Renegade Paladins The Zygan Emprise

by smartnsweet1

You've seen William Escott on Singularity TV's "Bulwark", but you likely don't know that he and costar Shiloh Rush are agents for the pre-UFP Zygan Federation. Shiloh's missing brother leads them on a mission to save Earth from terrorists and traitors.

Renegade Paladins

By Y. S. Pascal

For Stacy

Chapter 1

Aurora

His heel hit the edge of my lip. I felt a sharp stab of pain and the blood begin to flow. Furious, I spun around and slammed the side of his cheek with my fist. He cried out and collapsed into a crouch, then sprang towards my abdomen. I was ready. I tightened my abs and shot both arms up into his jaw before he could make contact. The force of the blows sent his body back onto the floor, where he lay grunting and clutching his face.

Wary, I lifted my foot and lightly placed it on his writhing abdomen, then looked up at the pedagogue for an acknowledgment of my victory. I caught the flicker in my peripheral vision, but it was too late. His powerful legs launched into my pelvis and threw me screaming against the wall, and, for the next few minutes, I remembered nothing more.

* * *

If I'd known I'd never see him again, I would have told him how much I loved him. John was my favorite brother, but I was furious at him for choosing the Army over us. He made the announcement at dinner on April twentieth, exactly two years ago, at 6:52 pm. This was going to be our last supper together for, he insisted, only a few months. I remember staring down, fiddling with my pendant. I couldn't bear to look up at his face. I had just turned fifteen a few weeks before, and he'd promised to teach me how to ride his Harley. Another broken pledge. His flight was scheduled out of Dulles at 6:45 the next morning. The only thing on his mind was getting ready in time.

We were all kind of in shock. Andi was only eleven. She cried like she was losing Grandpa Alexander again. The rest of us tried not to. I glanced at Connie, who was nineteen going on thirty. Her eyes reflected disappointment and the barest hint of distaste. John had never been her number one sib.

With eight brothers and sisters to pepper him with questions, John spent the rest of the meal explaining why he'd made his sudden decision: to serve his country, for travel and adventure. For a chance to learn about things he'd always wanted to know. Tweens Billy and Bobby shared John's excitement without really understanding the danger. The virtual soldiers in the war games they played every day could be resurrected to life with the simple touch of a button. There wouldn't be such a button in the Army if something went wrong. I sat quietly at the table, sliding the food I could no longer swallow around on my plate with my salad fork.

John gobbled down his stew and then, anxious to pack, rushed to his room trailing siblings like a paternal Pied Piper. I didn't feel like shouting my thoughts over a row of bobbing heads. My only hope to catch him alone for a few minutes was to set my alarm and wake up well before the sun. But it was the sheets of rain assaulting our cottage that made me leap out of bed in the middle of the night. The drumbeat of the drops on my half-opened window had almost drowned out the sound of John's motorcycle as it sped away from our farmhouse and, carving an S-shaped skid in the gravel shoulder, turned the corner down by the gate to the main road.

I stood frozen by the window, long after he was gone. The rain tasted salty on my lips, which couldn't speak the words they should've said: "Don't go."

* * *

Maybe he should've just knocked me out for good. My consciousness returned just as the adrenaline was fading—everything, and I mean everything, hurt. Especially my Academy classmates' laughter from the gymnasium stands. I'd let that 6-foot gangling Ichabod Crane with the stuck-up English accent throw me against the wall like a sack of potatoes. That would never happen again. I'd be sure to return the favor before we graduated.

"Shall I call you a medic?" I looked up to see Spud bending down to help me.

"Call me a re-match," I shot back, grunting, as I leapt up on my feet, ignoring his extended hand. "You won't catch me with that trick twice."

"I should expect not," he whispered, brushing a stray lock of dirty blond hair from his sweaty forehead. "Unlike yours truly, Andarts are not known to be merciful."

If he hadn't said that with a hot British burr, I would've decked him.

* * *

"Earth to Shiloh," Chell's voice sang in my ears. "Anybody home?"

I focused back on my image in the full-length mirror before me and had to admire Chell's handiwork as a make-up virtuoso. The vanity lights, aided by several flavors of mousse and gel, had brought out the blond highlights in my very, very short, spiky hair and covered the jagged pink scar just above my hairline. Chell, whose own long brown curls teased the toned pecs bursting through his shiny satin muscle shirt, had cloaked my scattered freckles with a smooth layer of flax foundation. My azure eyes were framed by an aggressive ebony corona and the faintest pink of my lips bled through the snowy layers of the ivory lipstick he'd painted on with delicate brush strokes. Standing behind me, I could see Chell, his hands resting at the low-cut waist of his slim-hipped jeans, shaking his head. "Girl, you are a space cadet."

It had taken Chell a mere hour to transform me from acne-cursed thespian Shiloh Rush to Ensign Tara Guard, one of the teen commandos on the sci-fi action series "Bulwark". (Catch us Fridays at 10, 9 Central, on the Singularity Channel and online at .us/Bulwark!)

I leaned my head back in the make-up chair and looked up at Chell with a grateful smile. "Thanks to you."

"You were due on set three minutes ago, hon," Chell chided as he pulled off the tissues protecting my collar and brushed some stray powder from the shoulders of my skin-tight black vinyl uniform, studded with the decorative insignia of the Phaeton Alliance. "Go get those bad guys."

* * *

The flash of light was blinding. The blast from the laser cannon had just missed our Jetta starcruiser by millimeters.

"Arm neutron torpedos!" I barked at Spud, whose spindly fingers were frantically keyboarding over the controls of the Jetta's weapons console.

"Fire!" I ordered.

A large explosion to my right threw me and my partner against the communications panel, smashing my left elbow on the hard edge of the metal. Fueled by the pain, I cried, "We're surrounded! 360 torpedo dispersion!"

"Aye, aye," he responded in a terse clip, his eyes glued to the blue screens of our vessel's navigational computers. "Engaging."

As our spacecraft pitched forward, I reached over and slammed my fist into the weapons board, setting off a shower of fireworks just beyond my windscreen. Moments later, a massive jolt shook our cruiser and it yawed violently side to side. We gripped our control panels and looked at each other in alarm.

Spud nodded. "It is our only chance!"

"Evasive!" I ordered as I hit the giant red button flashing on my console and pulled my joystick back as far as it could go. Fighting the move, our spaceship groaned up and to port, and the starfield ahead of us morphed into a field of blinding lights. I threw my hands in front of my face to cover my protesting eyes and screamed.

"Cut!" Jerry Greenspan, the director of this week's episode shouted. "That's a good one, kids." Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heels and strode towards the far end of the giant hangar where the grips were lighting the Touareg II prison set for our next scene as alien captives.

Visibly annoyed, I climbed out of the prop ship, rubbing my elbow, Spud on my heels. My co-star eyed my arm with a mischievous twinkle, "One of Zygint's best captains indeed."

"Dude, I wasn't the one piloting this ship," I whispered back. I paused to glare at Mark, the special effects coordinator, who mouthed the word "sorry" from the safety of his shielded control panel overlooking our faux spacecraft. Spud knows I'm a much better pilot than Ensign Tara—or Mister William "Spud" Escott, in fact. I scored better on my final exam last summer than he did, acing the segment on dodging fusion torpedos in hyperdrive. My own Zoom Starcruiser, which goes zero to sixty light-years a second in a second, is totally ding-free. That is, if you don't count the tiny dent from my little fender bender with the Soviet satellite Sputnik1 in 1957.

Yup, you read that right. Way before any of us was born—including me. I was just back in 1957 for a few minutes on a mission for the Zygan Federation. Of course time travel is possible. Don't let all the paradox phobics tell you it isn't.2 All it takes is the right technology. Earth doesn't have it yet. But the Zygan Federation does. I guess I'd better explain that, too…

* * *

In the galaxy of Andromeda, just up the Universe and around the corner from our own galaxy, the Milky Way, there are billions and billions of stars. Almost all of those distant stars have orbiting planets, though Earth scientists won't be able to see them until they launch the McAuliffe Telescope in 2053. One of those planets, Zyga, orbits a blue dwarf star near the center of Andromeda.

Zyga is three times the size of Jupiter, and has millions more inhabitants than our own solar system's largest planet, even if you count all of Jupiter's methane-breathing microorganisms. Zyga is the home world of the Zygan Federation, an alliance of intelligent beings from over ten thousand planets in Andromeda and the Milky Way. It's a very advanced society with knowledge and technology that makes earthlings look like chimps, and, unfortunately, chimps with very dangerous toys.

Earth has a long way to go before it can even qualify for membership in the Zygan Federation. One criterion is discovering hyperdrive, travel faster than the speed of light. That should only take Earth scientists a few centuries or so. But another criterion, achieving world peace? Not in my lifetime. Which, like most Zygans', could be as long as several thousand years.

Yes, I'm Zygan now. I used to be American, but you have to choose your loyalties, and I chose Zyga. It wasn't to get the chance to live almost forever. In my job, the odds are kind of against that. My incentive was much more important, my brother John. And I've never had any regrets.

* * *

I remember it was early May. The cherry blossoms had already drifted to the ground and blanketed the path from our farmhouse to the gate like a pink snowfall. The suffocating humidity that envelopes the East Coast every summer hadn't made its way up to Maryland yet, so the day was crisp, sunny, and clear. George had taken a heavy stack of books out to the gazebo to study for his finals. Law schools would not look kindly on an applicant whose grades weren't totally impressive. Andi was sitting quietly on the wooden deck by his side, drawing a picture of her big brother with pastels. Connie was at the Bradfords tutoring their kids in algebra, and definitely wouldn't be back for hours. Blair had flown back home to the UK, and Kris and the little guys were at an open casting call for some alien invasion movie they were planning to shoot at the Washington Monument. And John, well, none of us had heard from him since he'd sped off to his military "adventure" the month before. Every time the phone would ring, I'd jump out of my seat, only to be disappointed time and time again. The next call—that would be John, it had to be.

But the phone's silence was one more broken promise. Blinking back tears, I spent a few minutes watching George and Andi from the shade of our front porch. I'd gotten tired of carving paths in the fallen blossoms with my skateboard, so, hoisting it under one arm, I finally wandered down towards the gate. That's when I saw them, down the road, coming our way: two men in uniform, looking grim. There was only one reason I could think of for their visit. A reason I didn't want to hear.

"Is this John Rush's residence?" the soldier demanded as he approached.

I didn't move to open the gate. I didn't nod. I held my breath and waited.

"Can we come in?" the second man asked.

I glanced to see if George and Andi had noticed our visitors. No, they seemed rapt in their tasks, contented. Undisturbed. We had survived so much, I wanted to hold off their pain as long as I could. I turned back to the soldiers and tried to keep the tremor out of my voice. "Just give it to me here."

"Shiloh?" From the second soldier, a hint of a question.

I didn't answer, but my expression must have given me away.

The taller of the two leaned down over the gate and met my gaze. "All right, Shiloh. Here it is. You'll know what to do." He handed me a manila envelope that felt heavy in my shaking hands. I noted the insignia embroidered on his extended sleeve: two gold stripes and one glistening star, shaped like a sunflower in bloom.

"Everything is in there," the tall soldier added. Nodding at his partner, he stood back up erect and turned to walk away. "Do not delay."

"Wait!" I cried, "What happened to John?!"

But Sunflower-sleeve was now halfway down the road and ignored my cry. The other soldier, a few steps behind, turned towards me for a moment and, with a sad visage, shook his head. "Paraffin wings."

Frantic, I tore open the envelope. It contained John's wallet, his antique pocket watch, and a stiff paper bearing army letterhead. Oh my God! I dropped the package and vaulted over the gate, hoping to catch up with the military messengers at my top running speed. But, though the main road stretched for many yards before me, the two soldiers were no longer visible. The road ahead and the fields to each side were as barren of life as my heart.

George and Andi were standing at the gate when I trudged back towards our house. Andi was clutching John's wallet to her nose and George was reading the letter with a stricken expression. Two weeks earlier, it read, during a top secret mission in a confidential location, John had unexpectedly disappeared. He had left behind the enclosed belongings and never returned. Despite intensive search efforts, my beloved brother was missing, and there was no trace of his remains.

I didn't have the courage to read the letter myself for months. George had put it back in the envelope along with the watch. He'd gone up to John's bedroom our farmhouse's attic later that day for a few hours alone, and had come back down red-eyed, without it. Connie said George'd hid the envelope in the box where John had kept his research papers and flash drives. She didn't encourage me to go look for it.

And, for a long time, I didn't. There was no way I possibly could.

* * *

It had been one of the rainiest Novembers in memory. I had no appetite for turkey, nor for sitting around a holiday table without John in the head chair. I thought I'd go back to my bed instead and read a book or watch a download or something, so I dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor. John's room was on the third floor and I'd always looked away when I'd passed the closed door to the attic stairs. I don't know why, but this time I stopped in front of it.

The dust on the handrail was pretty thick and I kept swiping my face to brush off real or imagined cobwebs as I climbed the stairwell. At the top, I could barely see inside John's room. It was only around three o'clock, but the curtains were drawn and the sky beyond was dark from the thunderclouds. I turned on the wall switch and lit up the room with the single light bulb hanging from the rafters on the ceiling.

Something wasn't quite right. It took me a few moments to figure it out. No cobwebs, no dust. Save for John's things, the room was empty, but it was as clean as it had been when he'd come home to shower and crash after spending a week of nights doing research at the University of Maryland. How had it stayed so neat? George wasn't terribly domestic, and I doubted Connie would have added John's housekeeping to her responsibilities of supervising the young ones with their daily chores.

Not wishing to disturb the pristine bed, I pulled out the chair next to the desk and plunked down onto the soft leather seat. My eyes caught the box with John's files on the adjacent bookshelf. The manila envelope lay on top, safeguarding John's research secrets in the papers and drives below. I finally marshaled the strength to pick it up and open it for a second time.

