31

As they drove ever closer to the end of the valley, Merral could see what was being constructed: a semicircular earth wall with a narrow access gap for the road. Nearer still, Merral was surprised to see that the gap was closed off by a moveable metal barrier. They stopped in front of the barrier, and Vero gestured that they get out. “Let’s walk through!” he shouted over the noise of the earth-moving machinery. “It’s quicker.”

As they walked past the transporter, Lorrin, whistling happily, beamed at them and raised an outstretched hand sharply to the side of his head.

A salute. I’ve been saluted. The world seemed distorted again. We only ever salute the emblem of the Lamb and Stars, and that on special occasions.

Merral tapped Vero on the shoulder. “Lorrin just saluted us,” he whispered. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Ah. Saluting. A problem, that. At the moment, it is voluntary. But we need to make a decision. I should say—perhaps warn you—that while we have made a lot of progress in some technical areas, there are some things we have not resolved. Such as discipline.”

“Can’t we make it voluntary?”

“A voluntary discipline?” Vero gave a strained smile. “Give that idea some more thought, Forester.”

Merral noticed men unrolling metal wire mesh to put up along the top of the earth wall. A month ago, I would have assumed it was to keep animals in; I can now guess it is to keep things out.

A young man with a databoard came over, gave Vero an abrupt but somehow deferential nod of the head, and then, with polite efficiency, took Merral’s name and date of birth.

“Sadly necessary,” muttered Vero, as if embarrassed by the procedure, and walked on briskly.

Feeling perplexed, Merral followed him to the foot of the towering cliff. There, by the side of two great tunnels, a new wooden building had been erected.

“Excuse me a moment,” Vero said. “I just need to check on deliveries.”

While he waited outside, a still-bemused Merral watched the noisy activity going on around him. By the perimeter wall there were three earthmovers and a dozen men putting up the wire mesh, while inside the compound two LP4 transporters were being unloaded by another half dozen men and a lift truck. From deep inside the tunnel came noises of further mechanical activity.

Vero returned clutching papers and motioned Merral urgently toward the larger, right-hand tunnel.

“Merral, things are moving fast,” Vero said in an impatient tone of voice. “But it’s a race and I’m not sure we are winning.”

He led Merral past another observant young man with a databoard and a sign that proclaimed “FDU Personnel Only” into the darkness of the tunnel. As they walked carefully along the side of the tunnel, Merral became aware of an increasing volume of noise ahead of them. About eighty meters from the entrance, the tunnel opened out into a vast four-story cavern lit by bright cones of light and the flash of electric and plasma beams.

Merral stopped, gazing around in awe. Ahead of him, in an area the size of a Team-Ball pitch, perhaps fifty or more people were at work at a dozen sites. Some were packing crates and containers, others were working busily on vehicles and machinery, and still others were assembling equipment. The warm and heavy air was filled with sounds: hammering, shouting, clanking, all reverberating off the bare rock walls.

Merral grabbed Vero’s arm. “Is all this . . . yours?” he asked, barely able to believe that his friend had been able to organize so much.

Vero stopped suddenly. “It’s not mine; it just sort of grew,” he said loudly as a new burst of hammering broke out beyond them. “I’ll explain how later. Up here.” Then, before Merral could ask him any more questions, he was clambering up a metal stairway that led to a walkway along the side of the cavern.

“Just a minute!” called out Merral, catching up with his friend. “Look at those things!” he said, pointing at the two familiar gray vehicles being worked on under spotlights. “Those are gravity-modifying sleds!”

“True,” Vero replied in a matter-of-fact way.

“But we were told—in Planning—not to use them. Gravity-modifying engine technology was for urgent and emergency use only. It was a case of priority.”

Vero inclined his head in evident agreement. “True, true. But this is why there was that restriction. We needed them. Ours is ‘urgent and emergency use.’ ”

“But—”

Vero, however, had walked on and, opening a door off the walkway, beckoned Merral into a gloomy corridor. He closed the door behind him and the noise of the cavern vanished. They walked a dozen meters along the corridor before Vero stopped in front of another door and turned a handle. The door opened, revealing a room so well-lit that Merral found himself blinking.

