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Date: Thu, 14 Mar 91 22:19:43 -0500 (EST)
Reply-To: Quanta Magazine <quanta+@andrew.cmu.edu>
From: quanta+@andrew.cmu.edu (Quanta Magazine)
To: tosspot!lee@uunet.uu.net
Subject: Quanta - February 1991 - Part 2(3)

by her office. Mike figured that drastic circumstances had called for drastic
measures. But what did she hope to accomplish?

   "Here comes the booty, mate." Bill looked pleased with himself as Jaden
placed a tray of wall plaques on the table beside the lectern. He had a list
of "winners" in his left hand and a glass of water in his right.

   "This could take awhile."

   Bill smiled back, "Should we pick up the yawn patrol."

   "But that would be rude," Mike countered as he began his first glorious
yawn of the evening. Bill attended with voluminous seconds.

   "Our first award goes to one of our speakers tonight, a gatherer who has
done a splendid job for the Galactican, and a close personal friend of mine."

   "I wish he hadn't said that," Bill slowly began to struggle up from his
seat.

   Mike placed a hand on his shoulder, "Sit down."

   "This gentleman has preserved the sacred trust our paper holds with the
public, that of reporting the truth as it is, without reservation and without
dramatization."

   "At least we know it can't be you."

   "Shusshhh..."

   "He headed the best-selling issue of the Galactican this year with his
front page article headlined, `Telmar Prepares For Civil War' which I might
add, was quite accurate if we are to have any faith in the current news.

   "His articles and essays are insightful and are a fine example of the very
best in journalism. With that, it gives me great pleasure and pride to award
this plaque to Michael J. Harrison, for his contributions to the Galactican."

   As Mike accepted the award there were resounding cries for another speech,
all of which died down as he resumed his seat. It took an act of will to not
sneak a glance toward the corner of the hall. There was something different
about her.

   "I hope you're not reading me."

   Niki turned, startled, "Somethin' the matter?"

   "I'll tell you about it later."

   The plaque wasn't especially impressive. Mike wondered if they imported the
silver ore from Telmar. Jaden continued to hand out various other plaques to
various other people for various other accomplishments while company
photographers stood around snapping images.

   "I wish I had one," Bill interrupted Mike's thoughts with his most sullen
voice. He looked like a four-year-old who lost his lollipop.

   Mike stuffed the plaque in Bill's jacket pocket.

   "Hey..."

   "You can change the name."

   Bill laughed, "Hey, thanks dude."

   "Anytime."

   As the tray grew empty, Mike noticed that he and Bill weren't the only
one's yawning. However, nobody had the guts to make for the door. Mike knew
that the first person to break open the doors and leave would cause a
tidal-wave of people to follow, but nobody dared start the congestion.

   Finally, Jaden congratulated the readership, everyone who came, and
everyone who didn't get an award but thought they deserved one all the same.
With the final laugh, he declared the ceremony complete and adjourned the
congregation. The rabble, anticipating the clap of the gavel, were already on
their feet with more raucous applause, but this time with constipated steps as
they tried to squirm outside and perform their relative duties to nature. Mike
laughed remembering the Cubbyhole.

   "Are we having fun yet?"

   Mike gave Niki a hug, "We're about to."

   "Michael..."

   Linden approached from behind Niki, "I got that ship."

   Mike looked over her shoulder, "How soon?"

   "It's at the starport in pre-flight. Hanger 183."

   "Accommodations?"

   "Four."

   "Okay, thanks Chuck."

   Niki tugged Mike's arm, "What's goin' on?"

   "Get your stuff packed, you too Bill, we're going to Calanna."

   "Now?"

   "Yeah."

   Bill headed toward the doors muttering something about his mother. Niki
followed, and then suddenly turned.

   "What about you?"

   "I've got everything I need."

   She turned and ran out after Bill.

   "Mike," Linden turned back to face the reporter. The multitudes were still
bumping their way outside amidst the congestion at the Hall's entrance.

   "What is it, Chuck?"

   The editor's hands were wrung into a knot as he tried to lean casually
against the lectern. He smiled his real smile for the first time in the night.

   "Nothing... Good luck."

   Mike nodded, "Thanks."

   Outside the air was cold, not at all like the balmy summer nights on most
of Calanna. Mike saw the dark figures recede into the distance, climbing into
their chauffeured limousines, a sign of their decadent elegance. The security
officer stood beside the company gravcar. He was looking for Mike amidst the
approaching crowd. Mike guessed that Robin was still tucked away inside. It
would have been a long wait for a human.

   "Mr. Harrison."

   Mike swung around abruptly, barely catching his head in time to keep the
hat from falling off.

   The Ambassador smiled and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, "I'm
sorry if I surprised you. My name is Natasia."

   "I know." He reached out his hand to shake hers. He wondered if there was
some other sort of protocol.

   "But my friends call me Nuke. Don't worry," she withdrew her hand abruptly,
"you don't have to kiss it or anything. I'm not Imperial royalty."

   Her long dark hair shined in the moonlight. She was a tall as him, but very
slim. She suppressed another giggle rather poorly, and her face glittered with
amusement, but her eyes told a different story.

   "Can I help you Ambassador?"

   "No." She waited for her reply to sink as she smiled seductively, "I wanted
to commend you on a brilliant speech."

   Mike wondered if she was being sarcastic or giddy.

   "Thank you."

   "You are welcome."

   Her eyes glimmered with icy bemusement as the reply sank deeper into his
mind. Something within them toyed about an idea, as if she were sifting though
his memories for an occasional...  stolen disk.

   "What do you want? You want to know something."

   She studied him for a moment, "I already have what I want.  You've told me
everything."

   Mike clenched his fist, knowing he'd given away his thoughts.

   She put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed her thumbs into the fabric of
his collar while staring into his eyes with a message of sympathy.

   "Yes, you have.  Now I want you to have a safe and happy trip.  And be sure
to find Mr. Fork.  He's very, very important."


                           *          *          *


   A dim, filtered luminescence clung to the cold air as Christina Quatalis
re-checked her flight instructions for the fourth and final time, shaking her
head with a now comfortable disbelief.  The recycler hummed in a shaded corner
of the bridge as the computer silently reconfigured her upper boards to
account for the installation of turbo-fan chemical jets into the IFM Vista's
tertiary ports. Hazel eyes scanned its progress, reading the textures of data
with a mixture of apathy and distrust. Over the bridge IC she heard Rrkal's
husky voice shouting obscenities amidst the dull background chatter of ground
techs.

   She opened her line, "Some sorta prob, engineering?"

   "Captain?" It was Victor. His York accent was easily discernible over any
transmitter. "Com-beta on the third tube is right out. If we had another day
we could make repairs, but not in space."

   "Typical ISS surplus. Don't sweat it. We can still route navcom through
manual."

   "Only if we tear open your panel. And then we'll probably have to
reconfigure the whole system from scratch. Is it really worth it?"

   "We haven't any choice. We're taking-off in five hours."

   There was a growl from the other end.

   "What's that?"

   "Never mind. It's not repeatable."

   Chris smiled, "Tell Rrkal to watch his lip. I want you back up here to
chart our course."

   "I thought our course was already registered."

   "Just get up here; there's been a slight change in plans."

   "On my way."

   The bridge lights flickered as local batteries kicked in. It was one of
Rrkal's ways of letting everyone know when he was annoyed. Chris punched up
another channel.

   "Gunnery, are you ready for the Jane's files on Wasps."

   "Ready Freddy," Rita's voice crackled over the IC.

   "Sending now..."