I tossed the letter from the Army into the wastebasket. Months had passed and they still hadn't found John's body. George would call the Special Operations number they'd given us at least once a week, but the answer was always coldly the same. Their records showed John Rush was still missing. They could tell us nothing more. None of the other Army numbers we researched got us anywhere either. As soon as a responder looked up John's name, he'd transfer us to Special Ops, and we were back at square one. We'd even tried going down to Headquarters, Department of the Army. They sent us from office to office til we landed back at Special Ops for our expected answer: no news. The Army could offer us nothing except a referral to a support group for families of those missing in action. We passed.

Fuming, I turned the envelope upside down and caught John's pocket watch as it slid into my hand. The gold watch was unusually light and sparkled as I held it up to the light and admired its intricate etched designs. Grandpa Alexander had given it to John on his sixteenth birthday, my brother had told me. It had been a gift to Grandpa from his own great-grandfather many, many years before. John had treasured the watch, never letting it out of his hands and forbidding us to touch it. I'd always been eager to have a peek at the watch's face. Feeling just a little guilty, I twisted and pressed the stem to open the hunter's casing and--

Instantly, John's room disappeared. Shaken, I found myself in a sparsely furnished contemporary showroom straight out of the Jetsons. In front of me was a large Formica elliptical table at which was seated a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man, dressed in a fashionable silver-gray pinstripe suit that perfectly matched the color of the hair at his temples. I covered my mouth with my hand to hold in the scream.

"Hello, Shiloh," the gentleman greeted me, his voice warm. "My name is Gary."

I knew I shouldn't have touched that watch--what had I done? Where was I? I looked around the room again. We were otherwise alone. There wasn't one window, nor even a seam in the curved metallic walls; just a red door behind Gary which was closed, and probably locked. Either this was one weird dream, or I was in big trouble. I took a few deep breaths, and prayed it was a dream.

"Hi, Gary," I responded with a tentative smile and a trembling voice.

He seemed to be waiting for my question.

I took a few more deep breaths. "Okay, uh, where am I?" I eventually asked.

"At a fork in the road," he answered softly.

Chapter 2

Zygint

I was terrified I'd wake up before I could ask my next question. "John. Where's John?" I blurted at Gary.

A brief note of sadness crossed his handsome features before he answered, "I really don't know. I am sorry."

I swallowed hard. "But you do know something."

Gary nodded. "He'd been on assignment—"

I interrupted, "For you?" Gary's tailored suit sure didn't look like a standard Army-issue uniform. In fact, it suddenly hit me that none of the Army uniforms we had seen in DC had borne the sunflower insignia worn by the two military messengers that had brought us John's tragic news. I hadn't realized that before…

"For us." Gary agreed as a flash of sadness crossed his face. "He was one of our best catascopes."

My confusion must have been obvious. "Us?" I truly doubted 'us' could be Army Special Operations. What was a catascope? A type of soldier?

"A Zygint agent," he added, reading my thoughts. "An operative for Zygan Intelligence."

I was still very confused. "And you're … Z-zygan Intelligence?" I ventured.

"A very small part of it." Gary's expression softened, and he sat back in his chair. "John was working for us undercover. He had instructions to check in periodically, but he missed his last rendezvous," Gary paused and cleared his throat, "and we never heard from him again. Our efforts to find him were … unsuccessful. A great loss." Gary blinked several times. "His work over the past eight years had been outstanding. You should be very proud of—"

"Eight years?" John was … had only been twenty-four. "B-but he just joined the Army last spring!"

"John started working for us when he was sixteen," Gary explained. "The Army was a cover story—their top brass work confidentially with us sometimes. We knew this assignment would take him away for a long time and—"

I leapt up towards Gary, unable to hold back my anger at the betrayal. "A long time?! You took him away from us forever!"

Gary kept his composure as he shook his head. "It was your brother's choice, not mine. He heard the calling to serve the Zygan Federation, and he came to see me, in this very room, in fact." Gary paused, glanced at the watch I was still clutching in one hand, and favored me with another warm smile. "And now, so have you."

I stood stunned and speechless for a moment, letting the watch drop from my fingers as if it burned. It landed on the table in front of me and popped open like an oyster. Secreted inside the cap I saw a pearl: my favorite photo of John and me last year, arm in arm, standing victoriously on the top of Sugarloaf Mountain after a grueling climb. Swallowing a sob, I collapsed back down in the plastic chair and buried my face in my hands. I knew at that moment that my die was cast. I would follow my brother's footsteps by following in his footsteps. And, maybe, just maybe, I might learn why he left us. And why he disappeared.

* * *

I had a lot to learn.

My new homeland, the Zygan Federation or, as we commonly call it, Zygfed, is ruled by two governing councils, the Selaf and the Kelab, under the leadership of His Royal Highness, the Omega Archon.

Kingdoms need their soldiers, and Zygfed is no exception. Zygfed territories are protected by an elite corps of cosmic guards known as the Sentinels, and by field operatives working throughout Andromeda and the Milky Way in Zygan Intelligence, or Zygint.

By virtue of my brother's final sacrifice, I would now myself have the chance to earn my wings as a Zygan Intelligence agent, a catascope, and serve the Zygan Federation and its subjects. John had apparently been a valuable operative for Zygfed. Would I be able to measure up to him? And, a more difficult question, should I?

One of my earliest memories was of waking up in a barren, icy chamber, the sun scorching my fluttering lids. I fought to move, but my arms and legs were frozen, trapped, my struggles in vain. Terrified, I looked away from the blinding light and saw John's face in the shadows. I could barely make out his features, but I was comforted by his gentle voice, a voice that reached out through my fog and told me that all would be well. "I am by your side, do not be afraid. Patience is the champion's best tool." Soothed by his words, I closed my eyes again and felt at peace.

The surgeon finished suturing the laceration on my scalp a few minutes later and directed the blazing operating room lamp away from my face. I was released from the papoose board, the straps that had imprisoned me flung aside as I leaped off the gurney and fell into John's arms.

The damage to the sidecar of his motorcycle could easily be repaired, he reassured me. It was me he was worried about. Squeezing his hand, I told him there was no need. After my cut healed, I'd wear a helmet and ride behind him on the seat this time. He promised he'd drive the bike slower in the future, but I was glad he didn't. I liked the feeling of the wind blowing through my hair, and I was grateful I had a brother who did, too. Helmets were for chickens. We were eagles. We were meant to soar.

The answer found me. Not only would I soar into space on John's trail, I would do him proud.

So, on my own sixteenth birthday, I joined the Zygan Intelligence team and started my training as a catascope on the planet Zyga at Zygint's Mingferplatoi Academy in the bustling intergalactic capital city of Mikkin.

* * *

"It doesn't mean I have to like it," I grumbled as I instructed nav to begin our first practice exercise. As the only two Terrans in our Academy class, we'd been matched as partners for our upcoming internships. The thought of orbiting Earth in a cramped ship for six months with Spud the Stiff wasn't brightening my day. The Scooter lurched and bucked as we lifted off from the Academy's lush chartreuse grounds.

"Zygint endeavors to assign species near their home environments. Fewer chances of accidental discovery," Spud rationalized, adding, "You are not the only one dubious re this arrangement." He reached over and tweaked the antigrav settings on the nav holo, smoothing our ascent through the Zygan atmosphere.

I wasn't about to thank him. "Let's just get through this test, okay." I turned my attention to navigating through the maze of guard buoys sprinkled through the planet's stratosphere by Zyga Traffic Control.

His tone was cold as he returned, "You do not wish to wait for the pedagogue?"

I rolled my eyes. "I've done this course hundreds of times on the simulator." The virtual experience had bolstered my confidence. "She'll catch up. Contact metrics?"

"Working." Sighing, Spud ran his fingers across his holo in front of his post. "Cygnus in ninety-two minutes. Rendez-vous with the target on Kepler 6b, metrics established."

After flawlessly achieving apogee, I couldn't resist bestowing Spud a smirk. Clear of Zyga, I gave the Scooter the command to shift into hyperdrive and speed us towards the Milky Way. Spud remained silent, focused on tracking our route on his nav holo, and scanning for signs of our pedagogue's ship on our trail.

The constellation of Cygnus soon appeared on our viewscreens, a bright cross nestled in a ring of nebulae. Spud's holo had highlighted our landing site as an 'X' at an uninhabited peninsula on a southern continental shelf of planet Kepler 6b.

"Cygnus is derived from the ancient Greek word for swan," Spud ventured, "and contains two of this octant's most populated planets orbiting Deneb and Albireo. Kepler 5 b and 6b are among a ring of exoplanets that include the Glieser homeworlds."

I yawned, hoping he'd get the hint.

He didn't. "Cygnus is included in the Zodiac sign of Sagittarius, along with—"

I raised a hand. "I've uploaded all the Zygfed cosmography I'll need, thank you. And medicine, science, and history. You shouldn't overfill that 'brain-attic' of yours, anyway. Or mine."

Spud's eyes narrowed. "You are implying that the accumulation of knowledge could be finite. I should chew on that possibility—

CRASH!

"Andarts!" I shouted as our Scooter rocked with the force of the attacking ion torpedoes. CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! We were being battered from all sides by the swooping projectiles. En masse, they could bring our vessel down.

"Armor's holding," Spud reported, his eyes darting from one holo screen to another as flocks of missiles struck our ship. "For the moment."

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

"There must be hundreds of them," I growled as I fought to stabilize our craft. "I thought this was just supposed to be a mock search and rescue mission. Where's our pedagogue's ship?"

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

"Armor at 70%," he said, adding, "Probably far back out of our range. And, alas, no other Zygfed vessels in our perimeter. I've sent a distress signal to Deneb 5, but it looks as if we are on our own."

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

"Can we evade?"

"Unlikely. The torpedos are coming in, 360 degrees. Armor at 50%." Spud's words escaped through gritted teeth.

"Then fire our fission grenades. That'll buy us some time." Unfortunately, we both knew that our limited weapons cache couldn't overcome the obvious firepower levels of our unknown assailants.

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

Spud launched a wide dispersion of our own armaments to pick out some of our avionic assailants, but our meager hits didn't do much to stem the flow. As I fixed my gaze on our viewscreen, something caught my eye.

"Their torpedoes don't seem to be dodging very well." I frowned. "Internal torpedo controls should respond as soon as they see our grenades and change course to evasive. Check out the two second response delay—I'll bet these torpedoes are remote controlled."

CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!

Spud sent out another barrage of fission grenades and nodded as he, too, observed the subtle discrepancy. He spun towards another holo screen and ran his fingers over the data display.

"Got 'em!" Spud cried. "Two Andart ships hiding in the Veil Nebula at 20.62 h D +42.03°. Obviously gunning for us through their titanium messengers. Armor at 30%" He raised an eyebrow as he saw me lean over to our weapons holo. "What are you doing?"

"Rattling their cage." I keyed in a few instructions and shot out the next volley of fission grenades—only this time, rather than aiming each grenade at an attacking torpedo, I guided our grenades to crash into each other and explode all at once.

The resonant blast waves rocked our ship onto its back and sent us flying several light years towards Deneb. Fortunately, grav sensors kept us tractored in our seats and we were able to regain control of the Scooter to re-con. We stared at the viewscreens in amazement as we watched all the surviving torpedoes retreating rapidly in the direction of the shrouded Andart ships.

"Andarts withdrawing," Spud announced, nodding at his holo. "In hyperdrive, I might add." He paused. "Surely a distant grenade explosion shouldn't have scared them away. There's no sound in space. What did you do?"

I leaned back in my chair, grinning broadly. "Our fission grenades are made of copper, tin, and silver, right?"

"Bronze, correct."

"Well, the vibration of the fragmented bronze components combined with the explosion created a giant blast wave. The flash disrupted the remote wireless communications and sent the torpedoes into default mode, racing back home towards the Andart ships. Hope the Andarts have enough fuel to outrun their dangerous toys."

"In other words, you created a bronze rattle."

"Call me Heracles," I chuckled.

To my surprise, Spud actually smiled.

* * *

Spud and I were given a hero's welcome when we finally arrived at Kepler 6b. Turned out the Andarts had used their own communications disrupter to block our distress signals from getting through, isolating us from our pedagogue as well as any local intergalactic Zygfed patrols. Escaping the ambush relatively unscathed, without help from the Zygan "cavalry", meant we not only passed our field test, but earned ourselves a commendation--and a chance to apply for Zygfed's elite Sentinels team after graduation. The offer was tempting, but I declined. John's trail, and mine, was with Zygan Intelligence, not the Sentinel Corps. I was amazed that Spud demurred as well. He told me it was because the Sentinel Corps would fill his brain-attic with "feckless experiences without satisfying his curiosity". My pedagogue told me weeks later that he'd told her he'd been loath to break up our team, considering we worked together so well.

I had to admit, that was a really nice thing for him to say. And even nicer was that he never snitched that I'd rushed into space without my pedagogue, my "training wheels", in the first place.

* * *

Kingdoms like Zygfed need their warriors—but they also need their enemies. Nothing better than a passionate struggle between good and evil to hold an alliance together, right? And evil is a simple recipe. Take a teaspoon of the devil, a pinch of brute, add a name based on mors, the Latin word for death, simmer, and, presto! You have an archfiend that makes your side look heroic. You've seen it on our TV show (or, considering our ratings, maybe not): every week, Tara Guard and her cohorts fight the good fight for the Phaeton Alliance, against the dastardly killer Mordmort.

But, in reality, you don't need horns, flaming retinas, and smoke from your facial orifices to represent evil. Zygfed's enemy du jour is a balding, fifty-something human named Theodore Benedict, who wears bifocals and looks like a tax auditor.3 Evil exists all around us, and usually looks like a tax auditor. It's the crimes, not the costumes, that make the villain; and Benedict's crimes have included trying to violently overthrow the Omega Archon and His Highness' government, and "damn the collateral damage."

To achieve his malevolent aims, Benedict has enlisted Andarts, champion guerilla fighters from populated planets all across the universe, to launch terrorist attacks on Zygfed. My primary job for Zygint, and that of my fellow catascopes-to-be at Mingferplatoi Academy, would be to stop Benedict and his terrorist thugs and safeguard our King and his subjects.

