Putting her hand to her brow, Selma grunted. “Is all that possible – in so little time?” She looked at him imploringly, challenging him to admit it was all a huge mistake.

The registrar cleared his throat. “Not just possible. It happened. President’s edict.” He shook his head slowly. “Seemed almost like it happened overnight.”

Selma raised her eyebrows at the mention of Shean James.

“Where is the president?”

Jansen shrugged. “Still here, I think.”

“You mean he’s in this hospital?”

Jansen nodded. “He had a stroke – while you were absent without leave. Recovering well though. Must be built like a horse.”

Selma didn’t bother to explain her time away. She looked at the registrar quizzically. “Why are you here, Jansen?”

“Like I said, girl, some have gone to war, some have just fled. I’m too old for war and I’ve nowhere to flee to.”

“But if the bombs fall...?” Are some people remaining in the city like this, Selma thought, just waiting for death to claim their tired and sorry souls? Suddenly, she felt terribly sad.

Jansen smiled ruefully. “In ancient times,” he said, “captains used to go down with their ships.”

Selma didn’t understand. “Who else is at the hospital?” she asked.

“Not many. Just a skeleton staff, you might say,” the registrar answered, smiling at his weak attempt at mirth. “Except for the president, of course. There’s a full team supporting him.”

Selma nodded thoughtfully. “I might just check out the birth sector.”

Jansen shrugged. “Doubt if there’s anyone there.”

“But the babes,” Selma responded, “who’s looking after them?”

A sorrowful expression overcame Jansen’s face. “I think they just let them be. They have no future anyway.”

Without another word, Selma turned and walked swiftly across the foyer and down the corridor. She passed open doors leading to wards full of beds, the beds full of patients. And all of the patients were sleeping. After passing several such wards, and with her suspicions mounting, Selma stopped outside the next door then went inside. Every bed was full, every occupant asleep. She looked around for staff, someone in charge, called out. There was nobody. Only the patients.

The walls echoed her shouts. She approached the nearest bed and studied its occupant – a woman, middle-aged, quite pretty but very pale, her chest rising and falling slowly. Selma shook her shoulder, took a step back, the truth dawning. The pill! They’d given every patient the damned sleeper!

Suddenly the room became very cold, freezing her to the bone, and in her eyes the ward became a morgue, housing the bodies of the dead. Rallying against the cold, a boiling anger grew inside her breast. How could they? How could they leave them like this to die obliviously among the fire and wind of an Earth attack? Yet, she considered almost in the same breath, was it really that horrific? At least they would not know the terror of imminent death. Her own thoughts frightened her and, taking a final glance at the woman’s face, so calm and peaceful, she fled from the room.

The door to the Reproduction Chamber was locked and as Selma gazed through the small window, her heart sank. All the bays were in darkness. They must have turned off the power. She hurriedly searched the corridor for something to force the door, returning with a small chair with metal legs. After several energetic thrusts the lock gave way and the door slid open. Light from the corridor spilled inside, Selma entered, found the master switch, and turned on the power.

Down each side of the room, shafts of deep green light burst forth from the rows of incubators set into the walls. Selma’s face took on a vivid, verdant hue as she approached the nearest viewing port. She peered nervously inside. The foetus was some fifteen centimetres long, blue and lifeless and pitiful. A gasp escaped from Selma’s lips and she felt sick, powerless, drained of all energy. As if in a dream, she drifted from incubator to incubator, child after child, her footsteps echoing eerily in the vast, cold chamber.

They were all gone, every one of them, even those who were almost ready to emerge. It felt like the end of the human race. She sank to the floor and huge sobs shook her body. Part of her wanted to stay, to die with them, but eventually she struggled to her feet and walked unsteadily to the door. With an immense sadness weighing down her heart, she switched off the power and left the undeveloped infants in peace.

She took a side entrance out of the hospital and walked home, her mind numb, devoid of all thought. The sun had not lasted long and a steady drizzle now fell from low, grey clouds. Despite her melancholy, one sentiment kept creeping to the surface, clawing its way through the ice that held her brain – she must now wait for Serpentine. Serpentine would come.

* * *

Serpentine nursed the pistol in his lap and stared out beyond the pilot’s broad back into a threatening sky. Darkness seemed to gather around them as they flew south, slowly growing with increasing oppressiveness. The moon was not to be seen and there were no stars. The incessant blink of the emergency beacon warning light pulsed from the copter’s console, hopefully keeping any curious hounds at bay.

As they droned on beneath savage clouds, the seer pondered upon the fate of the Magellan. The safest thing to do would be to kill him. However, despite his pernicious feelings towards Shean James, the prospect of taking life did not appeal in the least.

Serpentine sighed and endeavoured to picture Selma’s home in his mind. It would not be easy to locate from the air, especially in poor light. However, he did carry a plentiful lock of Selma’s hair in the pocket of his tunic, kindly given to him by Marta, who had kept it for sentimental reasons. It was his fervent hope that he could use his powers to focus on the girl’s current whereabouts.

The blare of the copter’s speaker rudely interrupted Serpentine’s meandering thoughts:

“Copter zero nine. You are broadcasting an emergency signal. Give me your details, please.”

Serpentine craned forward as the Magellan turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. Below them the lights of a highway headed south. Rain splattered the transparency.

“Copter zero nine. Are you receiving?”

The seer lifted the pistol, gestured the pilot to unclip the microphone from his helmet. Serpentine took it and spoke swiftly in clipped tones.

“This is copter zero nine. We have a severely injured trooper on board. Training accident. We are going direct to Kentucky hospital.”

There was silence for a moment, then: “We read you zero nine. Negative on Kentucky. Go west, direct to Spaceport hospice. Kentucky medical staff have been assigned to military duties. Repeat – divert to Spaceport.”

Serpentine grew pale and bit his lip. “We read you. Thanks for the directions. We’ll need to refuel. Continuing to Spaceport. Finish.” He switched off and gave the microphone back to the Magellan.

“You crazy bastard,” the pilot said. “They’ll bring us down.”

The seer shook his head. “Continue to Kentucky but arc around for a few seconds, as if you could peel away towards Spaceport at any moment.” He peered through slitted eyes into the night, searching for city lights. “When I tell you, drop this machine down to as low a level as you can without grinding us into the dirt.”

The Magellan sighed heavily. “Crazy, crazy.”

Serpentine put the muzzle of the pistol against the nape of the pilot’s head. “Just do it,” he said savagely. Feeling inside his pocket for the sachet of Selma’s hair, he held it in his left hand, caressing it between thumb and forefinger. He pictured her face in his mind, her beautiful deep eyes, her easy laugh, her taste for adventure. He even pictured her heart-rending distress after the miscarriage.

In the distance, he saw the lights of Kentucky dancing before his eyes and pressed the swatch of hair against his temple. She swam into his vision like a mermaid, drifting through deep green waters and just for an instant, one of the lights before him grew brighter, shining like a beacon through the deep, black night.

The speaker blared: “Copter zero nine. Change course for Spaceport immediately please. You are veering off track.”

Serpentine slapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Down now!” he yelled. “Like a stone.”

The copter bucked and sank. In the dim cockpit light the seer’s face turned green. The ground raced towards them. Serpentine pointed to the right. “Over there. Carefully. And cut the signal,” he grated through clenched teeth.

They raced on and were over the rooftops. Nothing else was in the sky and the damp streets were deserted.

“Turn on your searchlights,” Serpentine ordered and the scene below was abruptly bathed in white light. Nothing moved. Nothing challenged them.

The seer risked shutting his eyes, concentrated on the sachet in his left hand, and hoped the pilot would not look around. “To the right,” he whispered. “The next street.”

He felt her face turn upwards as the noise of the copter slammed through the walls of her domicile. Near now, very near. Aluminium roofing reflected the searchlights like mirrors.

Serpentine’s eyes shot open, explored downwards. This was it! The place where he had kidnapped Selma. He was sure of it. He grinned joyfully.

“Land in the street,” the seer commanded. “Cut the lights and the engines.”

The copter touched down gently, like a mosquito landing on the wet arm of an unsuspecting midnight swimmer. It stood silhouetted in the faint street lights, as if uncertain what to do next.

Further down the street a door flew open, releasing a beam of yellow light onto the roadway and a slim, dark figure burst into view. Serpentine peered awkwardly into the night. Selma? The figure looked around, saw the copter and ran swiftly down the damp road towards the landed machine.

-33-

Even before Serpentine and his prisoner dropped to the road they saw the searchlights of the chase copters swooping from the clouds. Then came the whine of engines and lights scanning the nearby streets. The copters obviously didn’t know exactly where they were, but it wouldn’t take them long to locate their machine.

When Selma saw the Magellan she skidded to a halt, eyes wide with shock. She looked at Serpentine. There was no time for pleasantries. If the searchlights caught them, it would all be over.

“Back to your house!” the seer yelled, as the drone of the searching copters grew closer. Selma turned and swiftly retraced her steps. Serpentine pushed the Magellan. “Move,” he said gruffly. “Follow her.”

Strong white beams started to play on the far end of the street as they hurtled through Selma’s door and several of the nearby thin metal roofs began to vibrate, resonating to the dictate of the pulsing engines. Serpentine hurriedly palmed the door shut as they tumbled inside.

“No lights,” the seer hissed. “Find a torch.”

Selma rummaged in the kitchen, returning with the dim beam of a small flashlight wavering before her, unsteady in her shaking hand.

“Rope,” Serpentine commanded. “Quickly.”

Acting like an automaton in the gloom, Selma found a length of woven cord and Serpentine poked the pistol in the Magellan’s face.

“On the floor, face down,” he ordered. The pilot snarled but did as asked.

Serpentine bound the Magellan’s ankles and then his wrists. He thrust a makeshift gag into his mouth and tied it hard behind the thick neck. Outside, the noise of the copters rose to a crescendo and then stopped. Light flickered over the window and Serpentine saw the sheer look of terror on Selma’s face. He looked at her, managing a quick grin of encouragement.

“Some entrance,” he said. “Is there a rear exit?”

Selma nodded dumbly. She hadn’t said a word since Serpentine had landed.

They made their way out to a narrow alleyway that ran along the back of the houses. Above the rooftops, lights were still probing, stretching translucent fingers into the night sky.

Selma started to run and Serpentine followed. They hurried down the alley then veered right along a narrow passage that ran between the houses. Shouts rang through the air; perhaps they had found the Magellan or perhaps they were just waking the residents.

They increased their pace, stretching muscles and grabbing the air in huge gulps. Selma led them away until the pursuing lights faded and their pounding hearts could take no more. Stopping in the shelter of some trees, they leant on each other, gasping for air, each deep breath painful like someone was thrusting a red-hot iron down their throats.

Eventually Selma gasped, “What the hell is happening?”

Serpentine took a slow, deep breath before he replied. “Went to Joby’s – for you – then came here.” The words came out staccato fashion as the seer strove to regain normal breathing.

“The copter?”

“Borrowed,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “We have to – find Shean James.”

She knew this moment would come, but wasn’t quite ready for it.

“We left that Magellan in my home.”

Serpentine nodded, waving the pistol. “It was that or shoot him.”

“We can’t go back.” She peered through the night at the way they had come. “That’s my home, damn it.”

The seer was grabbing her hand, pulling her away. “Come on,” he said. “They may still find us.”

They started to run again and as they covered the ground it was Selma who subtly guided them towards the hospital. Behind them the copters rose and fell to a bizarre rhythm, their lights beaming down onto the dark, wet streets.

* * *

Selma and Serpentine entered the hospital through the side door. As they’d approached through the dim streets, Selma told the seer about the desertion of Kentucky and what she had discovered on her previous visit to the hospital. The seer had just nodded, finally saying, “The trappings of war,” as if that explained everything. She was immensely disappointed that he’d shown no outward sign of sorrow at the loss of the babes, or the plight of the patients, but then, she supposed, he was not an emotional person.