“Welcome to the office!” Vero announced.

“Greetings, Tree Man!” cried a familiar voice, and Merral found himself being given a disturbingly welcome hug by Anya. Behind her, a smiling Perena rose from a table covered with datapaks and maps.

Vero took a seat at the table and gave a theatrical cough. “Everybody, please! Representative Corradon and Advisor Clemant are on their way. I suggest we get our own business over first.”

Still taking in his surroundings, Merral sat at the table, gratefully accepting the coffee and biscuits Anya passed him. As he looked around at the bleak, white-walled room and its harsh artificial lighting, he couldn’t help contrasting it with the glorious, open, sunlit countryside that they had driven through. Is this going to be the pattern for our future meetings? Is the price we pay for security to be that of a permanent existence in windowless rooms underground?

But his meditations were short-lived.

“Merral,” Vero said, “with you here we can start to move forward. This is the base, and it is here that we are preparing for what may lie ahead.”

“I’m impressed. Awed. That you have done everything in the time you’ve had.”

“The original team designated projects and appointed leaders for them; then those leaders set up subteams and squads to tackle the projects. For once, the structured and disciplined nature of Assembly society has worked in our favor. And the representatives offering us a free hand was a great help.”

Then Vero looked at his watch and shook his head. “But we must move on. I want Perena to speak first. And then Anya. I think that will help put you in the picture and perhaps answer some questions. Captain Lewitz?”

“Merral, I’m glad you are here,” Perena began in her quiet, unruffled voice. “We’ve missed you. Now, on the issue of how the Gate was destroyed, I have made little progress. It seems certain that two things happened. First of all, the various safeguard programs were overridden and then a pulsating gravitational imbalance was established between the Gate segments. No amount of modeling has been able to achieve either phenomenon accidentally.”

“So it was sabotage?”

“Even the official investigation team is beginning to use that most unfamiliar of words as a hypothesis.”

“And the ship?”

“Ah. The ship.” Perena paused, as if taking stock of her thoughts. “I organized the checking of all the astronomical data sources we have—every bit of it—to see if I could trace the origin of the ship. Those results are now coming in. As you know, the Guardian satellites monitor all incoming debris heading for Farholme so they can destroy or divert anything that poses a risk. A check of that data looking at what we now believe was the intruder ship has allowed us to trace it back as far as the orbit of Fenniran. But beyond that is a problem—there is no trace of it. None at all.”

“So, what have you concluded?”

“Well, all the data is consistent with it emerging from a Below-Space Gate just beyond the orbit of Fenniran. Not close, of course; you don’t put a Gate near a gas giant.”

“But there is no Gate there.”

“Well observed,” she said with gentle irony. “But the data would also fit a ship which had traveled through Below-Space on its own and emerged into Normal-Space there.”

“Hence your belief that the intruders can do what we can’t. That they have . . . what did Gerry call it? ‘autonomous Below-Space travel’?”

“That’s right,” Perena said. “It increasingly seems like a reasonable supposition.”

Vero raised a finger. “A reminder, Merral. The Assembly, it seems, could have done that. Our forefathers were just uneasy about the spiritual side effects of doing it.”

“Except General William Jannafy,” Merral added.

“Ah,” Vero said and gestured for Perena to continue.

“Indeed, Merral, the suggestion Vero made that, during the Rebellion, Jannafy went on to pursue Below-Space exploration also seems entirely reasonable. Anyway, we believe that the intruder ship has a Below-Space drive.”

Vero caught Merral’s eye. “And that is certainly the hope that Corradon and Clemant have. So before they get here, let’s have a look at what you have found.”

Merral took the various maps and images out of his holdall and put them on the desk. Together they all peered at the images and carefully marked the identified location on an enormous map of northeastern Menaya that Vero had hung on a wall. Merral watched as Perena carefully measured off the length of the anomalies and copied them down in fine handwriting into a notebook. Another idea of Vero’s that was catching on, he noted.

After a minute, Vero looked at her. “So, space expert, is this it?”