Studying to be a Zygan catascope was hard work, but it beat spending four years at Earth's military academies; I was done with the classroom in only six months. I'm not going to bore you with all the details of our education. I mean, everybody has to go to school, right? Then, on to our internships where we could focus on the fun stuff, learning to drive, fly, fight, and work our Ergals.

What's an Ergal? It's an instrument, a tool, that does, frankly, almost anything you could wish for, kind of like a Zygint version of a Swiss Army knife. An Ergal allows a catascope to transport from one location to another, change his or her appearance, levitate (lev), shape-shift matter (anamorph), become invisible, and, of course, travel in time. Sweet, huh? Our scientists say it works through a process called CANDI, Cascading Auxiliary Neurosynaptic Discharge Interaction, that sends wireless signals directly to the brain. Gary calls it magic, but then his generation is notoriously uncomfortable with new technology. My brother's antique watch, I discovered to my amazement, was an Ergal. Anamorphed to look like a cell phone, it would be mine as soon as I graduated. Sweet.

But, as always, there is a catch. Ergals are only provided to certain Zygan citizens, like Selafs, Sentinels, and Catascopes. And, using them without authorization is a crime. There were several thousand megabytes of policies and procedures that guided and limited the use of Ergals, all vetted personally by the Omega Archon, which we had to upload before our Ergals were assigned to us and activated. They didn't want us using Ergals to turn the school bully into a pig or to go back and buy up all the stock in Microsoft in 1986. Darn! Unfortunately, we weren't allowed to use them to change history either. Time travel was only allowed with specific authorization for a specific assignment, along with strict instructions to only "observe and preserve". As much as you might be tempted to assist the Resistance in assassinating Hitler or to warn President Kennedy's driver to avoid the grassy knoll, such unauthorized actions would land you a visit to the Omega Archon and an extended sentence in Hell, flames and all. And, even worse, if you survived Hades, you could be exiled from Zygfed forever. So, we get these wonderful tools with all these options, but the rules for using them are super-strict and the consequences of violations dire. I think that's called "free will".

Or in my case, "a challenge".

Chapter 3

Terror Time

"We're done for! There's no escape!" cried Spud. His T-shirt was in tatters and rivulets of sweat trickled down his muscular biceps as he sprinted ahead of the pack of rapacious paparazzi. He leaped into my Zoom Cruiser through the open right gull-wing door and, pulling it closed, rolled into the passenger seat of what, to casual observers, resembled a late model DeLorean car.

"I've got it," I said as I locked the doors and ordered, "Windows opaque." Our side and back windscreens became darkened and impenetrable. I activated navigation and scanning holos and observed that the advancing paparazzi were bearing down on us quickly. Gunning the engine of the Zoom cruiser, I streaked off down Cahuenga Boulevard, barely missing a camera-laden aggressor who had leaped in front of our car.

As we sped away, the hungry pack of photographers dispersed to their vans and SUVs, intent on motorized pursuit. Their driving skills were no match for my razor-sharp reflexes and the Zoom's touchpad steering, but, with the heavy Friday afternoon traffic making the streets an action film obstacle course, I wasn't able to lose them as quickly as I'd hoped.

Playing a futuristic space agent on TV gives you a great cover if you get caught working as a futuristic space agent on a real assignment. You can pretend the spaceship, the weapons, and the special effects are all a publicity stunt. On the other hand, being on TV does have its drawbacks. And they were gaining on us as we zoomed towards Burbank.

As we neared the studio, I steered a sudden hard right turn through a bolted aluminum fence into an empty construction site. Fortunately, the Zoom Cruiser's titanium body trumped the chicken wire, and we were inside the lot without a scratch. The starcruiser's tires bounced roughly over the packed rocks and dirt and then lurched forward and down with a sickening drop into a multi-storey well that had been dug out waiting for a future skyscraper's foundation—and additional building funds. I could hear the screeching of paparazzi brakes as they tried to follow my turn into the site. I could also hear Spud's cry as we fell into the pit, "Lev!"

"I've got it!" I said confidently as, once below the lip of the pit, I invisible-ized my cruiser and activated levitation. Mere inches from the bottom of the abyss, the cruiser began to rise and, its wheels quietly retracting, invisibly glided up past the rows of paparazzi vehicles that were skidding to a stop at the rim of the excavated hollow. Hovering, I giggled as I watched them jump out of their cars and struggle to explain how our car had disappeared, avoiding a crash landing that would have provided the bottom-feeding lens hounds with weeks of lucrative photo sales.

As we glided off towards Universal City, even Spud cracked a smile. "Someday," he vowed, wiping the beads of sweat off his face and chest with the remnants of his T-shirt. "I shall earnestly seek a more incognitious and solitary existence."

"My brother Blair told me there was a bee farm for sale in Sussex," I joked, as I touched down under a deserted freeway overpass near the rear studio gate and made my "car" re-visible and road-worthy.

"Ha," was Spud's only response. He continued scowling until we were waved through the entrance to the studio and heading for my designated parking space.

* * *

It was early evening, and I was praying it was the last take for the Touareg prison scene. I so desperately wanted to scratch my skin. To appear convincing as captives tortured by Mordmort's guards, Spud and I had had to spend much of the afternoon with the FX make-up specialists getting tortured. After dressing in ragged versions of our Phaeton Alliance spacesuits, we had been imprisoned by the special effects artists as they'd slathered us with silicone wounds, fake blood, and painted gashes. Chell's delicate artwork was no match for the industrial efforts of the FX team. We soon looked as traumatized as Chell would be if he saw us in this condition. And, unfortunately, their make-up really itched!

"Okay, kids," Jerry shouted to my relief as the soundstage lights came up. "That one worked." He waved at us, signaling our freedom, and turned to talk to the gaffer about his next shot, which was blessedly without us. I started peeling off the silicone even before I had stepped off the set. Spud and I were done for the week. I could scratch away to my heart's content.

As I'd predicted, Chell gasped when he saw us. "My God, what have they done to you? You need Dr. Chell's first-aid!"

"Thanks, but a warm shower will do just fine," I returned with a friendly smile, as John's--my Ergal started to vibrate in a pocket inside my costume. Strange, we were off Zygan duty today. I pulled out the Ergal, now a stylish cell phone, and, holding it up, added, "I'll take this in my trailer."

Spud's own cell phone Ergal vibrated a second or two later. He reached for it in his back pocket under his cigarettes and chimed in, "I, too, shall take this in her trailer."

Our eyes met, and I knew Spud had also received the outwardly silent CANDI signal that this alert was an emergency. We set off for my dressing room at top speed. The sudden appearance on our soundstage of a holographic Zygan aggellaphor messenger would be very hard to explain to Chell, Jerry, and the crew.

* * *

Safely in my trailer, I flipped open my phone and hit the activator button on the Ergal's keypad. The aggellaphor hologram M-fanned—appeared--before us and sat stiffly on the rim of my beanbag chair, looking quite irritated at our delay. "Zygint Central has received intelligence that Benedict's Andarts may be attacking Zygfed territories and vulnerable protectorates within the next solar week. You are needed to stop one of these temporal aggressions."

"Contact metrics?" asked Spud.

"Temporal aggressions?" I interjected. Could Benedict be planning new guerilla attacks in the future or the past?

Our questions were succinctly answered. "Eight Av 3778, 24-3, mark six, Sidon. You'll be briefed further at Earth Core. Status: Condition one."

The aggellaphor X-fanned—disappeared--before we could get any more details. Aggellaphors are like that; not much for conversation really. In any case, the message was loud and clear. Condition one was of the highest urgency. We'd better get a move on. And fast.

* * *

Still in our costumes, we immediately M-fanned to the warehouse on Hill and Alameda. Well, more precisely, to the giant green garbage bin in the alley behind the rundown building near Chinatown. Even more precisely, inside the foul-smelling garbage bin, where rats scurried from pile to pile of malodorous, worm-ridden trash.

I greeted the rats with a warm hello. Chidurians are normally a gigantic crab-like species, from the Zygfed planet Chiduri in the constellation of Orion. Their universe-renowned fighting skills make them very desirable soldiers and guards. When assigned to work Zygint Security on primitive non-Zygfed planets and protectorates like Earth, however, they often take the visible form of rodents of some sort to blend into the environment and keep a lower profile. Fortunately, the spoken Zygan language does sound something like a rat squealing, so any intoxicated human staggering down the alley near the bin would probably interpret squeaky greetings as a rodent infestation rather than a welcome.

And, the worms? No, they're just worms.

We felt the warm light of the WHO4 scan bathe us for a few seconds before the metal wall of the bin facing the warehouse slid open to reveal a dark corridor that automatically lit up as soon as our feet stepped over the threshold. About thirty feet ahead of us was a titanium door that whooshed open after we'd passed a second WHO scan. We stepped into a small room and faced yet another titanium door. The school of hard knocks, and the resultant bruises, had taught us to grab the platinum railings that lined this chamber before the door behind us had fully closed. We kept our balance as the elevator started its death-defying drop with its usual sickening rush (no relation). I do so wish the impenetrable shields that surrounded Zygint's Core Station would allow us to use our Ergals to transport in instead.

A minute or three later, the front door slid open to reveal the plasterboard walls and linoleum floors of the main entrance. Once we were out of the lift, a more intensive NDNA scan5 cleared us quickly, and the drab industrial decor transitioned into the welcoming oak paneling and thick plush carpet of Earth Core Reception.

Fydra, our Scyllian greeter, put down her fur-brush and, with her floppy ears flapping behind her, bounded up out of her chair when she saw our grisly appearance. "Rrrough assignment?" she barked with concern, as she wagged her tail and smelled our costumes with her moist snout.

Spud and I looked at each other and laughed. Scylla, the largest planet orbiting Sirius in Canis Major, requires olfactory education for all its citizens from childhood. Scyllians can smell a rat at fifty paces, which is why the Chidurians prefer to stay on the surface above. It took only a moment for Fydra to discover that our blood and wounds were synthetic, and, embarrassed, she stepped back and pointed one of her manicured paws at the red portal. "They're all in Briefing Three," she sniffed.

"Grrreat," I responded, and added a conciliatory, "Thank you." Scyllians are not known for their sense of humor. They take their responsibilities—and themselves—very seriously.

Entering Earth Core Control Center, we stopped cold beyond the portal, awestruck. The entire center looked like a Christmas department store exhibition. All the giant holos that filled the cavernous room were dotted with flashing red lights. Perspiring profusely, portly Station Manager Everett Weaver was anxiously running from one holo to another, jerkily jotting down data on an electronic tablet, and looking to all the world like he desperately needed a rest room. Condition one, no kidding.

We hurried to Briefing Room Three to find Gary had just begun his presentation. I nodded to Wart, Ward Burton, Earth Core's Assistant Chief, and to our fellow catascopes, the Drexel twins, Dieter and Derek, who, looking up at us from their seats, echoed Fydra's alarm at our bloody condition. With apologies to Gary for the interruption, I reassured my colleagues that we were merely decked in impressively horrifying costumes for our TV show covers. Spud and I each grabbed a—washable, I hope—plastic chair and tried not to rest our stained arms on the polished cherrywood surface of the conference table.

The central holo in front of us was displaying an ancient city scene, with tunic-clad pedestrians and overburdened donkeys trudging down dusty dirt streets that were lined by small huts made of mud-bricks and stone. Women balanced baskets of wheat on their heads as their rag-robed children rolled pebbles on the road and dodged piles of equine excrement. Is that where we were headed? Foo. I'd been hoping we'd score an assignment at a luxury resort by the sea.

Gary paused to welcome us then briskly resumed his narration. "Recent Zygint Central intelligence reports that Benedict is launching a new wave of guerilla attacks in multiple locations throughout Zygfed, and, unfortunately, throughout time. As you know, one Andart operation last year in Hutunye resulted in the deaths of over one million Zygan citizens. If Benedict succeeds in destroying his target again, we could see a similar disaster on Earth."

"What's the target?" I asked, alarmed.

"Not what. Who," Gary responded.

The holo over our table dissolved into a vision of a thin, wiry, dark-haired boy about, I'd guess, the age of my brother Billy. Twelve or thirteen. He seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion with a group of bearded older men in what, judging by the décor, looked like a place of worship. The chamber's walls were lined with wood panels bearing carvings of winged figures, palm trees, and flowers, all painted or gilded with gold.

"Yeshua Bar Maryam," Gary continued. "Our last trace of him here was a couple of years ago." He nodded at the holo. "In Av, 3778, our contact metrics in the period, he is reported to be about eighteen years of age and working as a tradesman in Sidon, one of the largest cities in ancient Phoenicia, western Lebanon today."

I glanced over at Spud who was taking in the information in his typical pose, leaning back in his chair with his eyes half closed, his hands resting on his abdomen, fingertips together.

"We haven't been able to track his exact location. Frankly, Central dropped the ball. They weren't expecting Andarts to have time travel access. Central now believes that an Andart or two might have gone into the past, with the mission of eliminating Bar Maryam."

Spud raised an eyebrow. "Time travel? Without Ergals?

Gary shrugged. "Don't ask me how. But Central isn't ruling it out."

"I've got another question," I said, puzzled, "Every life is precious, but I've never known His Highness, or Zygint, for that matter, to spend resources to preserve one life."

A wry smile crossed Gary's face. "No, no … not typically. But, the Bar Maryam you see here is a young man. As an adult, he plays a critical role in Earth's history—" Gary seemed to stop himself. "If the Andarts kill him, the impact on the future would be devastating. Earth's timeline would be changed forever."

"That's not good." People were still talking about the mess Gary had made of Roswell. Changing Earth's history thousands of years in the past might mean that Earth's events evolve very differently and our present might never even come to pass. And neither might we. We had to make sure Benedict didn't succeed.

"But you can't identify Andarts in … Sidon?" I asked, worried. "Nothing on our scans?"

Gary sighed. "Zip. If Andarts are there, they're under deep cover. We've started monitoring transport fields for time-traveling invaders now, but the only way for us to catch anybody that's already gotten through is from the inside. If and when they make their move against Yeshua."

"Any estimates on when that might be?" asked Spud.

"A week, give or take." Our Head shook his. "That's the best we can guess based on their attack patterns—" he looked pointedly at me and Spud—"throughout the Milky Way and Andromeda."