   Mike cautiously stepped onto the maintenance grav-plate. The congested
workspace of Hanger 183 made him feel conspicuously overdressed. Robin dangled
her legs over the edge of the plate as it slowly lifted to the spacecraft
above. Large spotlight attached to the wall illuminated the aft of the vessel
as water vapor condensed and frosted along the fuel hoses and quickly
sublimated back into the air a few meters down the line. A large Vargr, his
coveralls stained with lubrication fluid, barked directions to the starport
maintenance personnel from a small engine port. An expression of distaste
seemed to cross his black, furry snout as he sniffed the pair's scented
formals.

   "Y'da pass'ngerz?"

   Mike stepped onto the cold, steel hull extending his hand, "That's right.
My name's Mike."

   "Rrkal," the Vargr shot Mike a toothy grin and turned toward the airlock.
"Da stat'rhoomz don'da lif'tund beinty stups sdhar'burd. Blu dhoorz."

   "Thanks," Mike winced as the engineer's breath steamed into his face. "We
can find our way around."

   The airlock's iris valves rotated open as Mike and Robin approached the
outer hatchway. A youngish woman with short, sandy-blonde hair stood in the
short passage. Her khaki uniform showed command rank.

   "Ms. Clay, Mr. Harrison, it's a pleasure to welcome you aboard the Imperial
Free Merchant Vista. I'm Captain Quatalis. If you'll follow me, I'll be happy
to show you to your cabin. Our other two passengers have not yet arrived. Will
you be staying together?"

   Mike and Robin followed the Captain through the airlock's double iris
valves and into a hexagonal passage with railings and iron grating floors.

   "No. What are the accommodations?"

   The Captain glanced toward Mike, twisting a red lever which opened a set of
sliding doors to a small cargo lift.

   "Two staterooms, double occupancy."

   The lift descended one level and the doors slid open. Three passages ran to
the bow, port, and starboard respectively. The floors and walls were all
finished in an artificial, white substance made to look like polished marble,
but the metal handrails remained. One was conspicuously bent outward several
centimeters.

   "Bumpy rides?"

   "We often get comments on that."

   They followed the captain through the starboard passage and into an oval
common area. A wide table occupied the central floorspace, its translucent
body suspended from the ceiling by a reflective, holographic projection rod.
Gravitic recliner housings lay scattered on the floor around the table like an
assemblage of anthills. Nested into the far wall were cupboards, a hydration
oven, a squat cooling unit, and two air filters.  Sliding, blue doors to
either side marked the stateroom entrances.

   "You'll find the galley down the port passage in case you get hungry.
Rrkal, I believe you've met our engineer, he cooks the supper chow at eighteen
hours ship time. Otherwise, its fend for yourself. If you need to use medical,
that's next to the galley.  Rita doubles as our ship's medic; you'll meet her
if you get spacesick. If you need anything else use channel zero on the IC.
We'll be leaving Tizar in four standard hours, or a little over fifteen cents
local time. After we jump into hyperspace we will review your drop-off
instructions," Captain Quatalis paused with this last thought searching for
the right words. "I hope you enjoy your stay. Good-day."

   She quickly headed down the passage and made a swift right turn away from
the lift.

   "Apparently in a hurry," Robin poked her nose into the cupboard.

   Mike leaned against the passage railing, "What drop-off instructions?"

   "I think she means we aren't landing at the spaceport. Wanna split a can of
mash?"



   At T-0:02 Bill and Niki showed up, packed as tightly as two rats could
pack. For Niki, that meant a pair of pris glasses, a string of worry beads and
the standard med-kit with bandages and casting-foam. Bill carried his own sort
of med-kit, three vials of purified ethanol, ten grams of hexobarbital, a
laser blade, and one fiberglass body pistol of last resort. Mike never
understood how two people so different could get along so well.  Getting Bill
and Niki together was a recipe for destruction. At formal banquets they could
behave, but in a starship galley...

   "Foodfight!"

   "Hey Mike, what's the matter. I thought you liked yogurt."

   "Wanna smoke an enchilada?"

   "What the hell is going on here?!"

   "Uh..oh.. Ah, hi el cap-i-tan. How beautiful you look this evening."

   "This passenger is drunk!"

   "Who?"

   "I want to know who the hell brought drugs onboard this vessel!"

   "Hic..."

   Mike began to question the wisdom of bringing along an entourage. Niki was
essential, just because without her finding Fork would be next to impossible.
Robin was part of the deal, which could have been broken back on Tizar. And
Bill, with his aptitude and inclination for brawling, was just cannon fodder.
Mike smiled, wondering if he would get that far.

   "Are you aware of the term `depressurization', Mr. Walker?"

   "She's gonna space me..."

   "Only if you're lucky. And as for you miss Sen..."

   "Tee hee hee..."

   Captain Quatalis had an interesting method for dealing with drunks. First,
they were injected with a nausea inducing compound causing them to sacrifice
to the porcelain god the entire contents of their stomaches in addition to
several dry heaves just for good measure. Then she had them hooked up to
plasma vaccs where they had their blood filtered by the Empire's most sadistic
gunner/medic. Finally, she had them stuffed into low berths for one hour of
uninterrupted hibernation, just so they wouldn't miss the hangover. Then,
after they were thoroughly sobered, she offered them her sincerest apology for
having put them through such stringent disciplinary measures and broke out a
bottle of Antares' finest spirit, just to show them how much she meant it.  If
they accepted, they got to go through the whole process over again.

   Mike sat in the corner of medbay taking notes and plenty of pictures for
future blackmail. Half way through the proceedings he felt an unmistakable
disorientation.

   Bill leaned on the plasma filter, pukestance. "Was that the drug or just
me?"

   "We just jumped into hyperspace," Rita Ghomes examined the readings along
the med displays. "Oh...that's interesting."

   "Sweet mama, Mike, get me the hell outta here."

   "Sorry Bill, captain's orders."

   "Billy..." Niki curled herself into a little ball around the base of her
filter, probably to keep the room from turning so fast.

   "What is it Niki?"

   "I feel woosy."

   "Yeah, that's one way of putting...Mike?"

   Mike looked over at his sobering companion. Bill had plainly noticed
something new in his now undrunken state.

   "Take off the hat, Harrison."

   Mike obliged him, relishing the surprise of a half-suspended grin. Niki's
was less controlled, and evolved from giggles to more puke which nobody
thought she possessed.

   "What the..."

   "It's a long story."

   "Them's head-tricks, Mike. Highly illegal for Tizarians."

   Mike nodded, "Courtesy of Mr. Clay."

   "In other words, you didn't have any choice."

   Mike smiled, "I guess he wants to keep me in line."

   "Or out of line."

   Niki looked up from her barf, "I think it's gross."

   "Look who's talking."

   "Hey, at least I hit the bucket, okay?"

   Mike turned about and left, donning his hat only as an afterthought. The
dark passage with its white finish and bent railing seemed to flow over with
misplaced memories. He leaned against the metal as if testing its strength.
Something about the cold steel put him at ease, as if the time-space bubble
which now surrounded the ship would take them somewhere else beside Calanna.
Even Telmar was preferable. Or perhaps Tyber. Mike remembered the dense,
choking atmosphere, mildly acidic carbons and sulfates eating his lungs as he
scrambled for a filter mask, tall smokestacks cutting through the lethal fog a
mile and more.  Even that would be preferable to Calanna.

   The oval antechamber to the passenger staterooms was dark and cold. Mike
searched the table's surface for environmental controls without success,
finally fumbling across the IC.

   "Hello?" The voice was strange. A York accent?

   "Hi. How d'ya turn the lights on?"

   Suddenly the room lighted up.

   The person at the other end seemed to laugh, "I think you found the magic
words."