“Yes . . . ,” Perena said slowly, continuing to stare intently at the image. “I think so. There are aspects about it that I’m unclear about. . . . But it fits.” She frowned slightly. “Merral, I need to talk to Gerry on this. Can I have a copy of the data?”

“Of course.”

A bell-like tone sounded. Vero picked up from the floor a handset attached to a thin silvery cable and put it to his ear.

“Good, good. Send them up when they come,” he said, nodding at Merral, and put the handset down.

“Corradon and Clemant are getting near. We are using an optic-fiber link from the entrance, Merral; we are getting a line laid to Isterrane.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Doing that will use 10 percent of the whole annual optic-fiber cable production of Farholme. But it’s secure.” He paused. “Secure . . . It’s a word I’m getting used to.” He sighed. “And I wish I wasn’t.” Then he turned to Anya. “Anya, tell us what news you have.”

“I wish I could skip this,” Anya said, sweeping a strand of red hair from her face and looking around. “I think these creatures are the most loathsome things you can imagine. But I suppose I have forced myself to come to terms with them. To distance myself . . . After three weeks plus of DNA work, I suppose you could say that we have made some progress in understanding these creatures. Although actual specimens would, from the scientific point of view, be preferable. But let’s deal with the general features first.” She pointed her diary to the projector on the table, and above it a meter-high, three-dimensional ape-creature appeared and slowly rotated.

Merral shuddered and caught a flash of sympathy from Anya.

“The images are from the DNA cross-checked with visual information. The ape-creatures have human and gorilla DNA with some artificial code segments. They have good eyesight, good hearing. They are probably omnivores and are potentially very strong. There is a lot of musculature.”

She tapped the screen and a hunched figure of the cockroach-beast hung over the table. As it turned round, Merral felt its reptilelike head seemed to look accusingly at him.

“Despite the superficial arthropod-like appearance, we now know that this is a modified human being: a more or less ordinary skeleton, but with a thickened insectlike cuticle instead of skin and modified hands capable of cutting between the thumb and the fingers; deep-set eyes with, incidentally, extended sensitivity to short wavelengths—they can see in ultraviolet; some ingenious work to adjust for the rigid exoskeleton—they must molt periodically. Another feature—and this may be significant—is that there appear to be modifications to allow for resistance to radiation.”

“What about intelligence?” Merral asked.

“It’s hard to be specific; intelligence is a tricky term. The best guess for both is that they have a patchy intelligence—good in places. There is little evidence of an ability for complex language, but some areas are specialized: hand-eye coordination in them both is probably good. I’d guess that—overall—their intelligence is probably in the lower part of the human range.”

“Can you do me a favor, Anya,” Merral asked, “and switch the pictures off?”

The image faded.

“That’s better. What else?”

“I think the key thing is that these creatures imply something else. They cannot breed, so they must be made in a laboratory as clones. They have limited intelligence; I don’t see them making a ship.”

“But serving on one?” Vero asked.

“Perhaps,” Anya said.

There was an awkward silence, and Vero made a small gesture with his hand. “You’d better tell Merral what you told me. Your speculation . . .”

Anya stared at Vero as if considering defying him and then turned to Merral with a face clouded with unease. “Very well, although you may not like this. These, then, are clearly designed creatures, even if we can only guess what they are designed for. But I am certain that they weren’t designed to be predators.”

“But they fought—” Merral stopped, struck by the sense of what she said. “No, I see what you’re thinking.”

“A true predator—a designed animal—would be faster, smarter, have better senses, and have claws or fangs. But having seen what they have done with these, I can imagine what they might produce in that area.” She paused. “And it scares me.”

Me too. “Let’s hope we never meet such a beast.”

Vero nodded. “It remains only a speculation. But Anya is right; we need to be aware of the possibility that the enemy may have more creatures than we have met.”

As Merral was digesting that uncomfortable news, there was a knock at the door. Representative Corradon and Advisor Clemant entered. They were in casual clothes, and as greetings were made, it occurred to Merral that, unless you knew who they were, you wouldn’t have realized their offices. In a disturbing flash of insight it occurred to him that, perhaps, that was the point. Are we too learning the arts of disguise? As he framed the question, he knew the answer. To fight the intruders, we must risk becoming like them. But how dangerous a risk is that?