“Do you know exactly where James is?” Serpentine asked when they were inside.

“I think so,” she answered. “There’s a special wing on the top floor usually reserved for the more affluent patients.” She was calmer than she thought she would be, even eager to complete the task. “He’s probably there.”

The corridor lighting was on minimum power, barely enough to see by, as they made their way carefully to the stairs. Many of the adjacent wards contained patients, all in a comatose state, and Serpentine found the atmosphere oppressive, like they were in some enormous interstellar vessel where the passengers would not awaken for countless years and most of the power had been shut down. They are all quietly coasting, he thought, to an unknown future.

Only their intrusive footsteps and tense breathing broke the silence. Climbing up the stairwell was onerous and after the exertions of the flight from Selma’s house they had to rest at every floor.

Standing in the darkness, listening to her own wild heartbeat, Selma almost wished they had risked the elevators, but that would have announced their presence too readily. She pointed upwards and whispered, “The light grows stronger.”

They rested a while before continuing, eventually to emerge from the stairway like rabbits from a burrow – ears pricked, half-expecting the sound of gunfire. The corridor was well lit, an indication they were in the right area. They moved along it silently, hugging the wall until Selma suddenly held out an arm.

“At the bottom of the corridor, to the right,” she whispered, pointing to an opening in front of them. Guttural laughter drifted towards them as if to confirm her supposition.

“Is there another way in?” the seer asked.

She shook her head then held out her hand. “You can give me the pistol now.”

Serpentine stared at her, his big brown eyes wide as he echoed, “Give you the pistol?”

She smiled strangely. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I have the uniform to get past the guards; you don’t. It has to be me.”

Serpentine hesitated and she added, “Did you know it was to be like this – from the beginning, I mean?”

Tears leapt to the seer’s eyes. He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t really know how to answer. But eventually he whispered, “Perhaps even I cannot see such things.” His voice trembled, caught up in a storm of inner emotions, and Selma gripped his arm, offering her strength. He handed her the pistol, which she tucked into the pocket of her uniform. There seemed little point in arguing, little point in delaying.

“Wish me luck,” Selma said, and was gone, down the corridor and to the right, to assassinate the President of Paludis.

* * *

Michelle Sanson looked at the crystal-clear water in her drinking bowl and studied her reflection. She did not like what she saw. Her gums were bleeding, had been bleeding for the last two days now, and she knew before long her teeth were going to fall out. She raised her fingers to her hair. It was faded, even grey in parts, and would soon, no doubt, litter her pillow in handfuls when she awoke in the morning.

She recalled the frantic drive back to Del-Shangi with Simon Sangster. The sun had set and it had been the most uncomfortable of journeys, their only light coming from Paludis and the beams of the four wheeler. And when they’d eventually reached the staging post, the significance of what lay before them had not initially registered. Sangster had driven over the ridge and suddenly stopped.

The place had been turned into a shiny plateau as if by magic, resembling what Michelle subsequently described as a huge ice plateau. It was just a massive expanse of hardened rock, reflecting a green, ashen glow from the planetshine. Except it should have been Del-Shangi! Every building, every launch pad, every fuel dump, every bar and every sorry person had been obliterated, razed, as if the heel of a giant had stepped out of the sky and pressed and twisted mercilessly until all traces of humanity had turned to dust. And then, not content, the giant had breathed fire to melt the rock into a lake of lava, which had finally cooled into a lifeless plain.

As they had commenced the slow drive down into the abominable remains of Del-Shangi they had both been mesmerised, as if entranced by some ubiquitous magician’s sleight of hand. Perhaps there was a mist over the valley, hiding all the buildings, perhaps it was some kind of strange mirage. After several minutes, it had been Michelle who eventually realised the cause of the dreadful scene before them. She had screamed, desperate with fear, yelled at Sangster to turn back. “It’s a nuke!” she had shrieked over and over again. “It’s a nuke! It’s a nuke!”

She had never known such fear. It had danced up and down her spine, penetrated the marrow in her bones and frozen her mind. Never before had she witnessed such intense and complete destruction. And after the melancholy trauma of annihilation had wrung her soul to shreds, there followed the realisation that they could never leave the moon! They had become prisoners until such a time as Del-Shangi was built again – and that would not be for many, many years. But, part of her had argued, was that not exactly what she had craved!

The journey back to the encampment had been worse than the outgoing trip. A huge, dark cloud hung over them and both refused to broach the topic of contamination. Yet, in her heart, Michelle had known they must have received critical doses of ionising radiation as the attack must have been recent.

Back at the camp, Michelle had wanted to negotiate with whomever had found them, but Sangster had wanted nothing of that. She recalled his intransigence and, thinking back, she knew it must have been madness.

And now this! The image in the water blinked as a tear rolled down her cheek and plopped into the bowl. Ironic, Michelle thought, that my efforts to journey into the future by stalling time have actually resulted in impending death by nuclear radiation!

She looked up from the bowl and surveyed the room, supposing by Muskan standards it was quite luxuriously appointed. Her bed was raised off the floor, a generous break in tradition by her hosts, but there was no hot water and certainly no perfume. There was, however, a strange soap-like balm that the Muskan women rubbed over their bodies. It smelled vaguely of sandalwood and if used copiously, induced a very pleasant, calming effect, which Michelle found helped release her tension. Anything, she mused, to keep thoughts of death at arm’s length.

The Muskan female, Brel-Elno, had informed her that the police agent Lattanzis and Serpentine had stolen a sphere in the middle of the night. She had not been surprised. They owed her nothing, and at least while they were gone there would be no more questions. Taking a sip of water, Michelle left the room in search of the Great Elder.

* * *

Michelle did wonder, as she sat across from the Great Elder, if her state of body was some kind of punishment for her past activities. She looked wistfully at the old Muskan, who attempted a craggy smile in return.

“We are both infirm in body,” the Muskan said. He had noticed the increased blackness of her aura, as well as the more physical signs: darkness under the eyes, drying of the skin, fading of the hair, dullness of the irises.

“Yes, we are a little,” Michelle replied.

“Ah, a little,” said the Great Elder.

Michelle looked up nervously. “You are aware – of my condition,” she said hesitantly.

“I am aware,” the Great Elder replied carefully, “but I do not understand its source.”

Michelle frowned. “But you can travel from here to there in an instant.” She snapped her fingers, winced as a fingernail caught her skin. “You are so much more advanced than we supposed.”

“We know the power of the crystal. We know the Garnian dimension. We know, but do not yet fully understand, the powerful link between them.” He opened both his encrusted eyelids as best he could and stared at the frail human before him, sensing her despair. “And that is all we know. That has been our great purpose – for many, many generations.”

“So you cannot help me.” The voice was a mere whisper, tinged with sadness. “There is nothing that can help me anywhere on this world. Our own hospitals will comfort me, but not cure me.”

Surprisingly, the old Muskan reached across the table and took her hand. She was amazed at how soft his touch felt, how smooth the tips of the stubby green fingers were.

“We cannot help your condition,” he said, “but we know the Garnian dimension is a certainty. Take heart in that.”

“Life after death,” Michelle whispered. “I will take heart in that.” She smiled wistfully. “But I am in no particular hurry.”

“Ah, it is understandable.”

“I hope so.”

The Great Elder released her hand. “There is, perhaps, one thing you can do,” he said. Michelle raised her head. She was trying to remain calm, trying to be reasonable about what had happened to her, but it was hard. It seemed like the entire future had been snatched away, as if her own perceptions had come up against a solid, black, impenetrable wall. And beyond the wall there was nothing of her; she was hardly there, invisible and inadequate and ordinary.

“The sleeping pill,” the Great Elder went on, “which has been used on Muskans also. Will that, at least, not give you a chance for treatment in the future?”

Michelle shrugged – a weak raising of the shoulders. It was true her thoughts had taken her along a similar path. However, she nervously recalled the words of Pas-Elno, spoken with such animosity. He’d said she would rot in her sleep. But there was always the chance the sleeper may halt the progressive decay of her body. She could, perhaps, awake in the future just as she had always planned – a different, more uncertain future, but at least a future with some hope. But now, of course, the motivation was born of desperation rather than adventure.

She looked anxiously at the Muskan. “Where would I get the pill? Did the agent bring some back from the moon? Can you fly me to Tanberg?”

“Ah,” the Great Elder responded. “Ah.”

Michelle frowned, not understanding his hesitation. Silence descended and she felt the turmoil within herself boiling over. “I must have the sleeper,” she whispered hoarsely.

The Muskan held up his hands. “Much of Tanberg is no doubt destroyed,” he said.

Michelle paled, letting loose another cry of despair. Images of Del-Shangi ghosted through her mind. “Destroyed,” she repeated feebly.

“We believe the humans tried to enter a sphere taken by the seer to Tanberg and so released its immense energies. Such catastrophic events are registered by all our spheres. They are almost alive, you know.”

“And Lattanzis,” Michelle asked, “was he involved?”

“There was nobody inside the sphere at the time, but we presume they were in Tanberg.”

“And the sleeper production facility in Tanberg. Was that destroyed?”

“I do not know,” the Great Elder replied. “I cannot give you false hope.” He looked at her apologetically. “We cannot send a Muskan to look. They would not survive any contact with humans.”

“Lattanzis has to have survived,” Michelle said, in great anguish, wringing her hands together. “If the facility is destroyed, he’s the only one who may have any sleepers.”

“Take heart,” the Muskan said sympathetically. “Perhaps they will soon return.” He stood slowly, gazing at her through his ancient, encrusted eyelids. “And now, if you will forgive me, I need to rest.”

Michelle nodded and left the chamber. My God, she thought, as she walked slowly back to her room, if Stefan Lattanzis does not return soon there can be no future. She suddenly stopped in the corridor, looked around. Perhaps if she searched his quarters. Mind made up, she hastened down the passageway, her thoughts a maelstrom of emotions, hoping and praying she would find a sleeper that could drag her back from the abyss wherein lay the grim reaper’s beckoning fingers.

* * *

Bourget had signalled Shean James that the missiles were ready and he now sat in the half-light, awaiting the presidential command to launch. He dared hope it wouldn’t come, but knew the hope was akin to a whisper in a raging storm. James wanted his pound of flesh, even if it meant slaying millions of his own people on the eastern continent. The general was not a medical man, but he knew only too well the lethal effects of the Carides cocktail.

It was the diphtheria strain that would do most damage, aided and abetted by additional bacteria which attacked the immune system and swiftly weakened the victim. A grey membrane would form across the throat in a matter of hours accompanied by malaise and paralysis. Thirty minutes after exposure, the individual would be incapable of performing even the most elementary physical tasks and within two days, congestive heart failure would put them out of their misery.

Bourget looked at the missiles. The hurrying and scurrying around them had ceased. In fact, he couldn’t see anybody at all now. It was as if, like a colony of ants caught in a rain shower, they had all hastened back from whence they came. They had done their work and left the scene, leaving someone else to do the dirty deed: Nemesis, the harbinger of death, the disassociated hand paused over the switch. Sweat ran down Bourget’s spine, soaked his belly and groin. The palms of his hands were wet, yet his lips were terribly dry.

He glanced nervously at the videophone that linked directly to the president’s bedside, thinking that the infirmity of Shean James added a certain irony to the occasion.

The general was convinced of one thing: the fury of the mother planet would surely descend on West Paludis once the missiles were released for, almost certainly, there would be additional Earth forces holding off in far orbit. Ever since Del-Shangi, it had been a matter of surrender or fight to the death. And Shean James had chosen the latter, inevitably drawing them into a seething cauldron of escalating destruction.