   "Oh. Sorry."

   "Glad to be of assistance."

   Mike switched the line closed and stumbled into a gravitic recliner beside
the table. He wondered who he had just talked to, and how many more
"strangers" were aboard the Vista.

   "Computer on." Nothing happened.

   "Quaint..." Mike leaned over the table and found the switch at the base of
the connector. The air above the table began to glow with a luminescent
texture as the holo-rod generated a spinning three-dimensional representation
of the Vista. Mike paused, waiting for some sort of prompt. The image of the
Vista continued rotating.

   "Hi."

   "Unrecognized command."

   "Help."

   "No help available."

   Mike went to the cooling unit and returned to his seat empty handed.

   "Show passengers."

   "Respecify at unrecognized parameter... passengers."

   "Cargo manifest."

   "Records unavailable."

   "Bullshit..."

   "Unrecognized command."

   "Show flight instructions."

   "Records unavailable."

   Mike returned to the cooling unit and grabbed a sluice-stick.  He bit off
the end and sucked out a quarter of its frozen, syrupy contents.

   "Who the fuck programmed you?"

   "Respecify at unrecognized parameter...the."

   Mike sat back in the gravitic recliner and let the head tilt back until he
rested on a forward incline, his feet sticking upward and out like a gull's
tail feathers.

   "Who...are you?"

   "Specify data format."

   "Verbose."

   "Vista, Imperial Free Merchant, SG-64923. Laid down 124-618, Dimstar,
Imperial Dimstar Corporation. Tonnage two-hundred standard, twenty-eight
hundred cubic meters displacement.  Engineering, one Dopel PF-18 fusion-linked
power plant driving two Ditar AG-217e hyperfield generators and one Monoquad
MQ-3 fixed impulse maneuver drive with dual Zalpha-X turbofan installation.
Gravitics, Napaliastics I-14 Field Generators with standard inertial
compensation and zero to two gee sustained gravity adjusters. Range, sixteen
point three light-years with unlimited maneuver..."

   Mike straightened his posture as the holographic display zoomed-in on
specific systems aboard the craft. He tried to keep pace with the output as
the computer jumped from one topic to the next. The Vista was a 38-year-old
retired scout ship built by Dimstar based on a standard design two-hundred ton
hull. It had been purchased at discount by the Bank of Ares and leased through
the Galactic Press Corporation as a refitted free merchant. Its entire class
had a history of excellent atmospheric maneuverability, but the Vista, in
particular, had been placed in dry dock six years previously with orders that
it be scrapped due to a series of critical drive failures. Somehow a deal had
been cut, and the defective drives had been repaired.

   The vessel was crewed by two Galactican personnel, two independent
contractors, and three robots. The captain, Christine Quatalis, was born on
Tyber. She served as a pilot in the Imperial Scouts before being hired on by
the Galactican. Her first mate, Victor Darian, was from Ares. He served Sector
Navy as a tac-ship lieutenant before being discharged in naval cutbacks three
years earlier. Rita Ghomes, a native of Telmar, was discharged around the same
time from her planetary guard while the civil unrest was beginning to brew
into open revolt.  Rrkal, the vargr engineer, was from the outworld coalition.
He worked his passage from the frontier aboard a merchant craft until he was
laid off near Dimstar. The three robots worked in cargo, maintenance, and
engineering respectively, places which passengers were unlikely to ever see.

   The passenger roster was classified as were flight instructions. Mike
guessed that he could have broken the security if he had Cindy on hand or
access to the ship's computer directly. An idea itched away somewhere deep
inside his mind, but he put it away shaking his head and smiling. If he hadn't
seen the way Captain Quatalis dealt with drunks, he might have been more
willing to see how she dealt with snoops.

   Mike decided he was tired. He peeked down the passage and saw no sign of
movement. Niki and Bill were going to spend a few more hours in sick bay for
sure. Mike pulled himself to his feet and started toward the closest of the
staterooms.

   "Lights off." The door slid open as the room darkened behind him. He
shuffled out of his shirt and climbed into where he though the null-tube
should be.

   "Mike?" It was Robin.

   "Uh..oh.. I think I stumbled into the wrong room."

   "It's okay. You don't have to go."

   "What makes you think I was going to?"

   She didn't bother to come up with a reply but scooted over to make more
room. Mike tried to make out her features in the pitch darkness. He wondered
what she was wearing.

   It! It's an android. Mike tried to refocus his thoughts, but they kept
twisting around on him.

   She moved again, "What are you thinking?"

   "Wrong question."

   "You're trying to see me, aren't you."

   Not your typical android question, Mike thought. "Can you see in the dark?"

   No answer.

   "Like, infrared?" His throat felt dry.

   She moved again, her head very close to his, but without breath. "With a
dash of the ultraviolet." He could almost see her smile.

   Mike closed his eyes and tried to sleep wondering why she would do the
same. She seemed to mimic humans in almost all aspects of their behavior. Was
it simply a part of her programming or something deeper? After several minutes
he felt the supressant currents slowly rock as she seemed to breathe, quietly,
peacefully. He finally let himself sink slowly beneath the cover of sleep, the
depth of space closing inward like a far away dream realized in a sudden
instant. And in his mind's eye he saw the fine red outline of a short fence
post, its needle-thin barbs pressing outward, seeking blindly in the static
wind as a trio of squat, white figures lay aside, their fluffy forms resting
on a bed of green haze.



   "If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it."

   Captain Quatalis looked mildly irritated. She chewed on the end of a
buttersprout and glanced around the galley looking for her lightpen. Victor
sat in the far corner of the room still sizing up her intended audience of
four passengers as Rrkal and Rita stirred a can of condensed Terriak hearts
into their joint concoction.

   Niki studied the map on the near wall, trying to decipher the gist of the
implications. "What if we get caught?"

   Quatalis turned to the Siri, "If we land at the spaceport we'll all be
picked up by starlaw, or worse, by ISIS. This is the only alternative."

   "That's only true if the Calannan guard lets the Imps push them around,
which is something I find highly unlikely."

   "It's more likely than you might think Mr. Harrison, particularly since
Calanna has never been a friend of Tizar or the Galactic Press Corporation."

   Mike nodded, and reconsidered. The drop-off instructions, drawn by an
ex-army commander working directly under Jaden and heading the Tizar office's
internal security division, were simple and direct; a clean military troop
insertion if Mike had ever seen one. Under the plan, the Vista would jump in
at the far side of Calanna's smaller moon, dive into the planet's atmosphere,
deal with any resistance as necessary, make the drop via gravchutes, and get
out. The only problems were the gravitational effects on the hyperspatial
drives, and the resistance, most likely in the form of Wasp fighter craft.
After the four were safely dirtside, they should easily ditch the chutes and
hide in the local terrain. After that, hiking twenty kilometers into Aelflan,
a large agricultural community, would be a snap.

   The incident would be logged as yet another smuggling operation which made
it through. Since many government and security officials took part in such
activities themselves on a regular basis, no eyebrows would be raised. The
Wasps would probably follow the Vista out at a safe distance and let the few
ground personnel available handle the drop. Probability of success: 90% plus,
or so it was written. And better still, the Imps would be thinking Harrison
and company still on Tizar counting the ashes of poor Mr. Fork.

   "Fine, but how do we get out." It was Niki again.

   Quatalis had wondered when somebody would ask the obvious question. The
fact that it had been asked meant that they had already accepted the plan for
getting in.