"Okay, team, History'll give you the upload and help you Ergal your costumes and look." Gary stood up decisively. "We'll need you to M-fan in Sidon within the hour." He strode to the door then turned back to us for a final word. "Remember, failure could be catastrophic."

"Got that, Gary," I said, warily. "Isn't it always?"

* * *

In 3778, Sidon was a bustling Middle Eastern port city on the Mediterranean in what was then an independent colony in the vast Roman Empire. According to our History uploads, the Greek poet Homer (who wasn't really Homer but another poet with the same name, ha, ha6), had sung the praises of Sidon's skilled craftsmen who manufactured glass and purple dye. Think about it: if the Roman Empire had not supported the colony's renowned industry, all the cathedrals in western Europe today that are mobbed by tourists awed by their exquisite stained glass windows might have ended up instead with rather uninspiring wooden green shutters that wouldn't be much of a draw.

Emperor Tiberius had newly risen to power and was experiencing a brief honeymoon, perhaps launching the Mediterranean as a favorite honeymoon site; before his nervous breakdowns led him to attack many of his close relatives, perhaps launching the model of an unhappy marriage. Fortunately, in 3778 on the Hebrew calendar (around 18 ACE), Tiberius was keeping himself busy in Rome and Capri, and wasn't really of much influence in Sidon. His decision was completely understandable, as I would have much preferred an assignment in those two burgs myself, especially considering that the average temperature in midday Sidon hovered at over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

"It is decidedly sweltering," Spud moaned, as he mopped his forehead with his mantle, an ancient white scarf. From the zero degrees Celsius briskness of England's moors to the zero degrees Kelvin chill of deep space, Spud was much more at home in a cooler environment.

"It is 110 in the shade." I nodded, shaking my tunic to create a momentary breeze. I looked at my Ergal. The screen displayed a detailed map. "About two more kilometers due southwest."

Spud pulled his mantle over his head and I followed suit as we trudged forward on the dirt footpath under the blazing sun. I had hoped we could have M-fanned right in the town, but Gary felt our chances of discovery by a monitoring Andart were too great. Sure, we could invisible-ize, but if the Andarts had an unregistered holo scan pointed in the right direction, they might be able to pick up the Ergal activity and track us down.

Spud and I had bronzed our skin so we wouldn't look out of place, and our costume beards and mustaches looked genuine. Yes, plural. In ancient times in the Middle East, there were a lot of things that women just didn't do. So, I'd dressed up as a man. Come to think of it, in some of those countries, I'd do the same today.

Cursing Gary's caution, we plodded slowly onward in the baking sun for what seemed to be forever. The Phoenicians were smarter than we were. Most of them wisely opted to stay indoors and avoid the heat. We'd only passed two travelers, both going in the opposite direction, until we reached the Temple of Eshmoun, the Phoenician God of Healing, a kilometer north of the city. Alongside its entrance, blocking our path, stood a wizened old man with long gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Oops. So much for staying under the radar.

"Hail, journeymen," the elderly man greeted us, eyeing us from head to toe. "I am the Keeper of the Temple of Eshmoun. What brings you to our gates?"

Despite the high quality of our disguises, I was still uncomfortable under the man's intense gaze. I let Spud do the talking. His Phoenician was more passable and in a lower register than mine.

"Hail, neighbor," Spud responded. (I'm giving you the English translation, of course, guessing that most of you are even worse at Canaan dialects than me. Oh, and sorry about the stilted medieval dialogue. Phoenician is kinda short on slang.)

"I am Akbar from Berytus, and I walk with my brother Danel." My partner continued, "We are seeking our cousin, Sakarbaal, in East Sidon."

I know Spud chose Sakarbaal as a common Phoenician name, but, I was still annoyed. It was so hard to keep from giggling at the pun.

The aged gentleman nodded. "From which clan is he?"

"Manchester United,"7 I mumbled sotto voce, biting my lip to stay silent as Spud's heel met my shin. Yow! Okay, that worked.

"Cousin of Milkpilles," continued Spud, picking another common and funny-sounding name. This time, the pain in my leg made it much easier to maintain a straight face.

"Ah." The old man smiled and, still watching us intently with his bright hazel eyes, stepped aside. "Then you are nearing the end of your journey, Akbar and Danel. Go forward in good health." Acknowledging his blessing, we both bowed our heads and proceeded briskly down the path. I felt the Keeper's eyes boring into my back until the road curved and we were beyond his sight.

The path became much wider and well-trodden as we inched—or cubited8, ha, ha—closer to our goal.

As soon as we were out of earshot, Spud gave me an English earful. "You might have blown our cover! And, besides, it's football in Britain, not soccer."

As if I didn't know. I looked at him through narrowed lids. "Milk pills?"

Spud returned my glare and we both trudged silently for the next quarter hour. The sparse vegetation soon gave way to irrigated land, with fruits and vegetables in neat rows surrounding small cottages made of stone and fired brick. In the town, occasional oblivious pedestrians passed us in all directions, many carrying sacks or baskets of what seemed to be produce or other foodstuffs, and carefully balanced containers of water. I pressed the touch screen of my Ergal, now anamorphed into a knife and hidden in my clothing, and pulled a similar container from the folds of my tunic to drench my parched lips.

"Careful," whispered Spud, then grabbed the canteen from me and gulped the fresh water greedily. "Blistering desert."

I was about to grumble, "Ergal your own," when I spied a ramshackle structure a couple of hundred yards down the road.

"I believe that tumbledown edifice ahead should be our inn," Spud said without enthusiasm.

"Don't be a pessimist," I chided. "I bet it'll be a two star hotel."

Spud looked at me, incredulous. "Two stars?"

"Sure, you and me," I returned, grinning.

"Bollocks."

The last drops of water he poured from my canteen were most refreshing. On my sizzling scalp.

Several Ergaled shekels got us a small room with two other travelers on the first floor of the inn in the city center. We claimed a shaded corner away from the window and, after brushing a column of ants out of our spot, unrolled our blankets on the relatively cool, packed-dirt floor. Midday was fully upon us, and searching for our target would be futile with workers hiding indoors for shade and siesta. Spud sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing on bay leaves, and leaned against the brick wall, lost in thought. I lay on my blanket, one hand behind my head and the other brushing an annoyingly persistent fly off my face, and gazed up at the ragged wood ceiling beams that supported the cottage's upper floor, hoping that the insect life of this city didn't include termites. I hadn't intended to fall asleep, and wasn't sure that I really had, when I heard our two fellow guests in the far corner speaking softly in Aramaic.

Through the miracles of CANDI, my Ergal translated even when I was dreaming, and I recall being able to make out a few words.

"Three cubits … sunrise … bricks … masonry … Jupiter … Yeshua … death …"

Yeshua? Death? I struggled to wake up, and finally opened my eyes, only to find that our two roommates were gone. And so was Spud! His blanket rested untouched next to mine. Where did he go? Or, worse, where had he been taken?

The sun was now lower in the sky, and I could hear a growing hustle and bustle from the street outside. I debated whether I should wait here in case Spud was simply playing the bloodhound, or whether I should start planning a rescue. I finally decided that it wouldn't hurt to go and scope out the local territory a bit for a start.

Then the words I'd heard resonated once again in my memory. Yeshua. Could the men who'd been sitting a few feet from our blankets actually be the Andarts we were trying to catch? Nah. That would be too easy. But…

Cubits … bricks … masonry … They certainly sounded like they had something to do with construction. Gary had told us that Yeshua was likely to be working on a building site. And Jupiter, well Jupiter was King of the Roman gods—the Roman Zeus—but Jupiter could also be the planet. Andarts could have been discussing how to avoid our outpost at Io, one of Jupiter's moons, when they made their escape. After killing Yeshua. Death—

I spun around and grabbed his muscular forearm, twisting it and sending its owner flat on his back on his blanket. With an angry "Ow!" Spud pulled his arm away and rubbed the tender tendons that I'd strained.

"You shouldn't have snuck up on me like that! I have razor-sharp reflexes," I countered. "And where the heck were you, anyway?"

"False alarm," Spud admitted ruefully. "I heard our friends over there conversing and thought we had a lead."

"No?"

Spud shook his head. "Wrong Yeshua."

"Oh." I frowned. "Did you hear something about death?"

He nodded. "Apparently, one of the men has inherited some property on the outskirts of town on which he wants to build. Their Yeshua is an old squatter, living on the land, so they have to encourage him to move on, one way or another."

I winced. "I don't think I want to know any more. I know it's not our mission, but shouldn't we, uh, help this other Yeshua?"

"We can't," Spud reminded me. "You know the rules. Observe and Preserve. No interference in local environments unless it's an official assignment. And you know the punishment if we do."

I shivered involuntarily. "It wasn't the most pleasant hour of my life." I'd already felt the wrath of the Omega Archon's strict governance and suffered the unrelenting agony of the burning flames of Hell. My sentence had only been for thirty minutes, but I'd resolved never to find myself "in stir" again. I stood up and stretched, trying to relieve the sudden tension in my muscles. "So, what's our next step?"

"Gary briefed us that Bar Maryam is likely in construction work of some kind," Spud suggested. "We could get a position with one of the local crews and see what we could dig up?"

"Ha, ha." I shook my head. "No … it won't work. These guys are real craftsmen. We'd never be able to look legit with just upload learning." My eyes followed a rat as it scurried from one end of our room to the other. "I know! Roman building inspectors."

"Say again?" Spud looked confused.

"We can pretend to be Roman building inspectors. Checking on permits, taxes, titles, all that crap. Feared by all the locals. I'll bet they'd be happy to give up Bar Maryam just so we stay off their backs." I nodded at Spud's smooth hands. "We would make more convincing bureaucrats than tradesmen."

"Good point." Spud chewed his lip. "In fact, that might possibly work. How is your Latin, Danielis?

I smiled as I set my Ergal for the ancient language. "Praepara, Arcturus."

* * *

A few Ergal-facilitated additions to our costumes and we were 'praepared'. Pretending to be Roman estate and building inspectors and revenue collectors, we spent the next two days scouring the city. I don't believe we missed visiting a workshop, construction site, or warehouse in the entire town of Sidon. By the second day, we had accumulated hundreds of shekels in bribes from anxious landowners, but, unfortunately, few real leads. None of the builders and tradesmen we met admitted to knowing a Yeshua Bar Maryam, itinerant craftsman from Judea. If we didn't get lucky soon, an Andart or Andarts were certainly going to beat us to our target!

Our next stop was a large structure being erected on an isolated lot near the edge of town. The base of the building was made of stone, granite, and marble. A wood frame rose out of the base, within which a cadre of brawny masons were laying kiln-fired bricks.

There was no well-dressed landowner at this site, so Spud approached the idlest of the workers, whom we assumed was the supervisor, and, in Latin, introduced us as visiting Romans. The supervisor visibly trembled, protested in Canaan that his Latin was poor, and, before we could begin our audit spiel, reached into a ragged pocket and pulled out a handful of shekels. Spud rolled his eyes, and I raised my hand to indicate our disinterest in his proffered funds.

Sighing, Spud, in Phoenician, asked the anxious man if he had heard of a Yeshua Bar Maryam. He clicked his tongue and raised his eyes and eyebrows, the local gesture for "no." But, after Spud tried describing the young man's likely appearance, the supervisor nodded, and pointed a dirty thumb at a sun-bronzed lithe youth and a wizened old man toiling in the hot sun several yards away, adding, "The Teacher. He is there."

"Gratias," I added in my lowest register, as Spud and I walked over to the two men. Close up, the young man looked familiar, though taller than he had been in the holo we'd viewed at Earth Core, and now sporting a thin mustache and beard. On his knees, his forehead glistening with sweat in the still oppressive heat, he was carefully laying bricks alongside the gray-haired worker, who, perspiration streaming down his face, halted his own labors every few moments to check on the work of his apprentice. Spud and I naturally assumed that the elderly mason had to be "the Teacher," and we greeted him by name, first in Canaan, then Aramaic.

The old man chuckled, and, shook his head. "My knowledge is limited to bricks and stones," he replied softly in Aramaic, as he nodded at the youth. "My young friend, he knows the word of God."

The youth stood up, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his tunic. "Saul is too kind. I have still much to learn. And much to do. What seek you, gentlemen?"

"I am Akbar of Berytus, and this is my brother Danel. Yeshua Bar Maryam?"

The young man's eyes widened and he instinctively pulled away. Spud leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Do not be afraid, we are here to protect you." Observing that the gazes of all the workers by now were focused on our foursome and fearing that their intervention might prevent us from leaving with our quarry, Spud gently took Bar Maryam by the elbow and guided him away in the direction of the street, while announcing loudly, "Servus illicitus9! You will come with us immediately and be brought before the magistrate!"

Hearing Spud's words, the old man stood up to his full height, towering over Spud's six feet. Saul grabbed the youth by the shoulders, breaking Spud's hold on Yeshua's arm, and tore him away. Glaring at us with flashing eyes, he cried in Aramaic, an invitation to his fellow masons, "Roman invaders! We are free men! You shall no more molest our people! We will fight you all!"

I nudged Spud, but he had already noticed that the rest of the bricklayers had risen from their posts and were inching closer to us. Somehow, I didn't think their approaching us was simply due to friendliness or curiosity. Maybe we would have been better received as tradesmen after all.

As the circle of men now surrounding us grew tighter and tighter, Spud and I looked at each other in desperation. My left hand slid through the folds of my tunic and grabbed my Ergal, wrapping my fingers around the activator on its handle, and—

A cry to attack shook the air, and the men lunged at us. I shouted at Spud, "Vola!" and, to escape our hunters, we both faked a running start and leaped up high over the ring of men. I levved a few seconds at six feet, then dove down feet first to strike two masons unconscious. Spud, show-off that he is, did an arm-stand forward somersault pike and took out three more. One man came up behind me and tried to grab me in a half-nelson, but I threw him over my head and kneed him towards a newly-built brick ledge, which shattered and blanketed him as he slept. I was grateful for those months of practice in the sparring ring with Spud at Mingferplatoi. A few flying karate moves later, Spud and I had knocked out all the men save for our target and his elderly protector.