Bourget looked up at the ceiling as if trying to visualise the protective shields that lay beyond, high above the clouds of Kentucky and Spaceport. He prayed, when the time came, they would do their job, although ironically most of the populace had left the cities for the open countryside or to join the ground armies.

And the reasons for it all, what were they? The claims that Earth had been attacked from Paludis were obviously false, a pretext for the mother planet’s aggression, hiding the real motive, which, Bourget believed, was to destroy the power that the sleeping pill had over galactic exploration. Yet something niggled at the general’s mind. Had they really searched all possible territories? The incident at the Muskan temple irked him. Yet was it not just the religious centre of a primitive race?

He jerked as the videophone crackled into action and his teeth painfully caught his tongue. Before the screen brightened he caught a glimpse of his own reflection: a shade, a wan spirit, the harbinger of death.

-34-

Serpentine stood in the corridor for what seemed like an eternity, alert for the presence of medical staff, listening to the sound of Selma’s footsteps on the hard, polished floor. They sounded like they were in slow motion – click, thirty seconds, click, thirty seconds, click – he should help; he really should help.

Looking around desperately, he noticed a door, went through it and found himself in a room where several white capes hung on the wall like souls waiting to be claimed. He donned what appeared to be the longest and looked around for something to carry. A small medical device stood on a table and he grabbed it. Swiftly returning to the corridor he stopped in his tracks. There were voices – Selma and the guards. He turned into the corridor leading to the ward and called after her.

“Sister, you’ll need this.”

She was light years away, right at the end of the passage. Even so, the seer could sense the suspicion coming from the guard. His gun was levelled right at her stomach. He was checking her face on his wristband. Serpentine slowed down. Without doubt, his own face would be on there but certainly not as a member of hospital staff.

Selma turned, annoyance and surprise ghosting over her face. “Yes, sorry. Bring it through,” she called to Serpentine. Smiling at the guard she added, “The president needs his booster.”

The guard frowned, uncertain. He looked at his mempad, which was flashing green. “You’re clear there,” he said, “but James’s medico is not due for another hour.” He looked into the president’s ward, called to his associate: “You seen this nurse before?” There was no answer. Pisspot, the guard thought of his colleague, wanting to use the presidential privy.

Selma fingered the pistol beneath her uniform. As the guard looked her over, perhaps deciding whether to search her, she shot him a steely glance. He looked closer at the pass on her uniform and then nodded her through. She walked on. The guard turned his attention to Serpentine.

Selma glanced around the ward. There was a figure in the bed at the far end. She moved forward, feeling as if she was in a dream. To her left a door suddenly opened and another guard emerged, checking his fly. She smiled and gave him a wave. “Relief nurse,” she called, amazed at her own calmness.

The guard scowled at her and glanced at his partner. Selma moved forward, hand resting on the pistol. She heard Serpentine call out to the guards. “How are you?”

As Selma neared the bed, she recognised Shean James. The president was sitting up, staring at a video screen, which showed a thin, gaunt face with sad-looking eyes.

“Shean, baby. How are you?” Selma whispered.

James turned his head, face still lop-sided, and peered at her. “Do I know you?”

She drew the pistol, pointed it at his head. A voice came from the screen. “Who’s with you?”

Shean James focused on the pistol, then on her face. “I seem to recall you,” he growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

From the screen: “President. Are you all right?”

“I’m the one your half-witted morons drugged for you to make me pregnant, the ancient way,” Selma grated through clenched teeth. “I didn’t like that, Shean.”

James waved an arm in the air. “You and a host of other girls in Kentucky,” he said. “What makes you so different?”

Selma withdrew the pistol, tightening her finger on the trigger. “This makes me different.”

There was a cry from the door and sounds of a scuffle.

“Do I fire the missiles?” Bourget’s voice was tremulous, hardly audible. He was peering into the screen, trying to make out who the president was talking to.

Shean James whipped his head towards the screen. “Fire, damn you, man. Everything’s perfect. Fire!”

Selma pulled the trigger and the president slumped sideways, a neat hole burnt in the nape of his neck. The projectile continued through his throat and slammed into the video screen, which burst into flames.

“What the—!” someone yelled, the sound echoing around the ward.

“Don’t fire! You’ll hit the president!” Nevertheless, a shot was fired.

Selma felt a sudden and excruciating pain in her back, piercing into her chest. She twisted, falling across the bed. Blood was everywhere, spurting onto the bedclothes. Another shot – from her at the rushing dark shape. There was an enormous pressure inside her head and blackness engulfing all her thoughts. She was sinking in a black ocean. Time for one tear. Peace and quiet.

* * *

Serpentine had not got past the door. He had no pass and the guard, hand on firearm, barred his way. He’d shrugged, preparing to walk away, hoping he had at least distracted the president’s custodians. The guard at the door, checking the mempad on his wristband, had suddenly yelled and grabbed at the seer’s white coat.

Serpentine spun around ready to break free and Selma had fired. Flames had illuminated the room, wisps of smoke spiralling upwards.

“What the—!” the other guard had yelled over his shoulder as he raced towards Selma.

“Don’t fire! You’ll hit the president!” his partner had called out after him but a shot came from the in-rushing guard and Serpentine saw Selma collapse across James’s prone body.

Then another shot and the guard near the bed briefly stumbled.

Serpentine swung the equipment he was carrying, felling his adversary with an enormous blow to the temple. Seizing the guard’s gun, he ran into the ward. The other guard was bending over Selma. The seer raced on and, releasing a blood-curdling yell, fired a clinical shot into the guard’s head. Then he dragged Selma clear and frantically felt for her pulse. Why? Why was he doing this? He knew she was dead. He had known she was going to die. Gathering her limp body up in his arms he made for the door. The room was out of focus, dulled by the stream of tears from the seer’s eyes. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing!

* * *

“Fire, damn you, man. Everything’s perfect. Fire!”

The words echoed around Bourget’s head, but no matter how many times they revolved, they refused to change. His stomach hurt like never before. The screen had gone blank. He’d lost contact. He stared vacantly at the missiles on the floor below.

“Fire.” The president’s voice, as if he was in the room. His finger crept towards the button. He had to do it, of course. It was unthinkable not to. Yet, by another dictum, it was unthinkable to do so. The palms of his hands were damp.

“Fire.” Bourget was mouthing the word, though no sound escaped his lips. He shuddered to think what Shean James would do to him if he disobeyed. And he shuddered, also, to think what the Earth forces would do to West Paludis should the missiles be launched. But, then, they may do it anyway.

Everything was so quiet. It was unbelievable. Why was there nobody to support him? Where had all the technicians gone?

Almost by accident, it seemed, his finger touched the button. He could see the faces of men under his command, ghosting before him as if on parade. Early faces, from his younger days, faces that had trusted him, faces that had established new worlds. Almost by accident, he pushed the button.

Nothing happened at first and he thought something had gone wrong, that one of the technicians had fouled up. Then the base of each missile glowed, a deep-throated roar built up around his ears and the lethal needles pushed themselves into the sky.

Bourget watched until the gleams of propulsion had waned and the noise was replaced by a silence that seemed just as deadly. It was eerie, sitting there in the dim light, and he had to fight off the resurgent ghosts as they queued in his mind. He stayed there for a while, staring at the floor space where the missiles had been. Empty. Vacant. He felt just as empty, as if a skilled surgeon had removed his brain but magically kept him alive.

What now? Command would know. They would have seen the missiles leave on the screens. Even now they would be pushing the advance force out, preparing the retaliatory invasion. Bourget cursed his own state of mind. In the old days he would have been excited by it all, the adrenaline would have been coursing in his veins. His head slumped to his chest as if a puppeteer had cut the supporting strings.

* * *

Stefan and Clare stood a little way up the hillside and watched the rain clouds scud away to the west. The rising sun painted their shadows on the dusty soil, whilst not far away Sal grazed peacefully, Joby chopped wood and Marta worked in the fields.

Both of them wore clothes of the Natural Order, borrowed from Marta, so relieved to be rid of their old, soiled garments. It was two days since Serpentine and the Magellan had flown south.

“You’re looking so much better, Clare,” Stefan said, giving her a rare smile.

“Marta’s a good nurse and her medicine is very effective,” Clare replied. She took a deep breath, savouring the peace of the valley, the fresh air, the profusion of natural splendour that filled her gaze.

Stefan crouched and picked up a pebble and, rolling it around between his palms, stared up at her. She returned his gaze steadily, sensing his restlessness but wanting him to make the first move.

“Do you think,” Stefan asked eventually, “that you are fit enough to travel?”

“It’s very beautiful here,” Clare replied, by way of an answer, “but I feel you wish to return to the peninsula.”

“I must, Clare. The Muskans have a right to know what happened to their vehicle, what happened at Tanberg. They must know why we did what we did and that Serpentine is not a cheap thief.” He regarded her earnestly. “They must know we are not betraying their trust.” He stood up and grabbed her arm. “Do you understand?”

Clare nodded. “I believe I understand how you feel.” She firmly believed in all he had just said, but there was more to it. He had to allay his own guilt. He had to bring Michelle Sanson to justice. He wanted a neat finish, a satisfying conclusion. It was the agent in him, the part she didn’t like, everything in its own pigeonhole. The problem was she believed such things didn’t matter anymore. She had been through so much, suffered so much, seen such horrendous things, such horrendous people, and everything was changing, surely he could sense that. Everything, the whole planet, the big picture, changing. What mattered was what she saw before her – peace, tranquillity, calm.

But before the calm, the storm?

He was looking hard into her eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She kissed him on the cheek, turned, and started to wend her way back down the hillside. He watched her, his emotions tumbling, rising and falling. She was so beautiful. All he wanted was to be with her, to shut everything else out – the bombs, the deaths, the stupidity. To be happy. To be at peace. She was the first woman he had deeply desired for many, many years. He needed her both emotionally and sexually. He needed the power of living that she could give him, the zest for survival. To lie with her in the darkness, to feel her warmth – warmth that had heroically survived abuse by fellow humans.

He called after her. “Clare, will you come with me?”

She stopped in her tracks but didn’t look back. Stefan ran down the hillside, slid to a halt beside her. He saw there were tears in her eyes and could do little but stand and stare.

Surprisingly, she struck him fiercely on the chest. “After all I have been through,” she sobbed, “after all that—” She choked, wiping her eyes, sniffing vehemently. “After all that, you want me to travel to the peninsula, to ease your conscience with a bunch of damn aliens.”

Stefan slowly lifted his arm and gently wiped her wet cheek with the back of his hand. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, protect her and make her his own.

“You know,” Clare added shakily, “if there is a God, if there is truly a Garnian dimension, then I am being sorely tested.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “stay if...”

She suddenly pulled him towards her, buried her head in his shoulder. She was laughing now, hysterical, shaking uncontrollably. Before he could put his arms around her she had backed off, gazing at him with a strange smile on her face, eyes red with tears.

“Clare, I love —”

She held up her hand. “I’ll come with you,” she blurted. Then she was speeding down the hill, weaving in and out of the boulders, like a gazelle hunted by the dark forces of hunger. Stefan pawed at a tear in his own eye. Anything. He would do anything for her.

* * *

Michelle stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the room again. Her bottom lip was trembling and she felt as if a stake had been driven through her heart. The search had found nothing, no sleepers, not even an empty container. Lattanzis, if he had any of the pills, had taken them with him. God! Michelle thought, what if they are still on the moon? What if he left them there? She tried to recall her final waking moments in the dome but it was all too hazy. Everything had happened too quickly.

She slumped to the floor and ran her tongue round her teeth, tasting the blood. The pressure of the floor on her knees became too much, too painful, and she rose slowly to her feet again. There was only one thing to do now. She would have to get to the peninsular barrier and ask the guards to organise transportation to hospital. At least they could make her final moments comfortable. Maybe they would even find her a sleeper.