   "The Vista's cargo shuttle, the Ariya, will land at the spaceport eight
days after the drop. We'll unload our cargo and begin speculating. No doubt
we'll attract some Imperial attention, so when you try to get back in contact,
be subtle.  We'll stick around for ten days after that, or until we are no
longer needed. The Vista, herself, will be hiding under scanner range of the
system's largest gas giant. In case of complications, I suggest you arrange
for a backup spacecraft. Are there any questions?"

   Seeing none, Rrkal announced open season on the supper, and the crew plus
one android dug in. Bill poked at the food with the end of his laser blade,
watching the mixture fizzle and flame with tempered distaste, and Niki
gathered half-a-bowl in a half- hearted attempt to put something down. Mike
just sat around watching the others, his appetite all but evaporated by the
discussion.

   Rrkal grinned at the trio, "Da Pass'engurz don' eet hartz."

   Bill looked up from his bowl, an enigmatic smile slowly creeping across his
face.

   "Z'hartz goood foood. Ven Z'Droyd noez."

   Mike looked across at Robin. She was still shovelling it down with an eager
hunger bordering on ravenous.

   "Zhe eetz like und no tomarwoo."

   Robin looked up from the table, gulping down her mouthful without chewing.

   "Why iz zat, droyd?"

   "Because there might not be..." She looked across at Mike with a
matter-of-fact smile. Taken together with the fake sleeping, yawning,
detachable ears, and punch in the chest, he decided he didn't like smiling
androids, not that he had ever known any others to justify the generalization.
Mike reflected on his attitude as she resumed eating.

   "Doz zhe zhit too?"

   Her eyebrow cocked at the query, and for the first time Mike felt an
inkling of interest in the conversation, such as it was.  Bill perked up too,
as did the captain after a moment's pause.

   "Not exactly your usual supper manners, Rrkal."

   "I'm...tirzty." He seemed to search for the last word as if unsure of the
translation.

   Quatalis regarded him with a passing curiosity. "You're thirsty? For
knowledge?"

   "Da." The Vargr grinned, two canines dropping from either side of his
snout. He seemed rather pleased that he'd gotten his point across, and had all
but forgotten about Robin.

   Mike looked across the table, "I don't know; Robin, do you?"

   "Do I what?"

   Mike smiled at the slated reply, "Y'know, 'zhit."'

   Niki spilled her bowl as Mike felt a raw reminder of the pain coarse up his
spine, snapping each vertebra as it ascended until it loomed at the threshold
of his mind. He awaited the burning, but it just stood there like a flickering
candle flame, pausing for some sort of twisted invitation.

   Mike opened his eyes to see everyone staring at Niki, her face averted in
shame as she tried to dry the table. Rrkal slided across and began helping her
clean-up as the Captain shuffled out of her recliner to grab a hand-vacc.

   "Maybe we should have discussed the drop after supper."

   Bill kept frozen in his place, his eyes sweeping from Niki to Robin, and
then over to Mike. As their eyes locked in an understanding that didn't need
explanation, Bill reached down to the base of his recliner and switched off,
his body slowly rotating into a standing position before the gravitic currents
gave way to the surrounding fields. Mike followed suit, and soon found his
feet placed firmly on solid decking.

   "Thanks for the food, but we're not hungry."

   "Daz okay...mor foood fur uz."

   Mike followed Bill to the hold, the younger man entering an access code at
the lift and again at storage. A security camera watched from the corner of
the room as Bill hauled one of the gravchutes off the near wall.

   "Mama says it's best to strike while the enemy is out to lunch."

   Mike nodded, "Looks like you've been keeping busy."

   "I figured it was high time I paid my keep." Bill took his last vial of
ethanol from his back pocket.

   "She let you keep that?"

   "I told her it was for barter...on planet."

   Mike snatched the vial from Bill's open hand, twisting off its cap as the
younger gatherer broke out a two and a half gram capsule.

   "I wouldn't drink that if I were you, Mike."

   "Not straight."

   "Straight or mixed, you'd die." He began opening the chute's gravitics,
snipping a thin wire with the end of his knife and fishing it out.

   "Ethanol?"

   "Guess again, Mike." His grey eyes seemed to flicker with amusement he tied
the thread around the capsule.

   "I dunno."

   "Well, for starters, it's radioactive. The vial's the shield."

   Mike handed it back without the cap, "Fine...you drink it."

   "Not very likely." Bill plunged the capsule into the liquid and extended
his hand as if for a shake.

   "This isn't gonna work, Bill."

   "The cap."

   Mike handed it over, sweat droplets beginning to form on his forehead.
"They're gonna check these things out."

   "Really?" Bill's eyes widened with pretended surprise.

   "Really."

   "Don't be a puss, Mike. It'll take at least fifty claps for the current to
dissolve the casing." Bill produced a foam napkin, wrapping the vial and tying
it securely at both ends, the thin wire string falling from its interior. "And
in another twenty...  give or take..." He gritted his teeth as the laser blade
burnt the wire back into place.

   "Then what?"

   Bill closed the unit and replaced the chute back on its rack, nicking its
polymer housing almost as an afterthought.

   "Boom?"

   "Neutrinos, Mike. Lots of neutrinos."



   The Vista hung cloaked beneath the shadow of Baal, Calanna's lesser moon,
as its port sensors began scanning the cloudy world below. On the distant
horizon, the rutilant giant descended into night, saffron rays slipping
carelessly away to space.

   "Passive EMS reports local clear."

   "Focus IR, 3rd Octh, Coord 34.21, 84.13."  Captain Quatalis cautiously
edged the Vista between the jutting walls the dark lunar canyon. An eerie
silence crept outside the craft as the joints along her spine began to tingle
in anticipation and fear.

   "How long 'til the batteries..."

   "That depends," Victor's hand fidgeted over the sensor boon controls while
his adjunct talked to the ship's computer and played with the data.

   "Nothing unusual."

   "Try Neutrino."

   "Already done. Minutes clean."

   "Maybe."

Mike sucked in cold air outside the dropshaft, glancing toward the digital
altimeter on the far wall. Niki and Bill sat opposite, knees bent upright,
boots braced together. Bill wore a worried expression. Niki looked elsewhere,
she was ignoring the tension. Mike focused his eyes forward, a cool sweat
breaking out along his hairline. Robin gently fingered the straps of her
gravchute.

   "Overweight?"

   "Paranoid."

   Mike smiled at the reply as the vessel jolted sharply against a deafening
noise.

"Minute's clean! Get me DR and ID!"

   Christina struggled with the helm controls as the Vista rocked and tumbled
with the impact.

   "They're ground to air. Quiet Snipers."

   "They?"

   "Two mark ten."

   "Ghomes, are you reading this!?"

   The Vista's hull armor crackled and glowed against the atmospheric friction
as the heat seekers scrambled in pursuit. A swarm of plasma cells jettisoned
from the aft and exploded in a fiery blaze over fifteen miles high.

   "Sending pinpoint on source."

   "Fire at will!"

The robot eye scanned skyward, over the grey and dusty clouds, a cumbersome
program slowly analyzing the data. Chemical explosion.  Plasma release. A
small mechanical motor raised the antenna to an upright position as the
launcher's comm unit broadcast the coordinates of the hit. Within moments only
a burning crater remained.

   "Okay, give me decoys."

   "Is that neces..."

   "Yes!"

   Six gravballs dropped in pairs from the Vista's ventral aft, dispersing
about the vessel as it darted toward the cloud-cover below.

   "DR Victor."

   "Hull breach in tank seven, jump's out also."

   "Oh, and by the way."

   Victor smiled at the criticism, then stopped smiling.

   "Two wasps, cold fuel. No make that four, in close form pairs.
They're mark six. Missile range in twelve."

   "Eyes open Ghomes."

   "Get me fix."