“Thank you, Representative, Advisor, for coming,” Vero said.

As they sat down, Merral gazed at the new arrivals. He felt that Corradon had subtly changed; the blue eyes seemed tired, the streaked hair now appeared to be more gray than black, and the bronzed complexion seemed paler. Clemant too seemed to have changed: his round, smooth, pale face seemed even more like a mask than ever, and Merral felt that the watchful dark eyes were more deep set than they had been.

“Merral,” Vero asked, “I wonder if you would start by outlining what has been happening in Ynysmant?”

“Oh, right. But I thought the location of the ship was the most important thing?”

Vero nodded. “It is, but your story tells us why exactly it is so vital that we find it.”

So, as briefly as he could, Merral recounted the various incidents he had observed or heard of within the town, from the bad-tempered Team-Ball game, through the emerging irritability and difficulties within Ynysmant, to the incident with Lesley Manalfi and the sparrowhawk. He ended with the conversation overheard at the airport that morning. As he spoke, he was aware of shared, uneasy glances across the table, and it seemed to him that the already heavy atmosphere in the enclosed room became still more oppressive.

There was a long silence when he had finished. He noticed Corradon looking at him as if judging something.

“Thank you, Forester,” Corradon said. “Something of what you have said has reached our ears, but not, I feel, the depth or breadth of it. Your firsthand report is helpful, if alarming.”

He looked at Clemant. “And there have been other incidents, eh, Lucian?”

“A number,” he admitted. “It’s very disconcerting.”

“For instance,” Corradon said slowly, “I have it on good authority that there will be at least one rather odd birth in Larrenport this year. The baby will be born only eight months—or even less—after the wedding.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Merral interjected, “that’s different from Ynysmant. We have painful births. Not premature ones.”

Corradon’s face acquired an expression as if he had eaten something that disagreed with him.

Anya nudged Merral in the ribs. “There’s another explanation,” she hissed quietly. “Think!”

“Oh . . . I see,” Merral said, suddenly embarrassed. “You mean that . . . they just didn’t wait?”

Corradon merely grunted assent and Clemant shook his head, as if in disbelief.

The representative looked hard at Vero. “So, Sentinel, do you have any comment on all this?”

“I think it just confirms all that we have felt and discussed. With the coming of the intruders, evil has returned to the Assembly, and it is confronting us here on two fronts. We have an external, visible enemy in the ship and in these creatures.” The anxious expression on Vero’s face gave the lie to his calm statement. “And we also face an internal attack; a subtle spiritual malaise which, it seems, is spreading. That is linked with the intruders, but we do not understand how.”

Suddenly, Merral glimpsed Clemant’s fingers twisting against each other on the table. He’s afraid. That’s why he’s supporting Vero. He sees our world slipping away into chaos unless we act.

“We are addressing the first problem but not the second,” Clemant said in his rumbling voice. “Is that wise?”

“Mainly, sir, because we can address it. I’m not sure how we can tackle the second problem.”

“Surely, Lucian,” Corradon said, “the hope is that with the intruder issue—how shall we say?—resolved, the second problem may vanish.”

“And,” Vero quickly added, “their ship or its technology may allow us to seek help.”

Clemant stared at him. “This is the hope. Unless there are any other options . . .” He looked around slowly, as if seeking some new suggestion. But there was only silence.

Vero gestured to Merral. “It’s time for you to show us what you have found.”

Merral slid forward the images on the table and, for the third time in the day, began to talk about what he had discovered. As he spoke and displayed other images, he sensed the total attention of Corradon and Clemant. But as he continued, he was increasingly aware of their disappointment.

Eventually, Corradon turned to Perena. “Captain Lewitz, what do you make of this? I confess I was rather hoping for something more obviously a spacecraft than these rather abstract shapes and lines.”

“I agree,” said Clemant, his expression leaving no doubt that he too was unimpressed.