There just seemed no point in awaiting the return of the police agent because, she mused despondently, it would probably never happen, and each passing hour led her nearer to death’s open door.

* * *

A savage bout of nausea seized Michelle as she struggled to the top of a tall sand dune in order to gain a clear view of the peninsular barrier. The wall snaked across the land perhaps three kilometres from where she stood, a testament to ages past. Dropping to one knee, breathing slowly and deeply, she endeavoured to suppress the dreadful urge to vomit.

She had left the Muskan caves three days earlier and spent the nights counting the stars as she lay on her back beneath the cane-grass. On her journey west she had encountered several Muskans but they had shown little interest in her, some turning away, some smiling in their own peculiar way. One, a child, had ran screaming to its mother at the sight of her.

For the most part she had kept to the southern coast, drinking at the numerous springs that linked tenuously with the ocean, and eking out what meagre Muskan rations she had managed to find before she’d left.

Dusk was falling, stars were once more claiming the sky and there was a chill wind upon her back. She rose unsteadily to her feet and plodded on with faltering footsteps, all the time wondering whether death would claim her before she reached the wall.

Seabirds skimmed the ocean – screeching, shrieking entities that brought her no comfort. Their cries sounded more like the wails of banshees than the sounds of nature. Rain began to fall, sweeping in from the Amity Ocean, a fine vertical drizzle, soft but soaking. The newly born stars were snuffed out by the dark, encroaching clouds. Michelle let loose a cry of anguish that nobody heard, a sob in the growing darkness.

She walked on, willing her body forward, not knowing where the next step was coming from, speculating if, in the morning, they would find her wrecked and emaciated body lapped by waves and attacked by nesvin-cra and shore lizards.

The moon broke incongruously through the clouds and seemed to mock her. She stopped and wept at the sight, thoughts of reaching the barrier temporarily forgotten. Her child was up there, for God’s sake! Her child and Tak-Elno’s child! A fusion of the races. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

She walked on with her eyes closed. Stumbling, falling, tasting sand. As she grew closer to the barrier she stopped, as still as a statue. She could almost hear herself dying, almost feel her cells exploding, one by one, almost taste her lungs labouring to breathe the cold night air.

Finally, she stood at the wall, tired and dispirited, staring up at the six metre high ramparts, eyeing the patrol car as it slid menacingly to a halt above her head. Michelle observed the vehicle blandly then slammed her eyes shut as a strong light washed over her.

A harsh male voice shattered the dusk air. “Who the hell are you?”

Dare she answer truthfully? Would they believe her if they did? She decided to lie.

“My boat was driven against rocks and I had to swim to shore.”

There was a pause, as if the guards were digesting the validity of her story.

“You were sailing in these troubled times?”

Michelle bit her lip, didn’t answer, and started walking in the direction of the wall’s portal. The patrol car followed, always training its spotlight upon her. She didn’t know what the guard meant but cared little. She had enough problems of her own.

“Walk to the portal,” the voice said. “Make sure you’re alone.”

She moved on slowly, drifting like a stage ghost, lit up against dark and sombre scenery.

And suddenly the moon left the sky and was hovering before her, filling her vision, dominating the night. Michelle froze, staring in disbelief at the Muskan sphere that seemed to gather all the energy of the patrol car’s spotlight and reflect it twentyfold. She started to turn, looking for escape, but abruptly found herself facing the Great Elder.

Swiftly, they were in orbit above the peninsula and Michelle was permitted a brief glimpse of Paludis as it spun below. It seemed so peaceful, belying the torment and sadness.

“So,” the Great Elder whispered, “you are running away to die.”

Michelle looked forlorn. “How did you find me?”

“Where else would you go?” the Muskan said, shaking his head. “In such a haste to sleep.”

Tears leapt to Michelle’s eyes. “What else is left?”

The Great Elder blinked, a slow, purposeful movement, perhaps even painful behind his swollen and scarred eyelids. “The time may be right,” he said, “to return to your child.”

Michelle gazed at him through watery, red eyes. There was blood at the corners of her mouth and her robe was damp and dirty with sand. Her hair, thin and lifeless, hung limply over ears and brow.

“Can you take me?” she murmured.

“I can,” the Great Elder answered, “but understand we cannot return.”

“What will we do?”

“We will see the child. He will remain there for some time yet. We will, perhaps, stay in the Garnian dimension.”

She stared at him. “You mean we will die.”

The Muskan opened his eyes wide and Michelle could see the effort it took reflected in his face. “Both of us are near death. It is not such a terrible thing.”

“No,” Michelle responded, “it is not.”

-35-

Serpentine sat on a grassy knoll and surveyed the sea of crosses. Beside him, stretched awkwardly on the hillside, lay the inert body of Selma El Fadil. It was early morning, over a full day after the assassination of Shean James, and the seer had never felt so wretched in his life. His only comfort came from knowing the president could not now order a full-scale attack on the Muskan temple and what lay beneath it.

He had carried the girl through the Kentucky streets in the remaining dark hours of the previous morning, darting beneath available cover to avoid the patrolling copters, which had risen like avenging angels about twenty minutes after he and his sorry burden had left the hospital. On reaching the city’s southern outskirts he’d found a hiding place and rested during daylight, neither eating nor drinking but listening to the sounds of the search around him. Most of that time he had cradled Selma’s body and wished her alive.

Later, with a strength born of anger and guilt and grief, he had searched out an abandoned pack mule in the night and, with Selma across the beast’s back, conveyed his burden to where he knew the cemetery lay. He had used the verge of the highway for shelter, moving into the trees like a hunted animal when a vehicle had approached through the darkness.

Now he lay back among the crosses with his eyes shut, savouring the meagre warmth of the rising sun. The nag grazed peacefully nearby. Suddenly, a coarse voice disturbed his thoughts.

“Who be you?”

Serpentine turned and saw a broad man with long brown hair and a grey beard. In one hand the man held a huge spade which he brandished as a weapon. He held his huge head on one side like an inquisitive bird.

The seer rose slowly and held both his hands in the air. “I have a body to bury,” he said.

The man grinned. “To bury,” he repeated inanely. He pointed at Selma with his free hand. “Who be that?”

“A friend,” Serpentine replied. He looked hard into the man’s watery eyes. “Do you tend the graves?”

“Me Crozzkeeper,” the man answered, thrusting out his hand. “Bury people and make crozz. Write crozz. Clean crozz.”

The seer grasped the worn and callused hand firmly. “Serpentine,” he said.

“Zerptin,” Crosskeeper murmured uncertainly. He suddenly dropped the spade and knelt by Selma’s body, examining her wounds with tenderness. Looking up at the seer, he held unspoken questions in his eyes.

Serpentine saw no reason to lie to this simple soul.

“She was shot by the president’s guards,” the seer stated, “after she killed Shean James.”

“James dead,” Crosskeeper said as he rose. He grinned hugely and started to dance a cumbersome jig. “James dead,” he sang absurdly. “James dead, dead, dead.”

The dance stopped as suddenly as it had started. Crosskeeper gestured to Selma. “Me carry to grave,” he said.

“Please,” Serpentine responded. “I’d much appreciate it.”

Crosskeeper handed his spade to the seer, and carefully lifting Selma into his arms, started up the hillside. Serpentine followed behind, muscles protesting at every move.

Minutes later the seer was standing at an open grave and staring at the nearby aluminium cross in disbelief. Etched on it were the words:

IN MEMORY OF SHEAN ULYSSES JAMES

RIP

Crosskeeper wrenched the cross from the ground and threw it down.

“Grave for girl,” he said. “James not get grave.” He looked sadly into Serpentine’s eyes. “We give to Jeez now,” he added.

Serpentine nodded. He didn’t know if Selma followed the cross or some other symbol, or even nothing at all. He did know, though, that it didn’t really matter. A soul was a soul was a soul.

They lowered the body into the grave and covered it carefully with earth. Crosskeeper disappeared and returned carrying another cross. He pulled an engraver from his pocket, thrust it at the seer.

“You write,” he mumbled. “Write good.”

The seer gestured Crosskeeper to lie the cross on the ground and he crouched by it, holding the engraver to the horizontal bar. But the words wouldn’t come and all he did was kneel there.

“In mem’ry,” Crosskeeper prompted.

Serpentine let his mind guide his hand and engraved the words:

IN MEMORY OF SELMA EL FADIL

A FAITHFUL FRIEND IS THE MEDICINE OF LIFE

A tear dropped onto the cross, anointing it in some ancient ritualistic fashion.

Crosskeeper hoisted the cross into position, stepped back and surveyed the words, nodding his approval.

“They’re ancient words,” Serpentine said. “Very, very old.”

They stood in silence together, bound for a moment in solitude, and then the sky above them became a writhing sea of light, as if an immense burning torch had been placed amidst the clouds, igniting pockets of inflammable gas, which in turn kindled others.

For several seconds, all Serpentine could do was stare at the upheaval in the heavens, where clouds rolled against each other, changing colour from grey to yellow to purple as if they were suffering from ever-increasing instant bruises. The entire sky was in turmoil, in motion, flowing with white light, rolling with waves of angry, turbulent moisture. Lightning snaked across the canopy, immediately followed by a deafening burst of thunder.

Crosskeeper licked his lips and rolled his eyes.

“Godz angry at girl death,” he murmured.

Serpentine shook his head, closed his eyes, somehow saw the trail of a missile plundering the sky above the clouds.

“Not the gods, my friend,” the seer said darkly. “Kentucky is under attack. The sky’s colouring is the dissipated energy of shields.” He cast a mournful look at Selma’s grave. She’s well out of it now, he thought. Perhaps better off.

“I need to go north,” Serpentine said to the grave digger. “Have you transport?”

Crosskeeper grinned inanely, warily eyeing the sky as yet another wave of light lit up the clouds. Rain started to fall in huge, splattering drops then mysteriously stopped.

“Crozzkeeper go north. North better.”

Lightning filled their vision, straddling the earth and sky, and then danced across the tops of the crosses, sizzling and burning the air. They stood transfixed as the pyrotechnics raged about them. Thunder sounded, a cavalry charge against the desecration of the crosses.

“Transport!” Serpentine yelled fiercely into the face of Crosskeeper, causing the grave digger’s eyes to widen with shock. The lightning had stopped its cavorting. A strange silence now hung in the air and the stench of ozone swamped their senses.

Crosskeeper suddenly took off down the hill, dancing between the savaged crosses. “’Coot!” he yelled over his shoulder. “’Coot on road.”

The seer started to follow, interpreting Crosskeeper’s words correctly and recalling Clare Cavanna saying she had borrowed such a vehicle from the strange gravedigger.

Another flash of lightning straddled the sky, thankfully some distance away over the city. Serpentine increased his pace, wanting to reach the vehicle first, wary that Crosskeeper may flee and leave him stranded. He had only one desperate desire now – to return to his cave as soon as possible.

They arrived at the scoot together, mainly because the seer didn’t know exactly where Crosskeeper had hidden it, and thus had to finally follow along behind. Crosskeeper lifted the machine in one huge hand, holding it by the steering column. Sweat and rain trickled down his huge forehead.

“Zerptin take ’coot,” Crosskeeper said. “Me get ’nuther.” The seer was astounded, feeling suddenly ashamed. “Zerptin go north,” Crosskeeper added. “Zerptin ’elped kill James.”

It was raining harder now, from a sky full of dark and ominous cloud. Serpentine knew there would be a second wave attack on Kentucky before long. He looked back up the hillside towards Selma’s grave, and it was as if her altruistic spirit momentarily invaded his body. He held up his hands in refusal.

“You take it,” the seer said. “You go.”