   "Sending...Eight goblins folks."

   A single Hellraiser flushed into the inky black as Victor pronounced the
"E" in "Eight." Within scarce moments a billion cubic yards of sky burst into
an intense white flame.

   "One and two nixed. Three and four are breaking up. Four dupes out."

   "We got lucky."

   "Four more goblins. Mark five and six."

   Christina reflexively pulled hard and to starboard as Rita fired an
antimissile and loosed a swarm of plasma cells despite the tumbling and
turning of the spacecraft. Suddenly the Vista lurched from impact, its steel
frame splintering open and erupting from all sides in a fiery inferno of
fusion and plasma.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jim's a grad-student at UC Riverside, hoping and praying like crazy that he'll
get his MBA before the dean's axe gets him first.  In between classes and term
papers, he can be found editing `The Guildsman,' the raunchiest gaming zine
ever to be published. `The Harrison Chapters' were originally written as a
setting description for his Traveller (SF-RPG) campaign. His story, he says,
is what you get when you combine an overactive imagination with the foolish
tendency to wing it. He says he writes exactly the same way he gamemasters:
without any semblance of plan or preconception.

What has been published here as Chapter Four is actually chapters six and
seven as written originally by Jim. `The Harrison Chapters' will be continued
next issue.

jimv@ucrmath.ucr.edu
______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

			Chasing Unicorn Songs

			     Conrad Wong

			  copyright (c) 1990
______________________________________________________________________________

A chestnut-colored centaur paused at the door of the passenger lounge.  She
brushed tangled black hair over her tanned shoulder and bent a delicate equine
ear to the enchantingly beautiful music coming from within.  Intrigued, she
peeked in, her wide brown eyes searching for the talented singer.

   Across the circle: a silhouette sat in the many-colored shifting light of
the Tangled Web nebula.  The feline bard's bright green-gold eyes looked out
at her audience from under a well-brushed mane of dark black hair and short
triangle ears of calico fur.  She wore a simple burgundy red shipsuit, her
only concessions to fashion her jeweled earrings.  Her slender arms danced
over the strings of a crystal harp, and she sang, a sweet purring voice that
filled the room without seeming to.

   That voice drew her listeners into the teaching ballad every child knew,
the song of the famed spacefarer Mikato, who grew up an Owned Person in the
days before Ragnarok when humans, deified by science, could call down
lightning or raise up palaces at a moment's whim.  The Owned People were
created in their image and yet different, that the humans might be admired,
waited upon, even worshiped.  Yet a few, the Compassionate, took pity on their
playthings and set free those they could.

   The Compassionate named Mikato captain and crew of the sentient ship
`Starlight Runner' and sent him forth to seek out a new world for the Free
People, one of suitable climate and far from human affairs so that they might
develop on their own.  His wife, the young and pretty Amaranth, and the best
of the people the Compassionates freed slept in cryogenic capsules while he
outwitted the dangers that waited beyond human space.

   At last Mikato found Elyse, a glowing blue-green pearl in the cloth of the
Tangled Web.  Too ancient and long in space ever to return to planetary
gravity, he shed tears watching as `Starlight Runner' sent the final shuttle
to the surface bearing Amaranth's cryocoffin.  Forever apart from his wife who
remained still young and even more beautiful than he'd remembered, out of
despair Mikato plunged his ship into the heart of Elyse's star and died.

   As the bard sang the last keening songs of Mikato's dirge, a growing
silence fell.  Then, one by one, her listeners clapped, filling the room with
wild applause.

   Intending to offer a drink to the singer, the centaur took two glasses
filled with amber-gold nectar from the bartender and trotted past a group of
stunned vulpines returning slowly to their neglected drinks.  She found two
unwelcome tiger-men admirers ahead of her.  The singer batted ineffectually at
their grasping paws; her whiskers bristled angrily at their coarse
whisperings.  Nearby patrons murmured disapprovingly but declined to
intervene, noting the mercenaries' weapons they carried.

   The centaur stepped in casually and tapped one of them on the shoulder.  He
turned about lazily to stare right into the muzzle of an antique 12mm
semi-automatic pistol.  Made fearless by intoxication, he lazily drawled, "Got
a permit for that?"

   "Better than that.  Diplomatic immunity." The centaur flicked the safety
off with an audible click, causing the tiger-man to sober up quickly.  He
glanced down to his weapons, all securely holstered and locked away beyond any
chance of his outdrawing her, then tapped his companion on the shoulder.  They
slinked out, ears flattened.

   "I'm Zephyr-Racer of Chrysanthemum, Riftworlds ambassador," the centaur
said, briskly.  She replaced her automatic pistol in a belt pouch and passed
one of the drinks she carried to the singer who accepted it gladly.  "But my
friends call me Zephyr."

   "Ariaou, a novice bard of Meetpoint Academy," the bard replied quietly.
Then, tail curling in a suddenly concerned S-curve, she asked, "How may I
repay you for your help?"

   "Our debt's paid by the memory of your beautiful singing.  But you've not
the look of the industrialist or academician about you.  Why're you bound for
Ryme?" Zephyr cocked her equine ears forward, all curiosity, and rested her
elbows on the table.

   "It's a long tale, and sometimes, I think, half imagined," Ariaou murmured,
sipping the nectar and sitting back on her chair.  "Perhaps I've spent sixteen
long, lonely years chasing a foolish child's dreams."

   Ariaou struck a chord on her crystal harp, beginning a steady rhythm and
melody.  She sang softly, her words interwoven with her playing, of fair
Mnehim, a lush M'nahnee colony world far to the coreward side of the nebula.
A warm summer afternoon colored the trees golden, sunlight setting on the
verdant forest and sparkling brightly off the rounded stones within a gurgling
brook.  Two kittens played nearby, one calico, the other black.

   She murmured softly over her playing, "Tommiau and I argued over pebbles in
a stream, each claiming the other's stone was worthless and his or her own a
precious gem.  We paid little heed to the lengthening shadows and the first
sweet songs of the nightingales.  Then an elusive melody came dancing through
the trees."

   A shiver ran down Zephyr's spine at the pure silvery tones of the song,
pale shadow though it was of the music Ariaou had heard so long ago.  It spoke
of a wanderer with laughing eyes, of his joy in visiting faraway stars and
worlds, and his delight in bestowing enigmas upon those he met, that they
might prosper and grow in the understanding.  Deep strength and wisdom ran
beneath his bright song, and a sadness born of millenia.

   "We gave chase, thinking at every turn that the musician would step out of
the brush, so close he seemed, his song weaving about us sweetly.  And behind
us, unheard, a forest predator loped, yellow eyes shining ferally in the
moonlight.  It hungered, seeking easy prey for a midnight supper."

   Ariaou's song tumbled over itself, wove into danger: a young Ariaou fell to
the forest floor, and Tommiau cried for help, all alone, surrounded by
blinking eyes in the underbrush.  Dark shapes ghosted overhead, the carrion
birds following the predator hopefully, their cries raucous.  The wolf
crouched, its sinews tightening into steel coils for the pounce--

   "It howled forlornly and fell out of the bush, run through and through by
the horn of a golden unicorn that stepped out behind.  He shone in the
moonlight, his voice warm as sunshine, and his eyes clear sky blue.  He sang
to us with amusement: such brave kittens we were to run free in the woods, but
had we no parents to watch over us?"

   Young Ariaou and Tommiau clambered onto the unicorn's back.  His grand song
arched over them, cascading glissandos of starlight notes forming a rainbow
road on which they galloped over the treetops.  The forest sped by as if they
flew on true wings of song, with a herd of other unicorns all the colors of
the spectrum galloping beside the golden unicorn.