Perena stared at the image before answering. “Yes, sir,” she said in a voice that, while firm, was barely audible, “I think that this is the ship.”

Clemant looked sharply at her. “Captain, we need to be sure. If we go for the wrong location it could be disastrous. I see little hope of a second chance.”

“I know, sir. But the data fits. The combination of anomalies is consistent with a craft comparable in size and mass to one of our in-system shuttles.”

“Yet, Captain,” Clemant said, with a creasing of his forehead, “I thought you had proposed that this vessel goes between stars?”

Perena looked at the advisor carefully. “Sir, there is, as you know, data for that hypothesis. I agree this ship seems smaller than I would have predicted. But we have no idea how a mobile Gate system might look, and this ship might be big enough. It’s certainly large enough to carry a ferry craft.”

“We are on the point of mounting a risky venture based on scanty data,” the advisor said.

Corradon shrugged. “Lucian, we have been through all this. Is this an objection?”

“Sir, it is not an objection. But it is a statement of disquiet.”

Corradon said nothing and shifted his gaze to the images. He gestured at the sheets. “Captain Lewitz, Sentinel, can’t we get more detailed images?”

Vero scratched his nose. “I-I agree, sir, that they would be nice. But that too is risky; we might alert them.”

Perena nodded assent. “Yes, I agree. It might frighten them. And if they were to take off, we might never find them again.” She looked around with her keen blue-gray eyes. “There is something else I want to say here. I’m struck by the way that the disguise has been done. After examining all the images, especially comparing the ones taken before and after the landing, I think that all they have done is put a simple metal-frame structure up and drape a polymer fabric cover with reactive paint over it.”

“So how else would you do it?” asked Clemant.

“Well, camouflage is not a specialty of the Assembly, but I would imagine that if you had a sufficiently advanced technology you could produce a holographic field or create some deformation of the light around the ship to give it invisibility. This looks far simpler. Even crude. But then—” She hesitated and seemed to be having a debate with herself. When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet that Merral had to strain to hear her. “Yet it doesn’t use any energy and it doesn’t emit any stray radiation. So it has merits. Indeed, it may not even be that crude, ultimately.”

Corradon, who had been gazing at the wall map, turned to Vero. “So, Sentinel, the plan you had suggested to approach the ship . . . now that we have found it, will it work?”

“Yes,” Vero answered. “I should say I have not yet discussed it with Merral. But, yes.” He gestured to the images on the table. “It needs detailed planning, but I believe it could succeed.”

Corradon looked at his advisor. “Lucian?”

Clemant shifted in his seat. “Sir, the decision is a hard one. We are faced with hard choices. . . .”

“Tell me what I don’t know!” Corradon said. He was smiling but his voice was empty of humor.

Clemant stared at his hands for a moment and then looked at the representative. “Sir, my decision is that we go with the sentinel’s plan.”

Corradon closed his eyes for a moment, as if overwhelmed. Then, his face the picture of steady control, he looked around the table. “Thank you. If the rest of you will excuse us—Lucian and I would like to talk with Merral here alone. I realize that this is somewhat unusual. But these are unusual days.”

As the door closed and Merral found himself alone with Corradon and Clemant, he felt troubled.

Corradon stared at him with a look of intense scrutiny. “Very well, Forester D’Avanos, the situation is this: I am—no, we as representatives are—convinced by the analysis of the path of the intruder ship that it is indeed possible that it has some sort of independent Below-Space capability. If it has, we need that technology and we need it badly. There are a number of scenarios for the future we are concerned about.”

“More than concerned,” grunted the advisor, in a response so rapid that it was almost an interruption. “Each day brings new evidence of problems.”

“So, you see, we have to approach the intruders.” Corradon’s tone was confiding. “We will send a negotiating party.”

“Remember, Forester, our preference—on every ground—is for dialogue.” There was no possibility of mistaking the seriousness in the advisor’s voice.

“Agreed,” Corradon said. “The negotiating party will approach openly and without weapons. With nothing that could remotely arouse any suspicions. They will approach slowly—with banners, flags—that sort of thing.” Clemant nodded as Corradon continued. “Now, hopefully, they will want to talk. But if they don’t . . . if there is—what shall we say?—a negative response, then, well, we will have no option but to try and seize the ship.”