Crosskeeper’s eyes filled with water, a mixture of rain and tears. He palmed the machine’s switch and the engine sprang to life. Then abruptly he thrust the vehicle towards Serpentine, turned and started to run down the highway towards Kentucky.

“Me get ’nuther,” he yelled back. Serpentine watched him, awkwardly supporting the scoot, unbelieving. He killed the scoot’s engine, somehow frozen to the spot. He blinked rain from his eyes and...

Lights! On the road. Speeding towards him. The seer yelled a warning but Crosskeeper didn’t hear, or his reactions were too slow. Two hovercars fleeing the attack on the city.

The first car hit Crosskeeper head on and, despite the bulk of his body, flung the unfortunate gravedigger into the air like so much dead wood. Then the seer saw everything in slow motion – the first car careering off the highway, running up the hillside, destroying itself among a stand of cane-grass plants; the second car hitting Crosskeeper’s prone body, slewing across the road, clipping a tree, rolling once and sliding to a halt, belly in the air.

And the aftermath – silent, like the heart of a tornado.

Serpentine stood for several seconds, frightened of moving in case something else happened, wondering why everyone he touched on this accursed planet was condemned, destined to die a horrible and selfless death.

The second car’s lights were shining across the road at ground level, which meant the engine was still live. He dropped the scoot and walked in a dream towards Crosskeeper’s unmoving body. With his mind slowly uncoiling from shock he could sense the cold darkness that enveloped the rain-struck corpse. He took one look at the grave digger and turned away in disgust. The head was bruised and battered, almost severed from the neck. On the ground, blood mingled with water. There was no chance of life.

Above the hiss of the falling rain he could hear the whine of the upturned car’s power unit. Dawn was approaching and light was increasing and he could see that Kentucky had survived the initial bombardment.

The sole occupant of the car hung half out of the buckled canopy. Again the seer felt the aura of death, even before he knelt down and felt for the pulse. The driver was an elderly male, one who had escaped the call to arms only to surrender his life on a lonely highway under a threatening sky. Pulling the body clear, Serpentine surveyed the vehicle and wondered if he could possibly get it the right way up. Tentatively he ran his hand along the base of the car checking the thrusters, but they had cut out as they should have, a safety measure built into every car once ground effect was lost. Only the engine remained alive, impiously singing into a morning cloaked in death.

Two people, Serpentine thought, have done things I ought to have done, and have paid with their lives. A swathe of remorse engulfed him and he raised his head to the sky and let his tears mingle with the rain. Only a flash of light among the clouds stirred him from his mournful reverie.

Suddenly the ground shook and he knew one of the missiles had penetrated the shields, no doubt exploding somewhere in the city. He pushed on the upturned car, gauging the amount of force he would require to turn it upright. The vehicle rocked on its deformed canopy and the seer realised he would never succeed in upturning it unaided. His eyes flicked around, as he desperately looked for something to use as a lever. The verge of the road was bare and the stems of the nearest cane-grass too large to break off.

He started to run up the embankment, back to the graves and the crosses. Fifteen minutes later he struggled down the hillside, carrying the president’s cross on his back. To his left, another missile pierced the shields and struck into the heart of Kentucky.

* * *

By the time he left the complex at Doon, the niggle occupying the mind of Claude Bourget had grown to a huge, dark cloud. Following the release of the missiles, he was besieged by doubts concerning the search conducted on the North-Eastern Peninsula. It was as if his mind, released from the burden of making decisions that threatened the lives of countless humans, sought to nourish the despotic cloud to the exclusion of all other thoughts.

And so he set off north, in the lead of two carriers, a hand-picked platoon of thirty troopers in each vehicle. It had taken almost two sleepless days to organise the personnel and carriers but now, on the evening following the shocking assault on Kentucky, he was revelling in grass roots operations once more. He was also getting the hell out of the south.

The general did not believe the Muskans were responsible for the attacks on Earth, but the more he’d thought about it over the last few days, the more he was convinced they were hiding something in their temple. What the militia had witnessed, he was sure, was more than a religious ceremony. It was possible, he concluded, the natives were sheltering a covert human organisation – and may have been doing so for many years.

Through the carrier’s bubble, the Paludis countryside flashed by – green and brown, hills shimmering in the distance. To his right, beyond the incessant marsh fields, was the glitter of an opal sea. The sky was clouding over, a black and grey mantle hanging low over the road.

They had heard of the death of Shean James earlier the previous day, shot in his hospital bed by an unknown assassin. It was assumed the killer was an Earth spy. Cold sweat broke out on the general’s brow. Was it possible he had seen the assassin on the monitor just before the connection had been lost? Possible, maybe even probable, but he would never really know. To be honest, he didn’t want to know.

To his surprise, once the initial shock of the president’s demise wore off, Bourget felt immense relief flood his mind. Perhaps now, sense would prevail; perhaps Paludis would surrender. The thought shamed his military side, yet even before it took root he knew it was much too late. They had already lost contact with Kentucky, which doubtless now lay in ruins following the recent attack, and an assault on Spaceport would surely be imminent.

However, if the truth lay in the Temple of the Muskans and he could discover it, the planet may yet be saved from total devastation. How ironic, he mused, that the hand which launched the missiles may yet liberate the world. He looked furtively to the west, expecting to see the signs of another attack in the sky. Northwards. To the north. Still a job to do.

* * *

Stefan and Clare headed east on Steed; she sat behind him, arms around his waist. They both wore clean Natural Order garments and she could smell the freshness of Marta’s herbs upon Stefan’s shirt.

On the first night under the stars they bedded down a metre from each other, neither daring to move towards the other, and thus they stayed until the morning. On awakening, they bathed briefly in a deep stream, sharing the water with a group of large lizards. Stefan cast admiring glances at Clare’s sleek, firm body, her skin glistening with water in the dawn light. But he said nothing and they rode on in silence.

Stefan’s intention was to ride east until they met the highway and then follow it to the peninsula. This route, although longer, would not expose Steed to the dangers of Lens-Farnetis. They ate well from Marta’s prepared rations and paused intermittently along the way, resting in the shelter of rocks, enabling the shire to crop whatever he found palatable.

As the sun slid below the horizon on the second night, Stefan searched for firewood, while Clare prepared one of the herbed steaks Marta had given them. They lit the fire and sat close to it and each other while the meat sizzled in the pan.

“How are you finding this?” Stefan asked tentatively.

Clare smiled. “Actually, I’m quite enjoying it. It brings back some very old memories of Earth.”

Stefan nodded once. “Open air, freedom, call of the wild. That kind of thing.” He looked at her hair. It was growing again, shining in the firelight.

“Yes, that’s it. Open skies. Stars in the night sky.” She hesitated before whispering, “Peace.”

Stefan threw another log on the flames and watched it catch quickly, the red glow turning Clare’s skin to gold. Suddenly she lay across and put her head in his lap, smiling up at him.

“I’m glad I came,” she said quietly.

He stroked her hair gently. “Good,” he said huskily. His hand strayed down her nose, her cheek and neck, and with a small sigh he slipped it lower to cup her breast.

“So nice,” she murmured.

“I love you, Claire,” Stefan said huskily.

His hands slid down her body, caressing and kneading, feeling the muscular firmness and wanting her completely now. They both stripped feverishly, came together kneeling, wondering whether it was really happening.

And then they were moving together, the steaks sizzling next to them, their thoughts only for each other, their cries and moans echoing into the growing night. Stefan wanted it to last forever but eventually he pulled her fiercely onto him, gasping with the effort. Clare buried her face in his shoulder and he felt her hot tears roll down his arm.

Above them, the stars were coming out, one by one, born anew in a black sky. She shivered slightly and he dressed her gently, almost as if she were an invalid. Stefan turned the steaks on the fire and when he looked back she was smiling at him, like a schoolgirl.

He walked to her and held her tight, wrapping himself around her. Then they sat and ate, and finally slept in each other’s arms.

-36-

Serpentine had returned up the hill for food and water, then carried them down to the road in a sling bag he’d found in the grave-digger’s hut. After several attempts, he had managed to right the car using the cross as a lever, scrambling aboard seconds before the thrusters automatically cut in. Earlier, he’d contemplated severing the dead driver’s hand so he could restart the car with the palm print should he need to stop. However, thoughts of the violence he had already witnessed, and a further titanic explosion over Kentucky, made up his mind for him. There was no reason to stop anyway. His life depended upon a swift escape.

He headed north-east, intending to use the coast road as far as he could, nervously searching the western horizon for signs of an attack on Spaceport. He skirted Kentucky without having to leave the road, and left the city behind. It looked, as far as he could tell, reasonably intact. Whoever had put up the shields had done a good job. As the buildings dropped behind, the air grew warmer and he could see blue sky ahead, promising better light. The car’s engine hummed, accompanying his thoughts on recent events. What would the death of Shean James really mean to Paludis? Was it too late in any case? Who would take his place and would they sue for peace with Earth?

Looking through the canopy, Serpentine saw an unsightly black stain climb abruptly into the sky from the direction of Spaceport. The immense dark shape rose like a living monster and intense flashes of light lit up the clouds. The assault on Paludis’s second city had begun.

Metamorphosis. The word ran through the seer’s mind like a chill wind surging through the body of a swimmer emerging from the sea. The planet was undergoing change, as prophesied in the Muskan scrolls. But what, he wondered, would the change leave in its wake? And who would survive?

He thought of Stefan and Clare and had no doubt they would now be journeying to the peninsula. He was tempted to join them so they could face the Muskans together, but the desire to return to his cave was overpowering.

The guards, he was sure, would be gone. He had faced too much death, too much controversy, too much bigotry, and now yearned to feel the power of the crystals around him, the peace of hidden vibrations, the solitude that only his lair could bring.

* * *

Around mid-morning of the next day, as he was mounting a rise, Serpentine heard vehicles approaching from behind: two of them, large, carrying military colours. His heart leapt to his throat as he wondered if they’d discovered his connection with the president’s death. They drew closer and Serpentine saw they were large people movers or troop carriers, probably not meant for him. He would like to have stopped, waved them on to whatever urgent errand lay before them, but to stop the car was to leave himself stranded.

The seer checked his speed, glanced in the mirror again. There seemed little doubt they were gaining. He pushed his foot down and the hovercar jumped forward, surfing the road with ease. Suddenly the lateral jets screamed in protest as he approached a bend too fast, and the car started to slide.

Ahead, at the bottom of a steep scree, lay the body of a large lizard, rear end and tail protruding onto the highway. Scavengers were all over it, gnawing at the raw flesh. The predators looked up as the car slithered towards them and, like choreographed ballet dancers, swiftly leapt as one to the safety of the roadside.

With Serpentine frantically pumping the reverse jets the hovercar started to slow. The vehicle hit the tail of the dead beast, jumped crazily into the air and slid along the ground, cannoning off three boulders before coming to a sudden rest against a fourth. Silence and dust descended and the startled scavengers watched, wide-eyed, from the shelter of the rocks.

* * *

The seer awoke to the resonant hum of a motor and the echoing chatter of human voices. Slowly opening his eyes he spied large, bulbous windows flanking a slender, black ceiling. He appeared to be lying on the back seat of one of the carriers, a trooper on each side. Through the facing window, he saw bristles of cane-grass panning across a darkening sky.

Serpentine shut his eyes and kept still, intent on not alerting the troopers to his consciousness. He recalled the accident vaguely, the sense of hopelessness as the car slewed inevitably towards the carcass of the dead lizard. Yet he had known he wouldn’t die, known it as certainly as he had known Selma would kill Shean James. Unmoving, he tested every muscle and bone in his body. He sensed a large bruise above his eyebrow, sore ribs, maybe a cracked one, a knee injury of some kind, probably a ligament. There was nothing else of significance, only slight abrasions and stiffness.