   "Tommiau fell asleep on our ride, as the unicorn intended, but I did not.
In the morning, he awoke remembering nothing of the night's events, and my
stories were met with disbelief and scoldings, for there were no such animals
as unicorns in the modern world."

   Ariaou continued, quietly, the music fading to gentle strumming.  "For
sixteen years, I've studied music at Meetpoint Academy.  Nine years gone by,
my parents were killed when terrorists hijacked their starliner.  Three years
ago, my brother Tommiau was murdered at King Ascenion's coronation.  And still
I search for the unicorn, and his songs, my own unreachable star in the
heavens."

   Ariaou let a final questing note ring into silence on her crystal harp.
Zephyr remained wordless for a time, then reached over to give the singer a
warm hug, which the feline accepted with a thankful purr.

   Six hours later, the starliner `Lady of Nine Trumps Unblown' docked with
the Ryme deep space station `Quiet Reason', a large, nickel-iron asteroid
moved into the Oort cloud centuries ago and excavated.  Ariaou watched
fascinatedly as the ship slowly folded its warpspace vanes and drifted slowly
into the huge cavern of the spaceport on jets of compressed air.  A spiderweb
of docking lines spun slowly about the spindle-like craft, holding it in
place.

   They disembarked into the pressurized corridors of the station, having
elected to share quarters.  Zephyr guided Ariaou past the officials at the
customs desk and through the station's labyrinthian corridors.  "I want you to
meet my friends," Zephyr said.  "You'll like them.  There'd be only a few
diplomats here, but the Dragon Queen's called a nebula-wide trade conference."

   "Dragon Queen?" Ariaou asked softly.  Her ears flicked curiously.

   "The Coordinator of Ryme.  Mirdis Shakherak Tarekkha Nazk, for short, her
full name would take far too long to remember and recite.  I think she
secretly prefers our name for her." Zephyr grinned mischievously.

   "Mirdis..." Ariaou murmured to herself.  "I've seen that name before."  She
searched her shipsuit, came up with a video pad, tapped several buttons with
claw-tips, then showed Zephyr the letter.

   "Interesting," Zephyr mused.  "She politely invited you to visit the
recently excavated pre-Ragnarok ruins, and included a ticket aboard the `Lady
of Nine Trumps Unblown'. Yet I know that the ruins have been closed to
tourists and scientists until the initial mapping has been completed.  It's
not often the Dragon Queen takes such mysterious actions."

   The feline bard nodded.  "I have no idea how I could have come to her
notice, but 'tis my hope that in the ruins I may find something to help me in
my quest.  Though the unicorns are long gone from this universe, their
memories linger in the ancient relics of the past."

   "I'd be careful, though.  Mirdis will probably want something in return."
Zephyr shook her head ruefully, causing her hair to swirl gracefully.  "She's
sharp, cunning, a hard bargainer-- they wrote the proverb `Never play chess
with a dragon' just for her.  But if I don't play her games, how am I going to
find out if I'm good enough to come away with whole horsehide?"

   Zephyr stopped in front of the fifth level conference room, palmed the
lock.  The door irised open.  Within, instead of the many people standing
about chatting and laughing that Zephyr clearly expected, a gleaming
bronze-scaled draconian shape filled the far wall of the oval room.  She
raised her head, regarding them with opalescent black eyes that reflected the
dim starlight of the overhead skylight.

   After a moment's silence, the Dragon Queen drummed her claws impatiently.
"It's terribly impolite to leave the door open like that.  This is not an
official meeting, Zephyr, so you may dispense with the frightened look.  Now,
come and examine this position."

   Upon an ivory and onyx chessboard on a granite pedestal, five chess pieces
stood ranged, each a different color and shape, all of the finest quality.
"I've seen this game before," Ariaou said hesitantly.  "But there were many
more pieces, and they were white and black, not all colors."

   "This is a fairy chess variant in which each piece has its own ambitions
and allies.  They may work together, but only if it serves their own
interests.  Observe." Mirdis moved an orange-streaked marble pawn a step
forward.  "The pawn's moved to the seventh row, about to advance and be
promoted to a superior piece."

   The dull grey steel king, cut with knife-like edges, moved next to the
pawn, threatening its advance.  A translucent glass knight that shimmered with
rainbows swept in to defend the pawn's imminent move but itself coming under
attack.  "The knight sacrifices itself, a subtle and elusive piece, in the
hope of far greater gain."

   Mirdis placed a smoothly polished rook of dark brown wood along the row of
the pawn.  "The rook supports the pawn, threatening the king indirectly."

   Another uncomfortable moment passed as they studied the board and the
remaining unmoved piece, a glittering gold queen of smooth curves, before a
dry rasping voice came from behind.  "Fascinating, lady Mirdis.  Yet we have
little time for trivialities."

   Ariaou whirled about, saw a familiar grey-cloaked figure, his face shrouded
by a starry black veil.  She exclaimed softly, "Tarnkappe!"

   "Do you know this mysterious person, Ariaou?" Mirdis asked.

   "We've met," Tarnkappe snapped.  "May we dispense with small talk?"

   "By no means," Mirdis purred, producing a silver tray of tea, coffee, and
biscuits.  "Tell me about him, dear feline." Zephyr passed the cups, evidently
glad of an excuse to do something besides look confused.

   While sipping a cup of coffee with cream, Ariaou murmured, "I don't know
much about him, even his name; I call him Tarnkappe for his cloak and the way
he appears and disappears mysteriously.  Sometimes he tells the future.  One
time it saved me from a horrible crash that killed seventeen people.  The last
time he said I'd be getting a letter from Ryme-- and so I did."

   "An innovative approach, making your own prophecies come true.  It must
save tremendously on worries," the Dragon Queen mused over a cup of Elysian
herbal tea held delicately in two claws.  "Has he ever explained to you why he
helps you in this way?"

   Ariuo considered that, taking a biscuit and nibbling delicately on its
flakey edges.  "Long ago, he told me that he was an old friend of the family
from long ago.  He never explained how; in fact, he's never said more than a
few words at any time, but he seems to know more about me than I do."

   "Intriguing.  Tsk, but I forget my manners.  Allow me to introduce the
exiled Prince Gavar Mordenkainen of Hellsgate.  The honored dignitary has been
badgering me all month about permission to visit the ruins." Mirdis chuckled
to herself, a deep rumbling sound.

   Tarnkappe bowed ironically, a gesture returned warily by Ariaou and Zephyr,
then nodded gravely.  "My request for a permit for two to enter site fifteen
of the ruins?  I should like to depart by midnight."

   "Postponed," the Dragon Queen said briskly.  "There will be no ships bound
for Ryme within the next three days."

   "I had heard the shuttle `Octave Black' was to depart in three hours?"

   "The crew's enjoying stationside recreation while the technicians give the
drive systems a much needed overhaul.  `Octave Red' is held on Ryme because of
a reported bomb threat."

   "There is too little time," Tarnkappe muttered to himself.

   "On the contrary, there's all the time in the world," Mirdis replied.  "The
ruins certainly aren't going to get up and walk away.  Your stationside
expenses here including quarters will be covered by Ryme; come back and talk
to me in four days, and I'll arrange the permit and transportation personally.
Now do enjoy your stay here on `Quiet Reason'."

   Ariaou and Zephyr nodded, sensing the unofficial meeting was at an end.
They turned about and departed as Tarnkappe vanished in his own mysterious
way, the feline looking back in time to see Mirdis move the golden queen to
place the king in check.