We were lucky that our out-of-the-way location prevented bystanders from witnessing our acrobatics; passers-by who might not only ask uncomfortable questions about our combat skills, but leap into the fray to help their unconscious brethren. Alone, the old man would be easy to handle now. We could simply stun him and cover him with an E-shield10, blocking his movement and sensation, until we were ready to X-fan to more secure ground with our charge.

"Yeshua," I ordered. "Please, listen to us. Move away from the elder, and you will be safe."

"I am safe," the youth said quietly. "Not even the blade Saul rests against my back can make me afraid."

Blade?!!! My partner eased over to the side of the Teacher to scout out said weapon. As he spied it, Spud's artificially bronzed face turned pasty white under the tanning effect. He looked over at me with alarm.

Puzzled, I too peeked behind Bar Maryam as the elder watched me with a self-satisfied smile. Oh my God!

The sharp point of the knife was only a centimeter long and extended from the barrel of a much longer, and much more dangerous, late-model Zygan stun gun.

"I should thank you for helping me with the, uh, competition," the elder said in modern English, nodding at the supine men around us. "It would have drawn too much uncontrollable attention for me to … take care of Yeshua with an audience."

"We're an audience," I cried angrily, before realizing the implications of his statement. I tried not to look chagrined … or alarmed.

"Hands up, please. You know the routine." The old man slid his thumb over the trigger button of his gun.

Reluctantly, we raised our hands above our heads. If only I could reach my Ergal, we could X-fan—

"You move, you're dead," the elder instructed ominously.

Bzzt. The shot came from the stun gun. We turned and saw that the youth had been frozen in his standing position, his head bowed and his hands together in a gesture of prayer. The elder stepped away and moved into position for a clear shot at us. Now I looked alarmed. I knew the setting he was going to use this time was not going to be stun.

A loud crack came from my left. No, Spud! Don't! The old man quickly turned in the direction of the noise and fired a red beam at the source of the sound. I heard the burning hiss of laser against flesh. My partner, my friend!

But, thank the heavens, it was not Spud who'd been hit. The shot had, however, given Spud the opportunity to leap up with his lip-splitting batitsu kick and knock the weapon out of the elder's hands. It discharged again, this time striking and completely dissolving a juniper bush with a loud sizzle. I jumped on Saul and got a lock on his neck. The elder began gasping; my persistent pressure on his windpipe and his carotid arteries was turning his leathery skin to blue. Spud quickly Ergaled himself a stun gun and stunned the elder just as he slipped through my arms and collapsed unconscious onto the ground.

We both turned to check on Yeshua. The youth was still frozen in his position of prayer. Beyond him, picking up the remains of a shattered marble statue, we saw the elderly Keeper we had run into outside the Temple of Eshmoun a few days before, looking surprisingly unflustered. I noted that a corner of his tunic had been singed, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear.

"A thousand apologies, Akbar, Danel," the Keeper said in Phoenician. Oblivious to the scattered bodies laying about the construction site, he calmly continued to put the broken pieces of the statue in a large sack. "Philosir the Priest will not now have his image of Shapash to grace his entrance, I fear, until next year's harvest."

The Keeper's clear hazel eyes looked intently into each of ours and then at the praying youth. Nodding at Yeshua, the Keeper picked up his sack with a sigh and threw it over his bent shoulders. "I shall have to commission Bodmelqart the Sculptor to make him yet another," he added with a rueful smile as he trudged off the lot onto the footpath in front of the acreage.

Spud and I looked at each other, totally taken aback. The Keeper seemed calmly oblivious to the unusual events that had occurred around him. How was that possible? "Thank you," I finally essayed in my stumbling Canaan towards the departing cleric. He did not turn back to look at us again, but, he did wave his free hand, from which his gold ring glistened in the sun.

Spud seemed equally puzzled by the Keeper's behavior, thought I'm sure he was as grateful as me that we had all come out of the showdown alive. As we, both frowning, watched the Keeper disappear around the bend of the road, I remembered that Yeshua was still standing a few feet from us, frozen.

"Oh, God, we'd better unstun him," I said to Spud. Spud nodded and pulled out his stun gun.

"Don't worry, it doesn't hurt," I said reassuringly in Aramaic as Spud aimed at the youth and fired the wave that would unstun and unfreeze him. To our alarm, the young man didn't move, but continued to stand immobile in his position of prayer.

"Yeshua!" I laid my hand gently on his shoulder.

The young man was mumbling barely audible syllables. "Adonay Elohim atah hachilota lehar'ot et-avdecha et-godlecha ve'et-yadecha hachazakah asher mi-El bashamayim uva'arets asher-ya'aseh chema'aseycha vechigvurotecha."

"Yeshua, are you okay?" I looked over at Spud with concern.

"Deuteronomy 3:24. It's from the Torah." Spud translated from the Hebrew. "'O God, Lord! You have begun to show me Your greatness and Your display of power. What Force is there in heaven or earth who can perform deeds and mighty acts as You do?'" Seeing my admiration, he added, "British public schools …"

"You see, gentlemen, I have no fear." The words from Yeshua were now in Aramaic once again. "Faith will ever vanquish fear. For we walk by faith, not by sight, and He is with us always."

The young man ambled over and crouched down close to Saul, gently brushing a lock of unruly gray hair from the elder's blood-, sweat-, and dirt-caked forehead. "Greater is He that is in you, than he who is in the world," he whispered softly into his mentor's ear. The youth then stood, and, after quickly gathering a few items from his work area into a makeshift cloth knapsack, dashed off towards the path to Tyre, following the footsteps recently lain by the Keeper.

I turned to Spud, "We're just going to let him go?"

"Well, we've caught and stopped our Andart, and preserved the timeline. That was our assignment." Spud gestured at the immobile elder. "Anyway, I rather think Yeshua's got someone watching out for him, you know."

I snorted. "Yeah, us."

Spud's gaze continued to follow Yeshua until he disappeared in the distance. I almost didn't hear him return a "yeah."

Chapter 4

Mission Accomplished?

Site wrap-up took over an hour. We had to check each of the bricklayers and made sure their injuries were not life-threatening, as well as repair as much of the damage to the property from our fight as possible. Our pedagogues at Mingferplatoi had stressed this rule repeatedly: take great care when you're on assignment in the past, because an unexpected or unnecessary death could disturb the timeline and wreak havoc with the future. Our future.

Grunting, I levved a large clay pot to a prominent position in the center of the work area in which we emptied our pockets of all our shekels to repay the masons for their, uh, inconvenience. I observed that a few of the men were starting to regain consciousness, and I urged Spud to hurry. We wouldn't want to have to fight Round Two.

Spud surveyed the scene quickly and agreed. "Appears acceptable. I think we are finished. Let us tractor our Andart back to Core for questioning. And then, well, I am rather keen to have a shower."

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with a grin. Amen to that!

* * *

"Huzzah, huzzah!" Everett Weaver greeted us as we entered Earth Core Station with our prisoner.

"Ev, you are such a geek," I groaned. "Got a holding suite ready?"

Everett, scowling, waved a hand as the altitudinous brothers Dieter and Derek appeared silently beside us. "'Bill and Ted' here'll take care of him."

The tight-lipped siblings took the still-frozen elder by the armpits and carried him off to the holding cells, I mean, suites.

"Bill and Ted?" Spud asked, puzzled.

"The Bizarro Doppelgangers", I explained as I tugged him by the elbow in the opposite direction. "Come on. Gary's waiting for our report."

Still decked in our Phoenician duds, we met Gary in his elegant office, and crashed in his plush leather chairs. Layers of dust flew off of us as we sat down, to Gary's barely concealed dismay.

We briefed Gary on the events of the past few days, which, due to our having been in a time loop, had lasted only about half an hour in Earth Core time. A time loop is a great perk of time travel, by the way. Think of holding a long string, one end in each hand. If you bring your hands together, you have a loop hanging below them. When we journeyed back in time to Sidon, we traveled down and up the longer loop, while Gary and Ev, who remained in the present, crossed from one hand to the other. We were able to spend over two days in Phoenicia, yet return to Earth Core in our own time less than an hour after we had left.

Ev had automatically uploaded our Ergal recordings of the events when we arrived back at Core, so there wasn't really much we could tell Gary that he didn't already know. I so wish we could use Ergal logs to avoid all our boring meetings.

We did have a few questions, however. Who was the old man we had captured? One of Benedict's Andarts, of course, but was he a solo player? Was there a chance that Benedict had had more than one Andart, or attack, planned in Sidon? If so, Yeshua might still be in danger. I hated to bring up the suggestion, but perhaps we needed to go back to Sidon for a few more days.

Gary held up his hand. "We'll know more after we NI11 Sutherland, your captive. Meanwhile, we've now got Bar Maryam protected throughout his known lifetime with a temporal vector shield."

My jaw dropped. Temporal vector shields, a Zygan defense barrier that prevents unauthorized access to a designated slice of time, were out of our league here in the boonies of our galaxy. Not even Quadrant Chiefs were authorized or trained to implement temporal vector shields, much less Heads of Zygint Field Stations on primitive planets like Earth.

"We've already discovered that Sutherland is one of Benedict's lieutenants," Gary continued. "He should be able to provide Zygint with a wealth of information about Benedict's plans." Gary sat forward and looked directly at us. "That's where you come in."

I didn't like the sound of that. From the expression on Spud's face, I could see he was equally unenthusiastic.

Gary chose to ignore our discomfort. "Central has decided that the interrogation is best done at Headquarters," he explained, "so, we'll have Sutherland ready for your transport to Zyga in half an hour."

I rolled my eyes. Spud's prediction had been right. In the end, we'd only have enough time to hit the showers.

* * *

My two-seater Zoom starcruiser had been expanded to create a sealed cell for one behind the cockpit. One Andart prisoner. We would be transporting Sutherland in that cell to Zygan Intelligence Central Headquarters on Mikkin, just a couple of miles from our old stomping grounds—literally—at Mingferplatoi.

After a quick bath, I slipped back into my regular uniform of jeans and tank-top and met Spud at the Earth Core hangar. The trip to Zyga would take us about three hours, even at our autopilot's thousands of light-years-per-hour, so Spud came prepared for the ride with a briefcase full of yellowed papers printed in tiny fonts.

"You've got something against illustrations?" I couldn't resist ribbing.

He returned my serve. "I no longer need them to be able to read."

Ouch.

Ward Burton was putting the finishing touches on the preparations for our transport. Through the aft viewscreens of our ship, we could spy Sutherland seated quietly in his solo prison behind us. Shorn of his facial hair, Saul looked substantially younger than the wizened old man, but still middle-aged, over 30. I expected to see daggers flying from his eyes aimed at us, but, surprisingly, he kept looking down, almost immobile in the back-seat chamber, staring at his hands.

"He can't see out," Wart explained to us as we approached the vehicle.

"That's probably all for the best," I said, relieved. "He's locked in, right?"

"Tight as a drum," Wart reassured me. "E-shield."

I nodded, then observed that the Sputnik dent on my fender had finally been repaired, and broke into a grin. "Thanks, Wart. Owe ya one."

"Anytime." He grinned back and gave us a combination wave and salute. "Good work, guys, and good luck!"

I waved back and eased into the left front seat behind nav controls. As soon as Spud had pulled down his door, I ordered, "Engage." The ship came to life, our holo-guides popping up to surround us just in front of the fore viewscreen.

"Zyga" was all I needed to say, and the Zoom cruiser invisible-ized, levved, and rotated to face the massive warehouse door that led to the decrepit alley. Wart had always waxed nostalgic about the days ships could just lev out of the roof of the warehouse, before Earth sent up GPS satellites. Now, though our ship was invisible and couldn't be spotted by Earth's primitive radar technology, the warehouse's old hangar gate was clearly observable from the stratospheric cameras.

"Those satellites can see every time the door opens or closes," Wart had explained. "We sure don't need a Google Earth fan with too much time on his hands counting when and how often we launch, you know."

So, a few years ago, the metal side gate leading into the usually deserted alley had become the new hangar door. As our ship approached it, it rolled open with a grinding crunch that sent the Chidurian rat guards scurrying away in all directions. We floated horizontally into the passageway and then, powered by our whisper-quiet cold fusion generator, smoothly rose into the sky.

As we zoomed past Mars, I waved at Deimos Outpost for good luck. That's kind of a superstition of mine. I do it every time I fly by. I didn't expect a comm back from the guard team on watch. Yoshi and Ajani were probably catching up on their sleep, now that the temporal vector shield was in place to protect Yeshua from additional "Sutherlands".

Once we'd cleared the asteroid belt, I leaned back in my jumpseat and stretched my long arms and legs. In the adjacent seat, Spud had pulled out a few of those monographs that he'd hoped to peruse during the long voyage, and offered me a pick.

The most interesting article of the group was a report on "Determining Time of Death via the Measurement of Body Decomposition Parameters". I passed. I don't know why Spud even bothered reading those boring things anyway. He could directly upload tons more information in a tenth of the time. But, he was a bit of a Luddite at heart, and would sometimes opt to do things the old-fashioned way. I, on the other hand, have never much cared for tradition. In my experience, it's just an excuse to keep the risk-averse from trying something new.

I don't often get a chance just to veg, what with the twelve-hour days we put in on the set, and so, gazing out at the planets as we maneuvered through our solar system, I realized how much I'd missed being out in space. In two days, we were due back at the studio for our last week of filming for our first season. Maybe after that, I'd take a couple of days to tour the skies before making my duty-bound pit stop with the family in Maryland.