He gazed at one of the troopers through slitted eyelids. Young, fresh-faced, dark hair, old Earth stock, all green uniform.

There was a pungent smell in the carrier. Someone was smoking Earth tobacco. It assailed his nostrils, inflaming his nasal membranes. A voice came from nearby.

“Has he come ’round yet?” It sounded like an officer.

“No, sir,” the reply came. “We could shoot him a stimulant.”

“Better to give him a sleeper. See him through the night while most of us sleep.”

Serpentine groaned and opened his eyes. He had no intention of being put to sleep.

“Ah,” the officer exclaimed, “he revives himself.” He gazed into Serpentine’s eyes. “Can you sit up?”

The seer nodded, raised himself and started to massage his painful knee. The officer sat next to him as the carrier purred through the gathering dusk.

“So, Serpentine, you are feeling better,” the officer said, then noticing the seer’s raised eyebrows added, “Don’t be surprised we know you. You are still on the president’s wanted list.” He tapped his wristband. “Your face is common property.”

Serpentine grunted. “Who are you?”

“I am General Bourget. Why are you heading north?”

“Going home, is all,” Serpentine responded.

“And whose was the car?”

The seer shrugged. “There was an accident on the highway,” he replied truthfully. “The driver was killed and I needed transport.”

“You stole the car.”

Serpentine smiled. “Kentucky was being attacked − a huge assault. I needed to get away.”

Bourget pursed his thin lips. “You were in Kentucky?”

The seer sensed the depth to the question, the aura of the death of Shean James attached to every word.

“Nearby,” he answered. “People were fleeing the city. Escaping the bombs.”

“Quite so,” Bourget said, and then sharply, “How did you escape the fortress dungeons?”

“I could not locate the whereabouts of the Huntsman,” Serpentine answered, staring at the general with large, brown eyes, endeavouring to ignore the throb at his temple. “President James put me in a cell. I managed to break my bonds. He, somewhat foolishly, came to interrogate me and I escaped.” His eyes grew even wider, emanating innocence. “He suffered no permanent harm, I trust?”

“Oh no,” Bourget replied easily enough. “He did not.”

For a while there was silence and Serpentine saw the beams of the carrier piercing the deepening night ahead and, turning as best he could, the lights of the carrier behind. Above the carrier’s windows lay a multitude of arms in racks. A sudden chill seized him.

“Where are we heading?” he asked.

“Just north,” Bourget replied, seeing no need to divulge their destiny to his prisoner.

“There will be no escaping the vengeance of Earth.”

“Vengeance?”

“I have seen the darkness upon East Paludis.”

Bourget felt an unwelcome spasm of pain in his midriff, the first for quite a while. He looked askance at the seer, not knowing whether he meant the Earth attack on Saltzburg or his own retaliatory launching of the missiles.

“How did you see this?”

Serpentine smiled. He could not tell of the Muskan sphere. “I just saw it. I am obliged to see such things on occasion.”

“Oh yes. The great soothsayer. Perhaps if you had located Huntsman none of this would have happened.”

“All of it would have happened. All of it will happen as is written.”

Bourget sighed, rose and went to the front of the carrier. He returned with a glass of water and a capsule.

“Take this,” he said.

Serpentine eyed it suspiciously. “What’s the duration?”

“Ten hours. Don’t worry, it is the same as most of the troopers will take.”

“It would appear you hold the demise of Paludis in your hand,” the seer observed. “And you?”

For a second Bourget didn’t understand, then he replied. “Alas, it appears I do not sleep anymore.”

* * *

Clare and Stefan watched the two military carriers approach the barrier wall and stop in front of the portal. They were on Steed’s back, sheltering among a group of huge cane-grass plants, the great shire’s tail flicking lazily from side to side. Three Nesvin-cra glided above their heads, eyeing them suspiciously before wheeling away over the wall. Steed snorted nervously and pawed the ground.

“Easy, boy,” Stefan whispered, as the horse shifted his weight. “Let’s see what’s happening.”

* * *

Serpentine’s worst fears were confirmed as the carriers turned along the highway leading to the North-Eastern Peninsula. It was two days since his accident and subsequent capture by Bourget. They had fed him well, and given him adequate rest, but as they approached the peninsula their jovial chatter had been suppressed by nervous anticipation.

The atmosphere had also darkened as repeated attempts to raise Kentucky and Spaceport had been met by ominous silence. Bourget could only assume the cities had been badly damaged, communications destroyed. They had managed to contact Lakeside and had been told people were leaving the city in droves, seeking the anonymity of the countryside. Satellite readings picked up by the carrier’s console told them there was high radiation down south.

“What are you going to do?” the seer asked Bourget as the carriers drew up alongside the wall.

“Just some unfinished business with the Muskans,” the general replied.

“Is that wise?” Serpentine asked. “No matter what you do to them, the Earth assault will continue and you will soon be caught in its ferocity. We will all die.”

The troopers were disembarking, grabbing their weapons, swearing at each other.

“At least we may find out the truth,” Bourget said. “Maybe in time to prevent the spread of the attack.”

Serpentine shook his head. “Whatever you say now, Earth will not believe. They wish Paludis exterminated. And in any case, there is no more time for posture and deliberated reason. In one day, two at the most, West Paludis will be cloaked in the dead and the dying.”

Bourget sighed, tapped his head. “In here, it says we must go on, no matter what the future will hold. The alternative is to sit and await death.”

The seer tried to see beyond Bourget’s eyes, directly into his mind. “If you have your suspicions about the Muskans then you must harbour thoughts they may have been responsible for the attacks on Earth.”

“I harbour only the inclination to finish what was left unfinished,” the general said as they disembarked, “the merest possibility that we left a task undone here.” He turned to the seer, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. “I hardly think the natives have been to Earth, do you? The notion is preposterous.”

The troopers were already filing through the wall’s portal, assembling on the other side. The carriers, too large for the portal, started to move along the barrier and it was only then that Serpentine realised the drivers were taking them over the water, around the wall, and onto the peninsula. Bourget must have a specific destination in mind.

“Supposing,” Serpentine said as they strolled towards the portal, “that the Earth forces could be destroyed within the next few hours. Would that not be a better solution?”

Bourget stopped in his tracks and looked incredulously at the seer. Serpentine saw that the general thought him either mad or suffering from delusions.

“And who would perform this miraculous feat?” Bourget asked.

Serpentine took a deep breath. “Why, those who attacked Earth in the first place.”

The carriers were in the water, churning it to froth beneath their thrusters, turning the air into rainbows.

Despite his incredulity, Bourget held back a churlish response.

“Am I right, then?” he said. “Does the answer lie here?”

“The solution may lie here,” the seer replied. “If I may be allowed to talk to the Muskans.”

Bourget drew Serpentine into the shadow of the portal. “And why should I trust you?” the general asked.

“The alternative is surely death – for everybody, humans and Muskans alike.”

The general’s non-committal grunt was interrupted by a sudden cry from further down the wall. The sound of thunderous hooves grew closer. Bourget stepped back from the portal as a huge horse galloped towards them, two people on its back, dust clouds springing from each heavy step.

Serpentine yelled in delight as the huge beast slid to a halt beside them and Stefan and Clare dropped to the ground. Bourget, even with his troopers close by, felt suddenly vulnerable.

“Stefan, Clare, Steed,” the seer cried in joy, embracing them all, one by one. “I knew you’d come here.”

Stefan grinned. “I should hope so, soothsayer.” He turned to Bourget and held out his hand. “Senior Agent Stefan Lattanzis, Paludis Police.”

Bourget regarded the Natural Order garb with some scepticism, but shook the proffered hand anyway, nodding towards Serpentine. “This gentleman is my prisoner.”

“We observed your forces,” Stefan responded.

“Prisoner or not,” the seer said, “may I suggest we spend the next few minutes in polite discussion considering ways of saving this world from further destruction.” He looked earnestly at Bourget. “Please, time is short.”

“Very well,” Bourget said. “Please follow me.”

They were led into a conference room deep inside the wall. Stefan had grave doubts about informing Bourget about the Muskan spheres but as soon as he learnt of the attacks upon Kentucky and Spaceport, he realised there was little point in further prevarication. The general, however, was far from convinced. As far as he was concerned, the whole story could have been concocted to enable Serpentine to escape.

“But don’t you see?” Serpentine said in frustration. “If we can get a sphere aboard the Earth ships, we can undoubtedly destroy them.”

“All that will take time,” the general replied, “and we do not have—”

“No time, General Bourget,” Stefan snapped. “No time at all. Relocation is instant, providing...” he looked at Serpentine meaningfully, “… providing we can locate their craft.”

Bourget was in a dilemma. He felt an immediate need to complete his mission, but if there was the merest chance the Muskan spheres existed, he did not wish to lose the opportunity to save Paludis.

“Twenty-four hours,” the general said finally. “You have a day to complete your objectives. After that, we move in. We have to hope the Earth attacks will not have reached this far north by then.” He leant forward over the table. “I have to tell you, gentlemen, any sign of an assault upon Lakeside and we’ll move in, anyway.”

“Can we borrow a driver and a carrier?” Serpentine asked. “It will help save time.”

Bourget laughed. “I don’t trust you that much. Anyway, we may need it for the troopers. Use the shire. She’s fit enough.”

“But she can’t carry three of us,” Clare gasped.

“Then you can stay here with us,” Bourget replied.

Clare paled. She hated the idea of being separated from Stefan, especially with so many troopers around.

“She’ll have to run like the wind,” Serpentine said, “and even then, it will be a close call.” He looked at Stefan. “The load will be lighter if only I go.”

Stefan frowned then shook his head. He looked at Clare. She looked like a waif, so beautiful, so vulnerable. More than anything he wanted her to beg him to stay.

“You must go with Serpentine,” she said gently. “I’ll wait for you.”

* * *

Serpentine and Stefan had ridden no more than ten kilometres when a sphere materialised before them. Reining the shire to a halt, the seer stroked its heavy mane as Brel-Elno and Pas-Elno appeared on the path.

Brel-Elno approached them, her robe drifting around her slim figure as she walked. There was a look of earnestness upon her face. Pas-Elno stayed behind her, regarding the seer with his dark, green eyes.

Serpentine and Stefan dismounted and stood beside the shire. Steed snorted and tossed his head, impatient to be moving again. For a few seconds, not a word was spoken.

“We have returned,” Serpentine said, uneasily. He looked apologetically at the Muskan female. “I’m afraid we lost the sphere we took.”

Brel-Elno nodded. “Yes, we know as much.” She looked at Stefan. “Did you find your Clare?”

“Yes,” Stefan replied. “She is now at the barrier wall.”

“With human militia.” Pas-Elno spoke for the first time.

“I see you are now awoken,” said Serpentine. “For now, the troopers will not advance.”

“Is that so?” Pas-Elno responded, unconvinced.

“Earth forces are attacking the cities of Spaceport and Kentucky,” the seer said. “Soon the attack will move north and...” He shrugged, an empty gesture to the morning air.

“And we are threatened,” Brel-Elno finished for him. She moved forward, stroking Steed’s neck, stretching to fondle his huge ears. “So we must finish what we have started.”

“We must see the Great Elder,” Serpentine said, “as swiftly as possible.”

“The Great Elder is gone. He will not return, I think.”

Stefan was shocked. “Gone! Gone where?”

“To the moon, with your prisoner, Michelle.”

“And who is his successor?” the seer asked.

Brel-Elno pushed out her lips. “I am.”

Pas-Elno came forward to stand by his mother. “The first female Great Elder,” he said proudly.

“Things are indeed changing,” Serpentine said.

“Then you are the person we must talk to,” Stefan interjected impatiently. “We must try to stop further assaults on Paludis.”