   Three hours passed.  Zephyr located her friends in the seventh level
conference room and persuaded Ariaou to play dance music for them.  Then
Ariaou's sweet voice led them in several folk ballads, unifying their voices
into a single grand chorus.  Food and drink flowed freely from the dispensers,
and the dignitaries conversed amiably with each others.

   Zephyr had to drag Ariaou out of the party as station time approached
midnight; they walked back to their quarters, sweat beading down the centaur's
chestnut brown horsehide.  The feline purred softly with tail and whiskers
held high in such good humor that Zephyr teased, "See, I told you that you'd
enjoy meeting them.  Not such stodgy and pompous bureaucrats, are we?"

   "Indeed," Ariaou said with a quiet laugh.  "I'd never imagined that an
angel could have impure thoughts, let alone know all the lyrics to 'The Thing
with All the Eyes and the Asteroid Miner's Daughter'."

   "One of my oldest friends and a perennial scandal to her homeworld," Zephyr
replied with a grin.  She palmed the lock and the door to their stateroom
irised open, revealing a familiar grey-cloaked figure within.

   "Elements!" Zephyr sighed.  "Is everyone following us today?"

   "It lacks but half an hour of midnight," Tarnkappe said, ignoring the looks
of slight exasperation they gave him.  "We have little time if we are to be
off the station by then."

   The centaur protested, "There won't be an atmosphere-capable ship ready for
two days yet!"

   "There is one now.  The personal cruiser of the Coordinator."

   "What gall," the centaur grumbled.  "Ariaou?"

   She nodded slowly.  "'Tis now, or wait upon Mirdis's pleasure."

   "Now or never," Tarnkappe said helpfully.  "I will not wait."

   "That decides that," Zephyr said.  "Let's get changed into sensible
planetside clothes, Ariaou.  Prince Gavar, if you'd be so kind and give us
some privacy?..."

   Fifteen minutes later, Zephyr cantered and Ariaou walked to the spaceport
cavern, both dressed in plain and serviceable blue kelvarite planetside
clothes, a material that maintained a comfortable temperature and humidity in
a wide range of environments and afforded protection from sharp objects.
Tarnkappe strode along in the same grey cloak, apparently unconcerned about
any danger.

   Tarnkappe led them through the central elevator that ran through the core
of `Quiet Reason'.  He entered a control code into a heavily armored airlock
that irised open to reveal the null gravity pressurized repair and refueling
dock surrounding the Dragon Queen's personal cruiser `Fool's Mate', a sleek
black-winged shape equally at home in deep space or within planetary
atmosphere.

   Two guards stood in front of the catwalk leading to the airlock, dressed in
station security uniforms and carrying needle rifles slung over their
shoulders.  The closer one called out, "Who's there?  Identify yourself!"

   Tarnkappe stepped forward as they leveled their guns and shouted for him to
halt.  His arms blurred into motion almost too fast to be seen; razor-sharp
claws clicked out from his fingers, slashed left and right efficiently, and
the guards fell away gurgling horribly, throats cut and blood drifting in slow
spheres.  He cycled the yacht's airlock open as if nothing had happened and
beckoned for them to enter.

   They stepped nervously past Tarnkappe, entering the forward half of the
passenger compartment, and settled into soft padded anti-acceleration seats.
Ariaou whispered urgently to Zephyr, watching Tarnkappe anxiously, "That's the
same way my brother Tommiau was murdered three years ago."

   "We're stuck with playing this round out," Zephyr replied quietly.  "You
didn't bring a weapon, did you?  Luckily I always keep my sidearm."

   Tarnkappe gave no signs of noticing their whisperings as he went forward to
the pilot's seat and initiated the departure sequence, his long fingers
skimming across the banks of controls. The station's com band came alive with
protests of unauthorized departure and unfiled flight plans, all of which he
blandly ignored.  Mirdis's yacht hummed as its engines powered up slowly.

   `Fool's Mate' lifted off silently on compressed hydrogen jets from the
support gantries, refueling and repair arms snapping and falling free.  The
docking bay depressurized, air vanished through powered fans, and the exit
hatch opened silently into deep space.  Tarnkappe floated the yacht out slowly
and deliberately, then started making preparations for the first boost out of
the docking cavern and away from the station.

   A voice crackled over the military band, causing Tarnkappe to scrabble
surprisedly for nonexistent weapons controls.  "The station's weapons are
locked onto you, `Fool's Mate'.  Repeat, our guns are locked on you.  Do not
attempt to leave station orbit.  You are charged with two counts of first
degree murder, grand theft, failure to file a flight plan or authorization
with traffic control--"

   "Oh hush, dear Captain," a low rumbling reply came from behind them.  "It's
my yacht and I wrote the rules, so I can take it out when I need to.  Do be a
dear and take care of the paperwork for me, will you?"

   "Understood, Coordinator," the voice replied as Ariaou and Zephyr turned
about to gape at the familiar ancient bronze dragon that filled the rear
passenger space.  "`Quiet Reason' station over and out."

   "How did you know we would be here?" Ariaou asked.

   "As I'm sure Prince Gavar knows already, my yacht was the only one that he
could obtain which could safely make it to Ryme within his time limit."
Mirdis turned to look reprovingly at Tarnkappe.  "Really, though, killing the
guards was a bit much.  The paperwork for that will run up more than the rest
of this put together."

   "They were unimportant," Tarnkappe replied as he examined the unfamiliar
astronavigation controls.  Slight irritation became evident in his gestures as
lights blinked and starmaps flickered on and off despite his efforts.

   "As ever, you ignore all but your grand schemes.  Even the smallest thing
can count." The Dragon Queen reached forward to start the autopilot, which
obediently began to follow its preprogrammed course with an efficiency that
clearly annoyed Tarnkappe.

   He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, intently studying the new
information coming onto the displays.  "I advise you all to brace yourselves,
as we will be entering jump in thirty seconds, thanks to lady Mirdis's
thoughtful preparations."

   `Fool's Mate' accelerated to near lightspeed on anti-matter engines, its
artificial gravity protecting its passengers from being smeared against the
aft bulkheads by G-force.  Its warpspace vanes unfolded into position, long
sheets of multiple mirror-bright panels reflecting the light of the receding
station.  With a sudden jolt, they transited into warpspace.  A sense of
unreality swept through the yacht.

   The yacht emerged scant seconds later only ten minutes flight from the
glowing sphere of Ryme that now hung suspended before the forward viewport.
`Fool's Mate' folded its vanes and cut cleanly into the atmosphere under the
autopilot's directions, atmospheric friction heating up its nose and bottom to
a cherry bright glow.  It glided over thick forest, its wings dissipating
excess heat in the cool winds, then descended into the crater of an extinct
volcano on compressed air jets.

   Tarnkappe stepped out first.  Ariaou and Zephyr cautiously followed, and
Mirdis disentangled herself from the yacht last.  They stood before an
architectural magnificence, white marble sprawling within the crater's
expanse, largely overgrown by vines and trees.  The outermost walls had fallen
long ago, sharp-cut stone blocks half buried in the soft earth; arches and
gates still stood within the inner courtyards.  The setting sun cast golden
rays on the roofs.

   Tarnkappe led them on a slow walk into the ruins through ancient
moss-covered atriums reminiscent of prehistoric Rome.  Ariaou unslung her harp
and struck up an ancient requiem, slow and sweet notes like tides on the vast
sea, the music echoing quietly from the distant corners like a second voice.
Zephyr flicked an ear to listen, smiling slightly.

   "This place might have been built in an hour, the summer palace of some far
voyaging human who desired to live planetside a while," Mirdis commented from
behind them, her black opal eyes unreadable.  "Yet it's lasted the millenniums
since Ragnarok, the humans' civil war that laid waste all their worlds.  Only
a few of their race survived, and none to this day.  A shame."