If "Bulwark" was renewed for Season 2, I'd have to be back at work on the set in July. I'd still have a couple of months to pick up the trail of my detective work tracking John's disappearance. The records of John's assignments for Zygint were unfortunately classified and top secret. Even as a catascope, I didn't have access to that level of security. Not digitally nor in person at Earth Core or Zygint Central. During our internship, I'd spent most of my off-duty hours researching John's activities, especially his projects for Zygint in the year before his disappearance. All I'd been able to discover was the name of his last mission: Project Helios. Once on hiatus, I was determine to resume the search full-time and find out what--

A flash caught my eye for an instant. I nudged Spud and pointed at our fore viewscreen towards Io, Jupiter's somewhat habitable moon where Zygint had our guard outpost for the outer planets, but neither of us could spy anything more. I sat back in my seat with a shrug. Maybe I'd just seen one of those sparkly things—floaters—that drift in the back of your eye, but, no, there it was again. Spud saw it this time, too. We looked at each other, and I engaged comm, crypto, of course.

"Io, Io Outpost, everything okay?"

Static. Were Hsin and Rawiri asleep, too? Or had something happened to keep them from responding? Like an Andart attack?

"Io Outpost, please respond." I tried not to betray my anxiety.

Static.

"Broadband," I instructed the comm system to no avail. Still no answer from Io. This was very disturbing.

I looked at Spud. Now what? Obviously, we should go investigate and help our colleagues if they were in trouble. But, we were in the middle of a pretty important task ourselves. I nodded at our prisoner in the back.

"Do not even consider it," Spud admonished, then commed. "Deimos, Core, Condition four at Io. Yellow. Wha—"

I had swung our ship around in the shadow of Ganymede, another of Jupiter's moons, to get a closer look. Spud shut off comm and scowled at me.

"What in the devil are you doing?" He was clearly angry.

"It'll take the Core team a few minutes to get out here. I'm not leaving Io alone until back-up arrives."

"You do realize this could be a trap?" Spud argued.

I checked the scan holo to my right again. "Locator shows we're clear for miles. I'll move off right away if we get an incursion."

Spud didn't seem reassured. "It may be too late."

CRASH! We pitched forward, our ship somersaulting wildly like a football, an American football, rolling down a hill. Grav adjusters barely kept me from being knocked out of my jumpseat and slamming into the ship roof, but Spud, a few inches taller, wasn't quite so lucky, grunting loudly as his head cracked against the side windscreen.

I struggled back into my seat and tractored myself in, my eyes glued to the scan holo which still showed no incursions. "Dark matter turbulence?!" I shouted as we continued to pitch.

"Benedict turbulence!" returned Spud, pointing behind us.

I turned to look, and to my shock, saw that the cell behind us where we had so carefully secreted Sutherland was now empty!

"Where is he …?" I gasped, hoping against hope that Sutherland would somehow magically reappear in his seat.

Our navs finally stabilized us enough so that we slowed down and were rocking gently forward like a sailboat adrift. Neptune loomed ahead. We had traveled way above the speed limit for this section of our solar system and had left Io far behind. And Sutherland.

"Snap. The trap has sprung. And the rat cannot escape," snorted Spud.

"But, he did escape."

"We're the rat, Rush." Spud sighed, "And—"

"Rush, Escott, you hear us?" Comm barked with a Teutonic accent.

Reluctantly, I answered, "Yes, Dieter. Where are you?"

"Just made Io Outpost. Everything's okay here. Hsin and Rawiri are fine. What is going on? Where are you?"

The dark side of Neptune had bathed us in shadows. I could barely make out the pursing of Spud's lips or the daggers in his eyes. My eyes were drawn once again to the empty chamber behind us from which our prisoner had slipped through our—my—hands. And it was my fault…

It had been my fault on Sugarloaf, too. John had taken me and the boys for a hike up to the top of the Maryland hill the autumn before he left. The Appalachian Trail winding through our nearby forests was shaded by a rainbow of colors each fall, maple and oak leaves displaying infinite hues of yellow, orange, and red. The boys were young, and just barely able to handle the hikers' path up to the first lookout, but I was being tempted by the steeper slope off the trail which I knew I could climb, rock by rock, to the mountain's top.

When John took Billy behind a tree to pee for a moment, I yielded to the temptation and left Bobby standing alone on the path as I clambered up the rock wall, so appealingly inviting me to climb its face. Bobby, then only around ten years old, must have been more afraid of being abandoned in the woods than risking the climb, because I soon heard his voice a few feet below me on the slope. "Wait up!"

I looked down behind me and saw that Bobby was precariously hanging by two loose rocks at least forty feet off the ground. I blanched. If he fell, he could be seriously hurt—or worse. Attempting to reverse course and go down and help him, I slipped off the ledge and slid several rough feet down the slope, barely missing knocking him off of his unsteady perch myself. I managed to stop my fall close to his trembling body, and tried unsuccessfully to guide his feet to a safe support. As he shifted, his grip on the rocks gave way and he tumbled screaming down the hill towards a large boulder below. I didn't dare look, fearing his head would be shattered against the sharp, massive granite. When I finally opened my eyes, there was Bobby, his bulky down jacket shredded and tattered, but his body intact and his grin genuine as he looked up at me from the safety of John's arms.

I kept apologizing as I sheepishly made my way down the slope, grateful that it was John and not Connie or George waiting for me below. John seemed to know how bad I felt and didn't bother with a lecture. He did, however, give me some valuable advice. One, if you're in trouble, ask for help. And two, first survive, then face the music. Lesson learned.

"Location, Rush, where are you?" Derek repeated.

I didn't turn on comm for my answer. "In deep doo-doo. Not enough light-years away."

I knew where I had to go and what I had to do first.

* * *

Nav must've read my mind, because a split second later, we went into hyperdrive even before I'd finished saying the words. Now, normally, we're not supposed to go faster-than-light speeds until we've passed Eris orbit, but there was no way I was heading back to our team on Earth or letting them find me, having failed so miserably at my task.

"I know I'll be sorry I asked," Spud said with a ladle-full of irony, "but where are we going?"

"Zyga. We need some help."

Spud was incredulous. "You're afraid to go back to Earth Core after this disaster, and you're going to Zygint Central? They'll send you straight to the Omega Archon."

I shook my head. "That's not what I said. I'm going to get help. Trust me."

I won't repeat Spud's response. I didn't understand all of the words, especially the Cockney slang, but there were a few I recognized that even I don't feel comfortable telling you. With the angry silence so thick I could slice it, I had no choice but to settle in with the easiest Spud monograph I could find, and I spent the next couple of hours reluctantly learning about "Analysis of Fast-Acting Poisons in Human Excreta." Somehow, considering our situation, it seemed an appropriate subject.

* * *

Warp-down usually happens automatically as we approach Mayall II, Zyga's blue dwarf star. But this time, instead of comming with Zyga Traffic Control, I'd instructed nav to approach our destination invisibly in stealth mode, using an entry paradigm I'd picked up on the "black market" at Mingferplatoi.

"You're making me nauseated," Spud complained as our cruiser pitched back and forth on a jagged path to avoid guard buoys.

"They're not squibs," I returned, referring to the FX explosives that blow fake bullet holes in our ship on the set. "If we hit one, we could actually get blown up."

Spud glowered at me without saying another word.

In minutes, thanks to the paradigm, we were at Zyga apogee, and began our size adjustments. Most of Zyga's inhabitants are substantially larger than typical creatures on Earth. So we'd blend in with the residents, we enlarged (or in Zygan argot, 'mega'd) our ship and ourselves by a power of six. Still invisible, we eased down to the coordinates I'd designated, a Kharybdian Enclave near the West Pole.

As the nucleus of the Zygan Federation, the planet Zyga welcomes millions of temporary and permanent settlers from subject civilizations in the known universe. Many Zygfed citizens opt to live in Zyga's two largest cities, Mikkin and Aheya, but others prefer domiciles in isolated neighborhoods called Enclaves that duplicate the conditions of the residents' home planets.

Some of these planets are Universe-renowned for their picturesque landscapes, awe-inspiring museums and monuments, and refreshing resorts. The planet Kharybdis unfortunately isn't one of them. Kharybdis is famous for its ever-present dense layer of grimy nimbus clouds that drown the planet's few islands on a daily basis in torrents of rain. I really thought that Spud, having grown up in wet and chilly England, would have an affinity for the Kharybdian climate, so well duplicated in its Zygan Enclave. No such luck. Spud's grumbling began the minute he exited our parked cruiser and stepped into the adjacent footpath's ankle-deep mud. Cursing, Spud micro'ed our ship and stuffed it into his rucksack. Singularly unenthusiastic, he set off slogging behind me through the mire towards our destination.

"I would much prefer to be suffering through Ivanhoe at Covent Garden …," was the only audible comment from Spud during our trek.

A spiky drizzle bored sharply into our bare faces, already reddened from the cold. Despite having donned Ergal-ed raincoats, we were both drenched and dirty by the time we reached the coral door of our former classmate Eikhus's thal, a ochre structure that resembled a giant conch shell.

Nerea, a sparkling clear, animated whirlpool, answered the door, exclaiming in high-pitched Zygan, "Shiloh, William!"

Her spray was refreshing, and helped rinse off some of the mud from our clothes. I squeaked back quickly, "Shhh … can we come in?"

"Sure," she misted, opening the door wide for us to enter. "You need to see Eikhus, I suppose."

"The sooner the better," I nodded as we stepped into the guest level of their home. I lowered my voice. "The B-man."

Nerea paled. Which was difficult as she was transparent as it was. It had been less than two years since one of Benedict's fusion torpedo terrorist attacks had destroyed the Kharybdian city where her parental tributaries had flowed. The heat released from the bomb's massive explosion had instantly evaporated all the aquatic life forms in her now decimated village, including most of her family. Somber, she led us into the sala, a cavern-like sitting room, and offered us some drinks which we gratefully accepted. We sat on moist cochils which resembled truncated stalagmites and waited for her brother.

Eikhus, a mighty vortex, arrived within the hour. Not wishing to have to dry off again, I slipped through his welcoming arms, but Spud wasn't totally able to avoid his soggy hug, to my fervent amusement and Spud's obvious annoyance. Nerea brought us up a tray of thikia, and, munching the tasty plants, I gave Eikhus a rundown of recent events.

"We don't know where he went," I concluded about Saul, "or how he went."

"I suspect it was some type of time-traveling X-fan," Spud added. "But the cell was supposed to have been E-shielded by Earth Core."

A thought occurred to me. I turned to Spud. "You don't think he went back to Sidon?"

Spud shook his head. "Not with that temporal vector shield in place. It would be impossible for him to penetrate its perimeter."

"Then we're back to square one."

Eikhus, ever more and more somber, threw out a wet hand. "Earth has temporal vector shields?"

"No …," I responded, brushing the mist off my windbreaker. "We didn't think so, anyway, until now."

"That is curious," Eikhus said. "Temporal vector shields are very complex, tricky to install."

"We figure someone from Central must have put it on," Spud continued. "After they heard about Benedict's plans for temporal attacks. After Saul had gotten to Yeshua."

Eikhus looked at us, concerned. "How many Andarts do you think Benedict's planted for this campaign?"

Spud shook his head. "We do not know. Nor where."

"Right now, we need to find one. Saul." I corrected, "Sutherland."

"Sutherland?!"Eikhus misted us both once again. "You are serious?"

"Gary informed us he was one of Benedict's lieutenants," said Spud.

"One? He's third in command of Benedict's operation! If Sutherland was the Andart, it wasn't just a small-scale guerilla attack. We're talking prime mission."

Spud and I looked at each other in alarm. I frowned, "What in the world—in the universe—was he hoping to achieve on Earth?" A small planet at the edge of a small galaxy that was still in cosmic diapers.

Spud looked equally troubled, and, barred from indulging in his stinky tobacco habit in the company of the Kharybdians, grabbed a stylus from his pocket and chewed it as he pondered.

"I think we should comm the gang—emergency meeting," Eikhus stated with an urgent squeak. "These are deep waters."

"Good idea," I nodded.

Eikhus drew in his limbs and now, more cylindrical, started rotating fiercely, forming a torrential waterspout on his couch.

Spud pulled his hoodie over his head and headed for the opposite corner of the room. His back to us, he huddled to avoid the spray. I sighed as I wiped the moisture from my eyes. Sometimes Spud can be so rude!

After a few minutes of spinning, Eikhus wound down and faced me. "They'll meet us at Matshi's kalyvi. It'll be safer there." He glanced at Nerea. "Let's go."

Eikhus added a few words to his sister in Kharybdian, then pointedly turned and flung a sheet of water at Spud's back. "No offense taken."

Dripping from head to toe, Spud reluctantly followed us out of the thal, pausing only to thank Nerea on our behalf for her hospitality.

We set off once again along the banks of a muddy rivulet, and, shivering, trudged slowly sloshing towards the outskirts of Eikhus' village. I broke the chilly silence. "Where are we headed?" I asked Eikhus once we were out of earshot (and mist-shot) of passers-by.

"The Chidurian Enclave," Eikhus said. "They'll be waiting."

Spud's tone was dry, unlike the rest of him. "I dread to ask, but who are 'they'?"

"A few of your old friends," Eikhus returned with a wry smile. "And a few of your old enemies."

* * *

An hour later, Eikhus had brought us to a hundred-foot waterfall that crashed into a turbulent whirlpool below the small, slippery ledge under our feet. Behind the splashing cascade was a small opening, a tiny cave that led to a dark, narrow tunnel, which, lit by our Ergals, seemed to go on forever. Eikhus led the way, and Spud gladly walked behind me, as far away from Eikhus as possible, as we squeezed single file through the winding, cramped passage. With every step, the ground below us became drier and drier, save for the moisture of Eikhus's occasional sweat balls. Our Ergals kept us bathed in halos of light, and we marched forward like incandescent ants.

"And we're not M-fanning in to the Chidurian Enclave why?" Spud asked, irritated.

Eikhus hesitated. "I'm not exactly persona grata there."

"How does that not surprise me."

"Spud!" I scolded. Eikhus's expulsion from Mingferplatoi was still a painful subject. The Kharybdian's abrupt eruption after learning of Benedict's devastating raid on his home planet had almost drowned two classmates—and had led to questions about his solidity under pressure and his fitness to be a Zygint operative. Reminding Eikhus of those humiliating events was not very kind at all. Spud did sometimes tend to be a little deficient in his social skills … and his empathy. Besides, he should know that M-fanning could leave unwanted tracks, in case our colleagues at Zygint Central developed a yen to locate us for being AWOL.