Brel-Elno smiled in her strange Muskan way. “Ah yes, we must talk but without deliberation, I think.” She gestured Pas-Elno back to the sphere then faced Serpentine. “I am pleased you have returned,” she said, “for it is written so, and we must work together now.”

She gave Steed a sudden slap on the rump and he cantered away, eyes rolling and ears laid back upon his huge forehead. He stood some way off, tail swishing among the long grass. From the south there came the sound of thunder as dark clouds built up on the horizon.

And within a second, it seemed, all of them were inside the sphere.

-37-

The cavern walls danced with multi-hued brilliance, almost as if the colours were talking to each other in a mysterious language beyond the ken of any living being. The ceiling was high, clothed in crystals, and in the middle of the sandy floor sat a perfect sphere, which reflected the ever-changing aurora in a kaleidoscope of intersecting rainbows.

Serpentine lay perfectly still inside the Muskan craft. Never had he felt so alone, not even in the solitude of his own home on the slopes of Trenkesh-Naisom. At least there he’d had the lizards for company.

His thoughts turned to Earth – crowded cities, people scrambling over each other, fighting intransigent bureaucracy to leave, wanting to start a new life elsewhere in the universe. It hadn’t always been like that. Once there had been fertile plains and verdant forests, abundant wildlife, clean, sparkling rivers. And humans had been content.

The mother planet, however, was now a cesspit of greed and envy, ruled by a despotic breed who would do anything to keep control. For, of course, if Earth lost control, then she, herself, was lost.

Selma drifted into his mind, her image rotating slowly before him as if on a turning pedestal. Was she now roving the Garnian dimension, peddling her views to the souls of the universe? Did he love her? Did he even know what love was? His hand stretched out, holding the key-crystal, touched the walls of the sphere, and the many colours of the cave ran towards the orb and fused with it, turning its surface into a living rainbow.

The orb rose slowly then shrank to nothing.

* * *

In an adjacent cave, Stefan watched the Muskans prepare their remaining spheres. There were seven in total and he hoped there would be enough to complete the tasks ahead. He glanced at his watch. It was eight hours since they’d left Bourget. Sensing a movement beside him, he turned to see Brel-Elno, the Great Elder. She was the most beautiful of Muskan females and her new position had given her an air of serene confidence he had never seen in any human.

Small, round eyes gazed at him from her pale-green face.

“Is it going well?” she asked.

Stefan nodded. “It seems so.”

They stood together for a while, watching.

“How did you know we were at the barrier?” Stefan asked.

“Since the loss of the sphere at Tanberg we were concerned,” she replied, “so we observed from high.” She ran her hands down her robe, pulled at the waist sash. “Did you know unspeakable forces were sent against the eastern continent?”

“Serpentine told me of the darkness on East Paludis.”

Brel-Elno shook her head. “Not the Earth assault. It was an attack from this continent, against the Earth forces, full of disease and destruction.”

Stefan looked grim. “I understand. The final retribution from Shean James.” He glanced at her. “How are your people?”

“They have their faith – and they are all in the multitude of caves. They are not on the surface anymore.”

Stefan gave a shallow smile. He was not unduly surprised.

* * *

Serpentine was assailed by voices. They rose and fell around his senses, drifting on the winds of the ether, not quite without body but almost so, like tenuous clouds in the sky on a warm day. He thought he remembered some of them from last time, but that may have been his imagination.

“What are you doing here?”

“Go back from whence you came.”

“Do not linger for you will have to stay.”

“Who are you? Why are you here? From which world are you?”

This time, as he lay prone in the sphere, he summoned a question.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “where are the Earth ships?”

And it was as if he had committed some great sacrilege, for the voices became hushed and their vaporous bodies sped away to nothing and he was surrounded by silence.

“Where are you?” he roared into the cosmos. “Why do you desert me?”

“Serpentine,” came a whisper. “Is that you?”

The seer looked about him. “Who is that?”

“Do you forget me so soon?”

And suddenly he knew. “Selma,” he murmured. “Is it you?”

“It is,” the voice replied, and through a swirling mist of colours he thought he saw her shape form before him.

“Can you help me?” he implored. “Can you tell me where the Earth ships are?”

“Did you mean me to kill Shean James?” the voice asked. “Did you plan it so?”

Serpentine put his chin on his chest and felt tears roll down his cheeks.

“I see it was so,” Selma’s voice continued, “but can you say it was so.”

Serpentine raised his head and his vision was blurred by weeping. “It was so,” he said shakily, “but I would gladly have done it myself.”

Selma’s image wavered for a moment. “You must go to the moon for four and search for their mother in your mind, somewhat farther away.”

The seer closed his eyes. He could see them now, on the far side of the moon, waiting for the final kill like birds of prey. The mother ship was not there; she was further out, further away. He let his mind roam, searching the Muskan dark void, seeking the needle in the haystack. He felt Selma’s mind join his own and they searched together until they located their quarry.

And then Selma was gone and he was alone.

* * *

The old Muskan watched with satisfaction as Michelle gazed at her baby. Suspended in its fluid the infant was moving intermittently, swimming in a continuous stream of nutrients. Michelle ran her blistered hand over the wall of the tank, imagining in her mind’s eye the time of release of the child. She turned and walked to the bunk, searched the bed and the floor. No sleepers. Lattanzis must have picked up the capsule container.

“Your disease will not hurt the child?” the Muskan asked.

Michelle shook her head. “No. Not now.” All the same she backed away.

“How long before he can leave his artificial womb?”

“Perhaps three months,” she replied. She turned to look at the alien, a teardrop in the corner of her eye. “Who will fetch him from here?”

“Ah,” he answered. “It will be his brother.”

Michelle nodded. “It is very fitting.”

The Muskan returned her nod. They stared at each other.

“What happens now?” Michelle asked.

“We await the seer. He will not be long.”

Michelle gasped. “Serpentine is coming here?”

“Nearby there are Earth ships intent on destroying Paludis. They, themselves, must be destroyed. He will need help in that quest.”

Michelle paled. “You are saying we are going to war?”

The Muskan curled his mouth in a strange smile. “Our war will not be very long.” He took her hand in his, observing the ravaged flesh. “If we do not help, your child will not be saved. Paludis will be entirely destroyed.”

Michelle suddenly understood. “It is one way to enter the Garnian dimension,” she said with a smile that hurt her cracked lips. “It is a good cause to die for.”

Inside, she was in turmoil. She was the person who had wanted to live forever, to travel forward in the peace of sleep, to seek new worlds and races. And now her life would be extinguished in a brief moment of the very time she had craved to cross.

“When will we know when to go?” she asked.

“The sphere will tell us,” the old Muskan said. “It will be soon.”

* * *

Serpentine, Stefan, Pas-Elno, Brel-Elno and two Muskan grand elders sat huddled around a table. Their voices were low but intense.

The plan was simple but fraught with danger. Serpentine and Pas-Elno would take a sphere each and would target an Earth ship’s engine deck together. Pas-Elno would then leave his sphere on board, under self-destruct, and join the seer in the other vessel. They would then return to Paludis. Pas-Elno would enter another sphere and they would repeat the exercise for each of the other three massive craft located on Muskluna.

Flight between planet and consecutive Earth ships would take no time at all but the necessary delay incurred in destruction of each of the vessels gave a few seconds warning to the remaining ships. Hopefully there would be no time for either flight or reprisals.

Pas-Elno was growing impatient to be off and kept eyeing the seer as if waiting for a signal. Stefan looked at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Six hours remained before Bourget and his troops would leave the barrier.

Eventually the small group stood and walked into the next cave. They shook hands solemnly, wishing the seer and Pas-Elno good luck. Small gatherings of chattering Muskans grew silent as they entered, drawing back from the spheres.

Serpentine and Pas-Elno entered their vessels and joined their minds as one through the crystal walls. The orbs glowed with light, rose and disappeared.

Brel-Elno grasped Stefan’s hand.

If all went well, the spheres would return immediately.

* * *

The first explosion from Muskluna registered immediately on the mother ship’s console. Jason Ming watched in disbelief as one of his enormous troop carriers vanished before his eyes. The alarm sounded and the screen showed the shields of the other three craft being instantly deployed – an automatic response for group survival. However, four seconds after the initial blast, a second carrier disintegrated.

By now the mother ship was in emergency mode – missiles primed, sensors searching for the aggressor, drive building up ready for swift acceleration. The remaining two carriers, now pushing to lunar orbit, barriers up and barrage deflectors providing a pyrotechnic display, started alignment for a different course.

A voice kicked into Jason Ming’s ears. “Mass change, sir, very small.”

An icy chill swept over the commodore and sweat broke out on his brow. He surveyed the screen for intruders. Nothing. Not a flicker.

On the screen, a third ship suddenly exploded.

“Get us out!” he screamed. “Get us away from here! Warp us now!”

* * *

Pas-Elno lost control as the deflectors distorted space around the fourth ship. He strove to focus on the ship’s engine deck but found himself bouncing from coordinate to coordinate in the space around the Earth vessel.

Abruptly he heard Serpentine’s voice in his mind.

“I can’t get inside. Where are you?”

Pas-Elno tried to gain access again; failed. He sensed his target nosing away, out of orbit, escaping.

In desperation he tried one last time, failed again, and screamed a message to Serpentine. “Can’t get aboard! Sorry.”

* * *

Serpentine felt numb, looked around the walls of the sphere in desperation. He couldn’t get inside the final carrier and neither could Pas. If he didn’t move quickly he’d be located. Visions of Shean James floated into his mind – the dungeon, the ice around his body, Selma, Joby, Stefan and Clare, Muskan faces, reptilian and sinister. He saw the temple rising from the mist, a sphere glowing in the dark.

“Go home, Pas,” the seer whispered. “Go home quickly.” His mind tentatively sought a new target and his vessel responded.

* * *

Inside his sphere, an ice-cold hand gripped Pas-Elno’s thoughts. He was alone in space. The final Earth carrier and Serpentine’s sphere were gone, vanishing somewhere into the deep and evil void. With a heavy heart, he took his vessel back to the peninsula.

* * *

Commodore Jason Ming squinted at the screen. There were eight seconds to warp. He had just seen the fourth ship escape lunar orbit. The countdown echoed around the cabin.

“Eight, seven, six, five...”

The old Muskan took the sphere directly into the engine room of the mother ship and, taking Michelle’s hands in his, looked gently into her eyes.

“Peace on the other side, sister. Your child will live.”

Michelle smiled. “Peace,” she repeated.

“Four, three...”

The Muskan placed his hand on the sphere’s wall.

“Two...”

Jason Ming relaxed in his chair as the mother ship exploded, illuminating the heavens with an enormous ball of flame.

* * *

The huge release of energy, transmitted by satellite, flashed onto the vehicle’s screen and Bourget viewed the details in disbelief. Christ! Had they actually done it? Had they destroyed the Earth force?

He felt a familiar gnawing inside his stomach and he knew he had to find out more.

“Let’s move on to the temple,” he ordered his second-in-command. “Let’s find out what the hell’s going on.”

* * *

The peninsula lay beneath a grey canopy of cloud as the two troop carriers ground to a halt at the foot of the temple ramp. Bourget disembarked, and Stefan and Brel-Elno watched as the general approached with four armed troopers. The group stopped at the ramp and Bourget called up to Stefan.

“Was your mission successful?”

Stefan nodded mutely and Brel-Elno answered, “At some cost, seemingly.”

Bourget and his troopers walked up the ramp.

“What are you doing here?” Stefan asked. “Twenty-four hours have not yet passed.” His eyes ranged over the carriers. “Where’s Clare?”