   They stepped into a still intact building, the smooth marble walls only
slightly green with moss, the ceilings high and arching to a thin line over
their heads.  Zephyr's steady clip-clop echoed back weirdly from the corners
and Ariaou's music took on new and disturbing resonances, portending strange
and mysterious things.  Tarnkappe directed them unhesitatingly, knowing
exactly where to go.

   Mirdis continued, "The dragons' oldest legends claim that many of the
Compassionate, those who freed our people so long ago, survived with what
little technology they could preserve.  They willingly gave up their humanity
to assume heraldic forms of great power, so that they could join our societies
and watch over us.  It's said that one Guardian single-handedly ended the war
between Azhanti and Weyrhelm.  A fairy tale for young dragons seeking
protectors greater than themselves."

   "The story is correct," Tarnkappe conceded reluctantly as they halted in a
high-domed vault that held an ivory mausoleum.  Gilt plaques lined the walls,
carved with ancient writing.  "Very shortly we will meet one of these
guardians.  The inscriptions tell of Sundancer and his wife Alysse Italy whom
he married in the last echoes of human civilization's glories.  When Ragnarok
fell, she fled the battles in shame at the destructions she'd caused, and
built her home on this distant world to live out her days.  He visits this
place once every century, mourning."

   "So," Mirdis rumbled to herself thoughtfully.  "You violated this place,
rather than wait upon a permit.  As I guessed, Ariaou is important to your
plans somehow.  But why?"

   "Revenge."

   The exiled Prince Gavar pulled his hood back, removed the dark veil that
hid his face.  Ariaou gasped in recognition, seeing the glowing yellow eyes
that haunted her worst nightmares, the grey fur now white with age.  "A dire
wolf!" she breathed, her paws falling from her harp.

   "A genetic madness haunts my line," Gavar explained.  "Each son in turn is
stricken, reduced to unthinking bestiality.  I was old when I fell ill, and
exiled from my homeworld to a distant forest where I might hunt as I wished,
so that no outsider would know the shame my family endured."

   "Then the unicorn came, the one with a pelt like sunfire, and slayed me.
But dire wolves are not so easily killed.  I healed slowly, and when I awoke
again, my thoughts were clear."

   "It was an unwanted gift.  As a pure wolf, I had known the joy of the wild
hunt, the companionship of the pack, the bliss of mating.  But I knew these
things were wrong, and so I was ashamed.  I swore to kill those who witnessed
my shame.  I killed Tommiau, three years ago.  Here I will kill you, and the
unicorn, and then there shall be none who know.  Then I shall grant myself the
peace of death."

   "Peace I brought my wife so long ago," a voice like warm twilight said from
behind the mausoleum.  The golden unicorn Ariaou remembered stepped out, his
sky blue eyes shining with ancient sadness and remembrance.  "She would have
laid waste your fledgling worlds, driven mad with loneliness and anger, and so
I was forced to kill her."

   "She lives," Gavar said with a wild laugh.  "She hungers for your blood as
much as I."  He threw away the grey cloak, revealing a grizzled frame better
muscled than any dire wolf had a right to be, covered with a silvery grey
cloth that shimmered and flowed with sentient light.  Razor-sharp claws
snicked out from his fingers as he assumed a battle stance.

   "Grave robber!  You have violated her crypt!" the unicorn neighed, his
voice a mighty bell ringing.  "I could not bear to utterly extinct her mind
from this plane of existence, and so I transferred it to the weave of her
clothes, which you now wear."

   "And which grants me powers like a god's, the power to slay!"  With that,
Gavar's suit flared into sudden star-like intensity, then released its energy
in a bolt of lightning that blew the mausoleum apart in a shower of stone
shards and ancient relics as Sundancer dodged aside.  Shrapnel shattered
Ariaou's crystal harp, sending its brittle pieces falling harmlessly against
her kelvarite clothes.  She gasped and stumbled closer to Zephyr.

   With a sudden flicker, Sundancer teleported behind Gavar, lashed out with a
gleaming sharp hoof.  Gavar blocked it, his suit deflecting the blow
harmlessly, and returned a vicious backhand swipe that gouged the wall.  The
unicorn raised a defensive aura of dim orange in time to absorb a second
lightning bolt, which dissipated in harmless pyrotechnics, then skittered back
before the wolf's lunge.

   Ariaou staggered upright, holding onto Zephyr for support.  Out of the
corners of her eyes, she saw Zephyr about to pull something out of her belt
pouch; Mirdis laid a cautionary claw on the centaur's forearm, clearly
signalling `wait'.  The battle raged on, the golden unicorn dancing back
before the wolf's furious attack.

   Sundancer stumbled back before a sudden glittering arc of metal, taking a
fatal cut through his left foreleg, gushing arterial blood, then falling
heavilly against the wall.  Unable to dodge, he summoned up all his energies
to drive his aura up through the spectrum to a glaring blue, then to
blindingly intense white, as Gavar hailed lightning against his protective
shield.  "Ariaou," he called, desperately.  "I need your help!  Sing!"

   "My crystal harp was broken," she wailed back, looking despairingly at the
shards of her instrument.  Gavar flicked an ear, but continued keeping the
wounded unicorn pressed back; Sundancer did not reply, the golden unicorn's
energy fading fast, his shield dropping down from white to blue under the
force of the wolf's energy blasts.

   Ariaou cast about for an instrument, tail lashing to express her fear, ears
laid back.  She saw an ancient shimmerlyre of unfamiliar design flung loose in
the destruction of the mausoleum, against the far wall.  It seemed an eternity
away, meters of space across which Gavar might kill her with but a negligent
blow.

   The feline gave Zephyr and Mirdis a helpless look for an endless moment,
flicked her ears forward agitatedly, then threw herself into a forward dive.
She barely evaded a lazy claw swipe that whistled overhead and scooped up the
instrument, raising it like a shield.

   Its first note was magic, born of a lyre that had been old when the Owned
People were born.  Her voice joined it in sweet harmony, her paws lifting up
to spin the soft, gentle, reassuring strains of a lullaby, the words coming to
her unbidden, full of meaning even though she knew none of them.  The
shimmerlyre transformed her song to music worthy of the gods, soothing and
warm, a golden skein that weaved about the room.

   "Alas," an unfamiliar voice cried out, the contralto voice of a human
woman, a ghost trapped within the suit and evoked by Ariaou's sweet singing.
"What have I become, that I should strive to slay my beloved, my husband, my
unicorn?"

   Gavar fought with his suddenly contrary suit, becoming paralyzed as it
refused to move for him, its light fading into a black darker than night.  His
lightning bolts ceased, leaving the unicorn to fall to the floor in a puddle
of blood, the shield almost spent.  Gavar howled defiantly, "Revenge shall be
mine!  I command you, my suit!"

   A sound like repeated mute thunder filled the room, and a row of red dots
appeared along his chest.  He toppled over slowly like a broken statue,
revealing Zephyr standing behind, and Mirdis close to her, nodding approval.
The centaur slowly replaced her antique pistol in her pouch, a grim look
furrowing her brows beneath marble dust-specked brown hair.

   The unicorn breathed softly, "That lyre was my wife's.  Now yours, Ariaou.
And I bequeath to you my songs as well, for you are worthy."  With that,
Sundancer's body glowed and vanished in a sudden flare of light, leaving
behind only the sun-bright spire of his crystal horn.  Ariaou turned to see
the silver suit fade as well, its weave falling into dust.

   "The archaeologists aren't going to be happy about this," the Dragon Queen