“You mean, sir, attack it?”

There was a pause. “Yes, Forester. Attack it with the intention of taking it in working order. But only after diplomacy—if I may use an old word—has failed.”

Before Corradon could continue, Clemant had spoken. “We must not underestimate the risks. We do not know what weapons they have.”

Corradon waved a hand with a hint of impatience. “Absolutely. And that is why we agree with Vero’s suggestion that we need to be in a position where, if diplomacy fails, we can move to a capture strategy instantly. Surprise may be one of the few weapons we have. We can’t squander it by summoning a council of the representatives.”

Clemant gave a slight and unenthusiastic nod.

“Exactly,” Corradon said. “Vero wants to have a second group standing by so that, if negotiation fails, they can disable this ship and prevent it from taking off. And achieve a seizure.”

“That raises a lot of issues. . . .” Merral spoke slowly, his mind struggling to cope with ideas of attack and seizure.

“Oh, indeed,” Corradon replied, and Merral marveled at how assured he appeared to be. “But we’ve read twenty-first century law—of course, the matter has not been discussed since—and that suggests that we have a legitimate right to ask for their surrender as they are on our sovereign territory.”

“I see, but respectfully, sir, there are practical issues too.”

“Oh, we know that. Vero has been working on a plan for the last few weeks. But this is where you come in.”

“I see.” Of course, Merral thought, recognizing with alarm something that had been hinted at all along.

“Yes,” said Corradon. His blue eyes seemed weary. “We want you to carry it out. To lead. That is the big gap. We have the decision, we have the equipment, to some extent we have the personnel; we even have the inklings of a strategy. But we need a leader to bring these things together.”

Merral swallowed, his mouth suddenly and unaccountably dry. “Me?”

“You. Yes, there was a unanimous feeling among the representatives that, in this respect, you are marked out as the man of the hour. That we should appoint you as captain of the FDU.”

“I am less sure, sir,” Merral replied, oddly aware of his heart beating heavily. “And surely my opinion counts?”

“Well, only to a limited extent,” Corradon countered.

“To be blunt,” Clemant added sharply, “there are precious few contenders. And we can’t risk the luxury of an experiment.”

Merral suddenly felt an irresistible urge to stand up. He rose, walked to a corner of the room, then turned and faced the two men.

“Gentlemen, I am not at all positive about this. In fact, I’m very skeptical.”

“Forester, there is no one else suitable to lead.”

“What about Vero?” Merral gestured at the room. “He has put together an organization in very short time. Remarkable.”

Corradon shook his head. “No, not Vero. Not at all. He is a strategist, and I agree a remarkable one, but he is not a leader in battle. It is not his gifting. You and he complement each other.”

“Our sentinel is also from outside,” said Clemant. He seemed, to Merral, to be ill at ease. “And you, of course, have fought already.”

Suddenly, Merral felt a great desire to just say nothing and walk outside, to get out of this room and its claustrophobic, subterranean atmosphere and see the sun. He struggled against his desires.

“That is why I am so reluctant. I will not readily go back to fighting again. Nor would I wish it on others.”

As he said it, he wondered if his answer was so frank as to sound disrespectful. Should he try and justify it by talking of the horror he had felt at the fighting? But he felt inadequate to express what he had experienced, and anyway there seemed little point. Their minds were plainly made up.

Corradon’s look seemed sympathetic. “Oh, I know, Forester. But we must deal with these intruders, whoever they are. If we do, we must prepare for the possibility that we have to attack them, and as Vero has repeatedly pointed out to us, we cannot go halfheartedly into such a matter. We have only one chance, one possibility of surprise. Any attack must be done as efficiently as we possibly can.”

“I want to confirm that,” said Clemant, looking at Merral with his dark gray eyes. “We may have a single chance. A window of opportunity, perhaps only a few minutes.”

There were long seconds of silence. “I see that,” Merral answered. “But you must realize that any action like this would carry with it a certainty of death and injury on our side. We had an almost miraculous escape last time. If I was to lead it, I would feel responsible for what happened.”