After another hour of hiking, we climbed above ground and found ourselves behind a field of Sabras, tall cactus-like trees, inside the periphery of Zyga's Chidurian Enclave, avoiding detection—we hoped. The planet Chiduri, located at the tip of Orion's sword, is noted for its parched desert climate, baked by Hatsiya's three suns. A testament to Zygan bioecological technology, the Chidurian Enclave was, unfortunately, as hot and dry as the planet Chiduri itself. I began to long for the relative chill of desert Sidon. One glance at Spud's face revealed that he was equally distressed by the literally hellish conditions.

We'd ditched our parkas and raingear and Ergaled ourselves into beige hooded robes. The blistering heat now actually made us grateful for Eikhus's cooling perspiration, and we stayed close by our companion for the last kilometer of our journey as we crept down deserted back alleys and dusty roads.

To reach Matshi's kalyvi, his cave-like dwelling, we would unfortunately need to cross some busy streets. In order to avoid the curious gazes of crab-like Chidurian pedestrians, Eikhus misted himself on us, with Spud's grudging approval. Looking appropriately sweaty for a pair of tourists to the Enclave, we made our way to the kalyvi across the crowded thoroughfares, dodging combatively-driven six-wheeled autogamils. Chidurian drivers are among the most aggressive in the Universe, which is also why many of Zyga's fighter pilots are Chidurian.

Fortunately, we arrived at our destination in one piece. Except for Eikhus of course, who was still dispersed on us as scattered droplets. Matshi, a seven-foot crustacean sporting a mauve Chidurian anorak that draped from his cephalothorax to his biramous appendages, answered our knock and led us into the kalyvi with solely a nod. The moist coolness of the cave was a sharp contrast to the desert outside, and Eikhus was quickly able to merge into a slightly less viscous version of himself. We crawled underground down a long circular passageway for what seemed like several storeys, passing closed doors along the way. By the time we reached our meeting room, Eikhus had grown back to nearly his full height and density.

My jaw dropped as we entered. Seated around a large table were some of Mingferplatoi's most illustrious drop-outs: Ulenem the Assassin of Orion Alpha, Setsei and Suthsi of Ytra, Nephil Stratum of Syneph, Sarion the Comic of Megara. So many classmates I hadn't seen since my early days of catascope training almost two years before.

"Magnificent," Spud muttered with no little irony. "I've died and gone to juvie."

Matshi wasn't as diplomatic as Eikhus. He faced Spud with a sneer. "I see you've still got a rod up your—"

"Thank you," Eikhus interjected quickly, soaking Matshi's robes. He turned to face the group. "Thank you all for coming."

Murmurs of greetings in five different languages came our way. I responded with the Zygan squeaks expressing friendship and gratitude, and nudged Spud to take an empty seat next to mine at the table. He forced a smile and mumbled a half-hearted Zygan, "Hello."

Matshi offered us mugs of soothing Chidurian ale to sip as we began to tell our story. A drop of Chidurian ale is reported to not only refresh tired travelers like us, but repair mitochondrial breakdown in muscle cells and enhance muscular development. The drink is like 'roids in a bottle. And the effect lasts for months. That's why the ale is a budget-buster outside of Chiduri and its Enclave. Chidurians serving as soldiers and guards throughout Zygfed, who can't afford even a sip, speak longingly of returning home and indulging once again in their native nectar.

Well indulged, and appropriately grateful, Spud and I related the singular events and experiences of the past few days. After filling in the group, I summed it up. "So, we've absolutely got to find Sutherland."

"You mean Benedict," Nephil Stratum said, her pearly nebulous cloud-like tufts shimmering as she spoke.

Maybe her Ergal had mistranslated? "Sutherland," I repeated.

"No, I mean Benedict," she insisted. "If what you say is true, that your E-shield was breached, it's Benedict. Getting his buddy out of trouble."

Spud shook his head. "There is no loyalty among thieves."

I jabbed him in the arm, and nodded at Nephil Stratum. "I think you've got something there. Benedict grabs Sutherland to keep him from spilling his guts."

Perched on a tall stool that dwarfed his solid reptilian two-foot frame, Ulenem the Assassin jeered as he twirled his sharp athame dagger like a baton between his limbs. "Spilling his guts would be better," Ulenem said, his lizard-green skin turning menacingly spinach-colored.

Setsei quickly moved his seat a few inches away with both his right hands to avoid the spinning blade of the Madai weapon. From the head portion at the top of his smooth ovate body, he emitted the Ytran version of a dramatic sigh. "Well, peachy keen. All we have to do is break into Benedict's command center—wherever that is—kidnap Sutherland, and get out alive. Oops, that last part … not so easy …" His meiote Suthsi, nervous, slid closer and wrapped his left arms and flagella around his partner. "Not so easy," Suthsi echoed.

Nephil Stratum's own hue turned a darker shade of gray. She drifted over to face us. "Hate to rain on your parade, but it may not be as hard as you think." She broke off a small tuft of cottony vapor and levved it to the center of the table. It misted open and revealed a small multihedron gem that sparkled with hundreds of colors. In a few moments, the sparkles dissolved to reveal Benedict before us in the flesh.

I gasped. Sitting only a few feet away from me was the vicious outlaw reputed to have killed thousands of Zygans in his quest to overthrow His Highness. I was grateful that Benedict's body was halved by the table, reassuring us that he was only a holo. Still, my reflexes trumped my rationality. My practiced fingers had crept to my Ergal and were gripping it tightly as I watched.

Benedict was clutching a tablet on which he was scratching furiously with a stylus. The low resolution of the holo didn't allow us to see what he was writing, but his mutterings sounded like he was trying to solve some mathematical problem. "Alpha … m-c squared … equation … trapezalnitaks … summeldare … ram … catastrophe …"

Suddenly, his face lit up and he cried, "Eureka!" He looked up and, to my alarm, seemed to scan the room, his fierce blue eyes finally resting in my direction with a piercing, icy stare. I knew he was just a holo, but, faced with that penetrating gaze, I couldn't suppress a cold shiver that bored all the way down to my spine.

And then, to my immense relief, Benedict disappeared. I heard several deep breaths echoing mine from around our table.

Matshi was the first to speak. He looked at Nephil Stratum with admiration. "How'd you do that?"

Spud interjected, "Irrelevant. Where was he, and what was he doing?"

Matshi's face looked appropriately annoyed.

"Short answer: dark matter," Nephil Stratum appeased her host. "Zygint Central constantly monitors "beings of interest". Unfortunately, without an auxiliary energy source I can only keep the download going for a few minutes."

"You tapped into Zygint's feed!" Awesome. I was impressed.

Nephil Stratum nodded. "I honestly can't determine where Benedict is," she continued, responding to Spud. "But, obviously at least one comm specialist at Central knows, because they're tracking him live. It looks like … someone will have to go to Zygint Headquarters to get that information."

The knot in my stomach returned as the entire group turned and looked at me.

* * *

Yes, I still carried a Zygint ID. If it hadn't been pulled. My actions had caused us to lose Sutherland. And, rather than returning to face the music, I'd run. I was absent without leave--Gary had probably already reported me to Headquarters as a violator. If I went to Zygint Central Headquarters as myself, Shiloh Rush, I'd probably be busted with my very first WHO entry scan. And, if I was caught, I'd likely be sent to face the terrifying judgment of the Omega Archon. I'd be kicked out of the corps, and, at the mercy of His Highness' harsh code of justice, I could end up … a corpse.

My only chance to succeed in tracking Benedict's location would be to M-fan into Zygint Headquarters disguised as another Terran, and one who would have easy clearance for Central Comm. Going as Gary was out. He was a well-known player at Zygint, and my acting skills weren't that good.

"Everett Weaver?" Spud suggested, his tone clearly ironic.

Just envisioning pretending to be Ev for even a few moments made me nauseated.

"What about the nice one?" Nephil Stratum offered. "Who fixed your ship."

Wart … Ward Burton. Now, that sounded better. Wart was high-level enough to have access to Central Comm, but he rarely made the hours-long trip from Earth to Zyga, and probably wouldn't be well known by the Central team. That would work in my favor. It would be a little, uh, embarrassing to be the second Wart identified trying to enter Headquarters while the real one was already there. I nodded. "Okay, I'll go in as Wart."

If we were on assignment, we were allowed to use our Ergals to anamorph our superficial appearance and dress. It would be easy enough to Ergal my appearance to look like the tall, African American man in his early thirties that I'd be pretending to be. With a change in my surface appearance, I might even be able to skate through the WHO scans at Headquarters entry. But, if I had to make it through the NDNA scans to get into Comm, I'd be in trouble. I was going to have to bite the bullet and Ergal the change all the way down to my DNA nucleotides, a process called muting. Unfortunately, muting without high-level authorization was a grave violation of Zygan policy. If arrested, I'd probably be immediately dragged before the Omega Archon, and face a sentence burning in the flames of Hell.

"What the hell," Sarion joked. "Losing Sutherland, you're probably already marked for the flames anyway."

I smiled weakly at the Megaran's humor. I had only experienced a few minutes of the Omega Archon's punishment, and prayed that I would never experience such torture again. Spud had courageously offered, through clenched teeth, to go with me to Zygint. I patted him on the back and declined. It'd been my fault we'd lost Sutherland—I should never have stopped to help at Io—so it was up to me to take on the danger, and the risks, myself. Alone.

Nephil Stratum had me cryptocommed (wired) as invisibly as possible. It did give me a boost of courage to know that the gang was monitoring me from the cave, and maybe could mount a rescue if something did go wrong. I thanked my erstwhile classmates for their support once again and, with a final glance at Spud, who reflected my anxious gaze, I set off for the headquarters of Zygan Intelligence.

Not wanting to leave tracer tracks that might lead back to Matshi's kalyvi, I dragged myself, muted as Wart, through the baking, dusty streets to the transport station in the center of the Chidurian Enclave, and X-fanned to Mikkin, Zyga's capital city. I M-fanned directly into the cool, soft clouds that enveloped the base of Zygint's Headquarters, relishing their comforting softness as I floated towards the entrance of the tall thomeo.

Zygint Central Headquarters was modeled after typical Orion-thomeo architecture, mile-high skyscrapers with broad bases that narrow as one rises to the higher storeys. From a distance, a thomeo looks like an enormous ice cream cone turned upside down and driven into the ground.

I have to admit I was pretty nervous as I approached the WHO scan for entry to the building. Would the scanner be able to tell that I had muted into Wart? I held my breath as the light washed over my tall, male torso, almost gasping with relief as the door opened to let me into the busy lobby. Acting—and I mean, acting—relaxed, I ambled towards the lifts for the ninety-ninth floor (which, like all Zygan numbers, was in Base Twelve) and the Comm Center, which had housed the feed Nephil Stratum's jewel had tapped.

Central's Communications Center, which took up an entire floor of the thomeo, was the size of a football stadium, and was filled with scenic holos from practically every populated planet in Zygfed. And beyond. As I searched the holos for signs of Benedict, I couldn't avoid pausing at a halaropol scene to catch my breath. The beauty of the Halyb spa truly calmed me, if only for a few moments.

Reluctantly, I walked on, making my way to the far end of the room. Holos of Benedict, unfortunately, didn't seem to be running in the main chamber. I would have to appeal for entry into a more secure level of the Comm Center—and pass through a dreaded NDNA scan!

Changing my DNA to Wart's had meant that, courtesy of my Ergal, my brain cells had been transformed and now contained his neurocache. The NDNA scan would recognize the neurocache patterns as belonging to Ward Burton, of course. But, to maintain my own consciousness inside his body, I, or rather my Ergal, had had to encrypt my own neurocache among Wart's. Would the NDNA scan reveal that Wart's neurocache patterns were different than those stored in Zygfed's records? Or that Wart's neurocache had changed from earlier scans?

I couldn't let those seeds of doubt be read by the scanner. I had to ensure my anxious thoughts wouldn't arouse suspicion. I'm really glad I took those boring classes in method acting after all. As I approached the portal to Security Level C , I started repeating silently to myself: I am Ward Burton. I am Ward Burton.

The scanner's probe entered my brain. "Purpose of entry?"

Ward Burton, Ward Burton. Urgent comm from Terra Core.

"Scan in progress."

Ward Burton. Ward Burton.

"Scan completed."

The pause seemed frighteningly long. I struggled to stay calm. Finally, to my relief, the portal door I was facing opened to allow me entry into Security Level C. I wandered in slowly, breathing deeply to steady my nerves, and searched among the rows of holo displays filling this smaller suite for the holo station that displayed our target.

Most of the holos I passed in this suite seemed to be of various Benedict cronies, who went about their nefarious business unaware that Zygint was watching their every move. There was still no sign of Benedict on any of the screens.

I stopped, stunned. Right next to me, a holo displayed a life-size Sutherland, robed and bearded as Saul once again. Judging from the background, he seemed to be back in Sidon, or, more accurately, marching down that same path to Tyre where Yeshua and the Keeper had so recently trod. I turned to face the holo, hoping that the team monitoring me at Matshi's could see what I saw, too.

"The evil eye knows," a human voice boomed in my ear.

It took all my training not to startle. I turned to see a short, portly man who looked vaguely familiar … from Mingferplatoi? What was his name? Carl. Carlton Platt. Never liked him, but, Wart, Ward Burton, probably does. I bestowed him with Wart's friendly grin. "Hey, Carl, you sound like a DJ."

"It's from an old radio12 show, 'The Shadow'," he did the voice again, "'The Shadow knows …'

"Ah," I said and forced a chuckle.

"But little do they know," Carl nodded at the other holos, then pointed to Sutherland. "Good job, buddy."

I was ready to blurt out that it wasn't my fault when I remembered I was Ward Burton. I said carefully, "Thanks …" What did I—Wart—do?

"Let's go for a walk," Carl whispered conspiratorially, then motioned for his neighbor to cover his station.

I nodded, swallowing hard. Was he inviting Ward Burton, or me?

* * *

"We're shielded here," Platt assured me as we eased into the comfortable couches in the lounge. "Great work."

I nodded again. "Means a lot," I punted.