Bourget ignored the questions. “Can we hear the truth?” He looked haughtily at the agent. “Surely you don’t expect us to turn around and head back south.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Stefan snapped, hackles rising, “but we want no violence here. There has been enough of that.” He felt the pressure of Brel-Elno’s hand on his arm as she sought to calm him.

“Then tell us the truth,” Bourget said. “Tell us how all this was accomplished.”

Stefan glanced at Brel-Elno. It was up to her now.

“Tell me, General,” Brel-Elno said gently, “if we were to show you the power of the crystal spheres, would you wish to use it?”

Bourget smiled. “If Earth controls the heavens then where would Paludis go?”

“I think, perhaps,” Brel-Elno replied, “you may wish to sell the power.” She hesitated then added, “Or are we to appeal to your better instincts in this matter?”

“Appeal to our hatred of Earth, instead,” Bourget replied.

The Muskan shook her head slowly and a gust of wind swept over them. The troopers shuffled their feet nervously.

“I think, perhaps, we should go inside,” Brel-Elno said. “The evil winds from the south will soon be upon us.” She turned and started to walk up the ramp. Bourget hesitated, caught unawares.

Stefan started downwards, towards the carriers, looking for Clare. She suddenly tumbled to the ground, ran to him, fell into his arms and kissed him passionately on the lips.

“Bring your warriors, if you must,” Brel-Elno called back, “but they must not be armed. And if you do come, realise you may not venture out for many moons lest the dark sickness prevail upon you.”

Bourget’s mind was racing for this had all the makings of a trap. He turned to Stefan and Clare. “Is she to be trusted?”

The agent smiled ruefully. “The only way forward for this planet will be through trust,” Stefan said. “You may as well start now.”

Bourget grimaced. It was against all his natural instincts to enter the temple unarmed, for he didn’t know what lay beyond the great wooden doors. In the end, he turned to the nearest trooper.

“Go tell Lieutenant Harbinger,” he told the soldier, “to disembark half the force unarmed. They will accompany me to the temple. The rest of our force is to remain here for fifteen minutes. If there is a disturbance of any kind you assault the temple immediately.” He looked deeply into the trooper’s eyes. “Understood?”

The young soldier blinked and replied, “Yes, sir.” Hesitating, he then added, “And if there is no disturbance, sir?”

The general smiled. “If there is no disturbance I suggest you leave directly for Lakeside and bunker down. You should make it before the foul radiated air from the south reaches here and,” the general lost his smile, “for that matter, before the eastern winds seep Carides cocktail upon us.” He shrugged. “Or, of course, you could walk up the ramp unarmed.”

“Sir?”

Bourget waved his hand. “Just do what you think is best.”

The man didn’t move. “Sir?” he repeated.

Bourget sighed. “What now?”

“What’s left of us, sir?”

The general put a hand on the trooper’s shoulder. “What you find at Lakeside, trooper. That will be all that is left.”

* * *

The sphere stood next to the geodetic column in the centre of the temple floor, pulsing light and dark, casting weird, flickering shadows on the walls. Bourget and his troopers stood around it, staring with wide eyes. Behind them the temple door was shut solid against the growing clouds.

“Please,” Brel-Elno said. “Feel free to touch the orb, if you wish.” She stood at one side, resplendent in her robe, in control of the situation.

Looks of uncertainty passed between the troopers. The general, anxious to be seen as the leader, stepped forward and hesitantly ran his palms over the sphere’s surface. As the strong light throbbed through his hands it revealed the underlying bone structure, as if his flesh was made from chiffon. He stepped back, turning to Brel-Elno.

“What is the power? What can it do?”

“It transports,” Brel-Elno replied, “powered by crystal vibrations.”

Stefan gazed at the sphere. He had not seen one behave in this manner before and his curiosity was aroused. He squeezed Clare’s hand as the troopers collectively edged forward.

“Perhaps,” Brel-Elno suggested, “you would like a demonstration.”

“Perhaps,” Bourget responded. “You went to Earth in such a vessel, you brought Earth’s wrath upon this planet. You used us against ourselves.”

“The few who went to Earth went by the power of your own vehicles,” Brel-Elno said. “But is it not true that Earth needed no reason to attack Paludis, other than the threat of the sleeping pill and its hold upon human universal ambitions?” She threw Bourget a challenging glance. “Would not Paludis have become the centre of that ambition?”

The general shrugged, realising that the fight had gone out of him. Whilst it was true that Earth would have taken over the production of the sleeper by force, it was also true that the Muskans must have helped turn human against human. He sighed and asked, “Where are the rest of your people? We saw nobody on our journey here.”

“Beneath us,” Brel-Elno answered. “So even if you were to overpower us,” she gestured to Stefan and Clare, “you would soon be overpowered yourselves.”

Bourget turned to Stefan. “Whose side are you on here?”

The agent smiled wryly. “I don’t think there’s an answer to that.”

“If I may propose, take a journey in the sphere,” Brel-Elno said, “you and your warriors. A relatively short journey, to give you your proof. Then you are free to tell your Earth masters, if you wish.”

The general laughed nervously. “The sphere is too small for all our party.”

“Not so,” Brel-Elno replied, much to Stefan’s surprise. “Space has no meaning to it.”

A spasm of pain shot through the general’s stomach. Once more he was plagued by indecision and wondered how this situation had developed. He regarded the sphere dubiously, face bathed in pulsating yellow light. “If we are to go on a journey,” he said, “then let us make it a journey away from here. The air on this continent is poisoned by radiation.” He turned to his troopers. “What say we go to Stanley? The air should be clear there. Anybody disagree?”

The troopers looked at each other for support. Nobody raised any objection.

“Right,” Bourget breathed. “Let’s go for it.” He looked uncertainly at Brel-Elno. “Can you do it? Do we have your word it is safe?”

The Muskan female nodded. “You have my word the journey is safe. Our pilot will take you into the sphere three by three.”

Stefan’s mind churned like the sails on a windmill in a gale. He was almost certain the sphere could not accommodate more than five and the words of Brel-Elno made him suspicious.

Bourget was nodding. “Let’s do it, then.”

And instantly the general and two of his men vanished. The sphere blinked off and on. Three more troopers disappeared and then three more, all entering the sphere, which seemed to be pulsating at high frequency. In seconds, all Bourget’s party had gone, leaving Brel-Elno, Clare and Stefan alone. A few seconds later, Pas-Elno joined them from the sphere, which now stood lifeless on the temple floor.

“My God,” Stefan breathed. “You made multiple trips, didn’t you? There and back instantly, several times.”

“From where I stood,” Clare said, “it seemed like they were entering the sphere normally, filing in as a group.”

Brel-Elno held her son’s hands and admiration shone in her eyes.

“Well done,” she said softly.

The agent stared at the Muskan youth. Pas-Elno looked tired, his eyes were greener than normal, his shoulders stooped. The silence and space in the temple seemed overwhelming now that Bourget and his men had gone. Stefan took a step forward and grabbing Pas-Elno’s arm, spun him around.

“Are they safe?” he asked, looking deeply into the green eyes. “Or are you still haunted by your father’s death?”

* * *

At distance, safe inside the Muskan sphere, Serpentine had seen the mother ship explode. He couldn’t explain it. Maybe someone else had attacked the Earth ship, or maybe the craft had suffered a catastrophic fault. All he really knew was that his intended target had been destroyed. For some unperceived time he hovered in space – hesitant, doubtful, full of misgivings about his life and about his role in saving Paludis. He could, of course, return to his lair, but it was the powerful image of Selma El Fadil that dominated his thoughts – her long, shiny black hair, dark tresses falling into infinity, her knowing green eyes as liquid and deep as a Paludis rock pool. Tears welled and an ache arose inside his stomach and surged mercilessly into his head.

Gritting his teeth, Serpentine took the sphere further out into space, towards the artificial shining in the sky, towards the hated star-thing. He was sorely tempted to see where the bridge would take him but the greater cause was the greatest of all. There would be no more humans coming to Paludis. His planet would be safe in its isolation.

The seer, with his heart and mind full of Selma, with his hand paused next to the self-destruct key, took the Muskan orb speeding like a shooting star into the gaping mouth of the Einstein-Rosen bridge.

* * *

The place was obviously not Stanley. They were in a city square surrounded by ravaged buildings, piles of rubble, jagged paving and wrecked, deserted hovercars. Several decomposing bodies littered the area and the sweet, foul smell of decay assailed the general’s nostrils.

A movement on the far side of the square caught Bourget’s attention and a lone figure staggered towards the group of troopers. As the figure grew closer it stumbled and fell, hitting its head sickeningly against the roadway. The general approached slowly and looked down in horror. The man’s unshaven face was grey and a foul membrane of skin was growing over his lips, which must have made speech impossible. Beneath the layer of dust that covered his uniform the general made out the insignia of an Earth battalion.

Bourget backed away in disgust. His midriff was racked by savage, nauseous pain. Heaven help them all. They were in Saltzburg!

His eyes rose to the sky and he was actually looking at the Einstein-Rosen bridge as it exploded in a celebration of light, adding a brutal insult to a grievous injury, turning a dull day into savage sunshine. He sank to his knees, cursing the day mankind had discovered Paludis.

In that same sky, the fourth and final Earth carrier ship hovered, uncertain what to do, where to go. The bridge had gone. They could not return to Earth. And nor would Earth return to them. Building a new bridge would only invite another Paludis attack. Their only home would be on an isolated Paludis. There were over ten thousand souls on board and they must approach in peace. They gained orbit over the planet’s northern pole, barrage deflectors at full power. The crew waited and they prayed.

* * *

They were in one of the crystal caves deep beneath the temple. Unseen to them, above the ancient Muskan structure, the sky momentarily turned into a canvas of intense energy. An immense swirling rainbow sped towards the peninsula, radiation filled the air and the plaintive cries of wild things were carried on the wind. And then all was quiet.

“Shall you use the spheres again?” Clare asked Brel-Elno.

“Oh yes, one more time.” Brel-Elno smiled briefly and drew her cleaning membranes over her eyes. “The child is still on Musk’s moon and must be brought home. Then we will ban visits to the Garnian dimension.”

Clare glanced at Stefan. “When can we go back onto the surface? When will it be safe?”

“I’d estimate six months,” Stefan responded, “but we must never go south, not for many, many years.” He looked at Brel-Elno. “There will be human survivors at Lakeside and isolated countryside in the north.”

The Muskan smiled demurely. “The child will bring us all together. We must grow together in peace.”

“And how will they know the truth?” Clare asked, her voice a mere whisper.

“Why,” Brel-Elno answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world, “you will tell them.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

As a youngster Clayton Graham read a lot of science fiction. He loved the ‘old-school’ masters such as HG Wells, Jules Verne, Isaac Asimov, and John Wyndham. As he left those formative years behind, he penned short stories when he could find a rare quiet moment amidst life’s usual distractions.

A retired aerospace engineer who worked in structural design and research, Clayton has always had an interest in science fiction and where it places humankind within a universe we are only just starting to understand.

Clayton loves animals, including well-behaved pets, and all the natural world, and is a member of Australian Geographic.

He has won many book awards including Author’s Show ‘50 great writers you should be reading’, Readers’ Favorite International Award finalist, and Book Excellence Awards finalist.

Combining future science with the paranormal is his passion. Milijun, his first novel, was published in 2016 and is the exciting prequel to Amidst Alien Stars and Alien Whispers: Conflict and Communion. Space Opera novel, Saving Paludis, was published in 2018 and won a Readers’ Favorite International Book Award. His books may be light years from each other but share the future exploits of mankind in an expansive universe as a common theme.

In between novels Clayton has also published highly rated short story collections Silently in the Night and Looking for Life, where, among many other adventures, you can sympathize with a doomed husband, connect with an altruistic robot, explore an isolated Scottish isle and touch down on a far-flung asteroid.

He hopes you can share the journeys.