Corradon looked up at him solemnly. “Yes, but if I authorized it, Forester—if I asked you to do it—why then, I would take responsibility.”

The silence returned. Eventually Corradon broke it. “But you see, Merral, we have a responsibility whether we like it or not. If we attack, we take risks. If we don’t attack we also take risks. I bitterly wish it was not my decision. But what can we do?”

Clemant gave a nod of grudging agreement.

How had this happened? Merral asked himself. How had it come about that he was being asked to lead a battle?

He suddenly knew, with unarguable certainty, that he could not agree there and then.

“Representative Corradon, Advisor Clemant,” he said, “I have to think this through. It is without precedent. Yes, I fought before, but it was defensive. I had no choice. This is different. Now we are planning an attack. And . . .”

For a moment, Merral closed his eyes, trying to think of the words; then he opened them and spoke slowly. “There is another factor. The great achievement of the Assembly has been peace. With this we would end that.”

“I know,” Corradon said, sounding distressed. “But we need a decision. I need you to lead these people.”

“I agree,” Clemant said. “This is a perilous venture. Your presence increases the chance of success. Your absence . . . ” He shrugged.

Suddenly, Merral knew what to say. “My decision is this: I need to think more about it.”

Corradon and Clemant exchanged unhappy glances.

“Very well,” Corradon said, shaking his head, “but Vero has suggested we act within a week. In fact, he is working to have the contact at dawn a week from tomorrow.”

“So soon? We have no more time?”

“No longer than that. We simply cannot afford to have the ship leave, and neither can we risk it heading into Assembly space spreading contamination. Midsummer approaches when the crater will never be in darkness; now, at least, we have some darkness to approach in.”

“But only a week? Can it be done?”

Corradon did not immediately answer but rubbed his face between his hands as if weary. Then he looked at Merral, his face showing concern. “Done? I would be lying if I said I had any assurance over the matter. But it has to be attempted. And that is why we need you. Even if we knew what to test for, we do not have the time to test men or women to lead in battle. You are the one man who we know can lead.”

“Perhaps.”

“No.” Corradon’s tone was blunt. “Merral, if you do not take this, we appoint someone else. But for all we know, when they are faced by these things, they may run. Only two men have fought for the Assembly in eleven thousand years. You are one; Vero is the other. He is eliminated. The equation is simple.”

“Sir, I appreciate that,” Merral answered, feeling under an intolerable pressure. “But surely we believe that a man must volunteer for such a position?”

A long, pained sigh came from the representative. “Yes. I cannot order you. We are Assembly still. The Assembly does not force.” He looked intently at Merral. “But I can plead,” he said, “and I do. But please talk to Vero about the plans. Perhaps advise him. Then let me know before, say, the evening of the day after tomorrow, what you choose to do. On the eve of the Lord’s Day. If you will not lead, then we will find someone else. But I would prefer you.”

“And I agree,” Clemant said.

He and Corradon rose.

“We must return to Isterrane,” the representative said. “I wish you peace with your decision. We will pray for you.”

As their footsteps faded away, Merral sat down heavily in a chair.

“I do not want to do this!” he whispered, and his voice seemed to echo about him. His memories of the battle at Carson’s Sill came flooding back. He even half wished he had not found the ship. Why am I so reluctant? Is it cowardice or something else?

Suddenly, the answer came to him abruptly and clearly. It was not cowardice, or not entirely. I’m reluctant because with this we would lose our innocence. With this action we will put the clock back twelve millennia. At a stroke, we would unleash all the ghosts of the past: the deceitful vocabulary of war, the dreadful concepts we have forgotten, those horrors disguised as “chivalry,” “patriotism,” or “valor” that lurked in the very oldest books, the laments like that of David over Saul and Jonathan, the grieving of the widows and orphans.

Then a new and darker thought struck him. If it happened, he could become known to posterity—for however many ages there were yet to run—as Captain Merral Stefan D’Avanos of the Farholme Defense Unit.

The man who brought war back to the human race.