"Benedict's very happy," Carl added with a broad smile.

"Great," I answered instinctively, before it hit me. Oh, my God! They're inside! Benedict's Andarts are inside Zygint! My hand quietly inched towards my Ergal. And Wart…Wart!

"The one hundred mil in Deltan credits we promised are in the Krøneckðr account,"13 Platt continued smoothly. "But—"

I tensed. "But?"

Carlton spread his hands open. "Look, you're still uncontaminated. Why don't you wait until Sutherland cleans up in Canaan and then mute away. Until he's done, we might still need you."

"Is that a request …?" I said quietly.

Carl's tone got cold. "Benedict always asks."

I smiled, and waved a hand in the best Wartian style. "Well, what do you think? Of course."

Carl's features relaxed. He leaned over and slapped me on the back. "That's my buddy. How 'bout we go get some lunch?"

* * *

I managed to get away from Carlton over the salad, feigning an upset stomach from the Basidio mushrooms. But exiting Central would be almost as dicey as getting in. I was shaken to discover that our Wart was a traitor, and worried that my anger and disappointment at his betrayal would be picked up by the NDNA scan on my way out. As the scanner light washed over me, I tried visualizing Wart's delightful sense of humor and remembered his friendly welcome and support when Spud and I were starting as green catascopes at Earth Core. The technique fortunately worked, and I was able to hold back my tears until I'd made it through the lobby of the tall spire and out into the comforting blanket of the cloud city once again.

As soon as the mist had enveloped me, I Ergaled back to Matshi's kalyvi. Gratefully muted back to Shiloh, I sat quietly in my chair, shaking my head. Spud was as shocked as I was. Not only had Benedict's men infiltrated Zygint, but, incomprehensibly, our Wart was one of them!

"That certainly explains how Sutherland escaped," Spud said bitterly, adding for the others' benefit, "Ward Burton prepared our transport cell."

"There was never an E-shield …," I muttered.

"I doubt it, too," Spud said.

"Speaking of shields, if there was a temporal vector shield on Sidon—the one Gary told us about—how could Sutherland get past it to go back there?" The thought alarmed me. "Maybe everyone at Core's dirty …," I whispered, unconsciously shifting away from Spud. Was there anyone I could trust?

Spud caught my move, and looked genuinely hurt. "Not everyone," he added quietly.

Ouch. Guilty as charged. I sighed. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean …"

Matshi stepped in. "It is a fair question, Escott. How did Sutherland get through the temporal vector shield back to Sidon?"

"I am only theorizing here," Spud said with evident distaste, "but after we brought Sutherland to Core, Wart could've hacked the shield and sent him back to finish his mission. Nobody else at Core would have those skills."

"You mean the Sutherland we ported wasn't …"

Spud shook his head. "Our whole transport could've been staged with an avatar to fool us, Gary, the Drexels, and anyone else who is dirt-free." He stressed the last two words with an edge in his voice.

Regretful, I tried to pat his arm, but he pulled away.

Ulenem laughed heartily at our gullibility. "You Terrans are so naive."

Eikhus looked at us and asked, "Okay. Let's assume Spud's right. What do we do next?"

I shrugged, adding through clenched teeth. "Obviously, we have to go back to Sidon and catch Sutherland once more." The thought suddenly struck me: how had Sutherland caught on to us so quickly as impostors in Sidon, unless he'd been warned by someone? Wart again?

Apparently, Spud was thinking on the same track. "Our covers have been blown. Either we go back with our DNA muted, or someone else can …" He looked around the table. "In any case, if it is we, we cannot let Core know we have resumed our quest."

I agreed. "Wart probably has a tracer alert for our DNA to notify him and track us if we show up."

Matshi raised two hands. "Then, we'll go. Ulenem and I can do it."

Sneering, Ulenem pulled out his athame and ran a finger across its blade.

"You sure?" I asked. "They'll be expecting a rescue this time."

Matshi looked at his friend. "We're up for it."

Ulenem twirled his serrated blade once again and nodded with a broad smirk. Friends since childhood, Matshi and Ulenem had been inseparable during their first months of training at Mingferplatoi. When Matshi'd had his crisis of conscience and decided to drop out of the Academy, Ulenem had reluctantly given up his own ambitions of serving as a Zygan combat hero and followed his lifelong comrade into a relatively obscure career as mercenaries, soldiers-for-hire. The last two years had seen them waste their talents as partners-for-hire on several trivial missions for planetary security and police departments, or as Ulenem had complained dourly, "plucking Felisils14 out of trees." They were both, obviously, itching to get back into big-league action.

"Thank you," I said, my voice cracking.

Spud looked at them both and said firmly, "Alive. We need Sutherland alive."

Chapter 5

Tyre

Getting Matshi and Ulenem through the temporal vector shield had been easier than we expected. Wart must've sneaked in a few loopholes, Spud surmised. He estimated we'd have a good chance to break in and find them with a Trojan horse. In our case, our Trojan horse was, literally, a Trojan horse. Ostentatious in the imperial Roman sculpture tradition, the colossal marble statue of Homer's equine was M-fanned by my Ergal onto the grounds of a Tiberian governor's expansive estate on the outskirts of Tyre. As soon as nightfall hit, our friends opened the portal in the horse's belly, and crept outside.

I'd let the pair borrow my Ergal to deploy during their mission, hoping that we could rescue Yeshua--and our assignment--before anyone at Central found out. Matshi, Ergaled into human form, still looked, frankly, scary. With his seven-foot height, he towered over most of the villagers on the road to Tyre, and his broad thorax, its exoskeleton covered by Ergaled human skin, gave him the muscular appearance of a heavyweight fighter. Ulenem, whose normal height was less than two feet, had, in his human disguise, mega'd himself to look only slightly shorter and less bulked up than Matshi. And, he was equally intimidating, even with his athame and other weapons hidden in the folds of his robes.

Raised in warm environments, both men were much more comfortable in the hot, dry desert than Spud and I had been. With Ergals translating, their Canaan and Latin were passable, though Matshi did have a tendency to over-roll his R's.

Once inside the city limits, they quickly set up a skinos (a large tent made of gamil leather) on a deserted rocky ridge dotted with chaparral, from which they had a good view of the part of town favored by immigrant laborers, many from Judea. It was likely that Yeshua could be found among them. If they succeeded in getting to Yeshua before Sutherland did, they could hopefully prevent the youth's murder, preserve Earth's timeline, and recapture Sutherland for us once again.

At sunrise, Matshi stuck a head out of the skinos and shivered. He said to Ulenem, "It's only 321 degrees Kelvin, bundle up."

The Assassin snorted. "Earth's always in an Ice Age." He draped his body and his weapons with several layers of robes, and quickly joined his partner on the trek to the workers' camps in the valley below.

Zygint's monitoring of Sutherland had included contact metrics, most valuably date and time. We'd figured we'd give our team a head start to reach Bar Maryam first and, using the data from the Zygint holo, sent them in a few days earlier than Sutherland was due to arrive. Unfortunately, none of us had contact metrics on Yeshua. Matshi and Ulenem had to find him the old-fashioned way, pounding the pavement.

The young warriors took that instruction somewhat to heart, and didn't waste time with the niceties Spud and I had favored. Going from tent to tent in the immigrants' settlements, they impressed the migrant workers with forceful questions on the whereabouts of a Yeshua or a Saul. Matshi's report is a little sketchy on the details of their interrogations at this point, but he does note that the results of their efforts led them on several wild goose chases—Matshi uses a more colorful idiom—based on inaccurate answers from what I suspect were terrified and desperate browbeaten victims.

Finally, after a couple of days of unsuccessful pursuits, Matshi opted to try a different tactical approach. Several of the "interviewed" workers had identified a gathering place about three kilometers on the other side of town that was used as a temple by some of the more devout immigrants. Matshi urged his partner to join him at the site.

"It is too late," Ulenem averred, twirling his athame. "We must first go ambush Sutherland. Then we have all the time in the world to find the boy."

"The Zygint holo showed that Sutherland should be at the road to Tyre in four and a half hours," Matshi advised, checking the contact metrics on his Ergal. "We still have time to make the ambuscade if Yeshua turns out not to be at this temple."

Ulenem wasn't easily convinced, but in the end reluctantly agreed to accompany his friend. Leaving the warmth and goodwill of the camp residents behind them, or not, Matshi and Ulenem set off for the Temple on the Hill.

The Temple was a stone building of two storeys with wooden doors surrounded by shady cedar trees. Shivering, Matshi pulled his robes tighter and waved for his partner to follow him inside.

The temple's ground storey was divided into two discrete areas, empty except for expectant rough benches of pine, and dimly lit by a few weak rays of sunshine that peeked through fissures in the stone wall. At the opposite end of the room, was a charred, stained stone structure. Across it, a man in colorful robes, his back to Matshi and Ulenem, was bent over a table poring over an unrolled scroll. The temple's priest, no doubt, Matchi estimated.

The odor of incense pervaded throughout the chamber, and Matshi coughed to clear his throat. As the men entered, the robed man turned to reveal an exceedingly long black beard hanging almost to his waist. He walked up and greeted his visitors with more than a hint of suspicion.

"You are the strangers," he said warily in Aramaic.

Matshi didn't mince Ergaled words. "Clearly." He took a step closer, towering over the cleric. "Where is Yeshua? Is he here?"

The priest calmly responded, "Who?"

"Yeshua Bar Maryam," Matshi announced, scanning the room as Ulenem drew his athame and started slowly running his fingers across the shiny flat surface.

The cleric calmly studied the visitors for a long moment, finally saying in Hebrew, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." After a pause, he added, this time in Aramaic, "They are here."

Matshi looked at Ulenem, frowning. They?

"Well, then," the Chidurian ordered the Temple host, "take us."

The priest hesitated at first, but relented after Ulenem placed the tip of his athame gently against the cleric's ribs. He led them carefully up a narrow flight of wooden stairs at the rear of the building to a stuffy attic. From the doorjamb, the Zygans could see the attic was filled with rows of pine tables and benches, at which bearded old men sat reading scrolls of parchment and papyrus under the anemic rays of sunlight trickling through the gaps in the walls of oak and stone. In a distant corner, sat our targets, Yeshua and Saul, their heads together, studying a scroll.

"So much for Zygint contact metrics," Matshi muttered.

Ulenem pulled his partner back towards the steps. "He has not killed him yet," Ulenem whispered in Zygan. "That is good—and stupid."

"There are rules even for Benedict's team, I expect." Matshi returned. "A public execution could be more damaging to the timeline than Benedict intends." He nodded at Ulenem. "Why don't we go say 'hello'."

With a lightness of step born of their training as hunters, Matshi and Ulenem each crept to one side of the ostensibly studious pair. Matshi observed a Zygan stun gun with the knife point that, concealed from the others, was aimed at Yeshua's abdomen. Giving a visual signal to Matshi, Ulenem lunged towards Sutherland's arm and knocked the gun out of his hand. Before Sutherland could spin around and fight back, Ulenem had grabbed the Andart by the shoulders, pulled his arms behind him, and snapped them briskly into Zygan handcuffs called cherukles. Meanwhile, Matshi had pulled Yeshua up and back out of his chair, a harder task than he had expected. So slight in appearance, Yeshua was actually quite muscular and very strong. Matshi thought it'd be best to cheruklize his captive, too, just in case. Having to stun Yeshua in front of the now wide-eyed scholars to carry him out of the loft would raise even more questions.

All eyes in the attic were now focused upon the Zygans and their prisoners. Ulenem once again had drawn his athame, and rested it gently against Sutherland's throat to discourage any thoughts of intervention by his fellow scholars.

"Return to your studies," Ulenem barked at them. Most did so obediently, to his visible disgust.

Backs to the wall, the Zygans pushed their prisoners towards the door, out of the attic library, and marched them down the stairs; the Assassin and Saul in the lead, Matshi and Yeshua following behind.

Midway down, Sutherland's sandal caught on the uneven wood and he stumbled forward. Ulenem reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. As he fell, Sutherland ejected a microstunner from his sandal with his toes. The Assassin jumped to the side and reached in his robes to pull out his knife, but the tiny missile caught half of its prey; Ulenem's arm remained hanging and frozen, useless, along with the right side of his body. The Assassin quickly lost his balance and started tumbling down the stairs. Sutherland had already rolled down to the landing, and with an impressive gymnastic contortion, slipped his cuffed hands out from under his legs to the front. Leaping to the bottom of the stairwell, Sutherland whipped out a second stun gun from his robes. He sprayed a dispersed laser blast at the adjacent floors, ceilings, and walls, which, made of an extremely dry wood, ignited fiercely and quickly sent waves of dense smoke and flame up the passageway towards the second floor.

Matshi had been able to hold his breath, along with his captive, for the first few minutes, but Ulenem, without full control of his torso, had tumbled helplessly down directly into a wall of flame. Matshi's choice was clear. Releasing Yeshua, he raced down the stairs and leaped onto his partner, rolling him out of the ring of fire onto a cooler area of ash and stone. Alarmed, Matshi noted that the fire had already melted some layers of Ulenem's Ergaled cover, and his underlying green skin, some of which was now charred to a dull gray, peeked through. Though clearly in pain, Ulenem gazed up gratefully at his friend. Uttering a curse in Izmal, the language of the Madai assassins, he croaked, "Took them long enough to warm the place up."

Matshi rubbed his partner's hair and eyed the rivers of flame creeping towards them, "Just let me catch the bastard!"

"Already out the front door," Ulenem said ruefully. "Where's the kid?"

It was Matshi's turn to curse. He had left Yeshua on the stairs, which had just collapsed into a flaming pyre. Screams from the attic had grown louder, as the fire had spread to and ignited the dry leaves and branches of the cedar trees which had then set fire to the shake roof. The attic above had become an inferno, showering torrents of ash and flesh, and chips of wood and bone onto the first floor.

"He's … gone," Matshi said slowly, staring with fury at the blaze. A burning wood beam crashed just inches from their heads. "And we've got to get out of here!"

"Ergal!" cried Ulenem.

"Right here," Matshi shuffled through his robes. "Hold on to me."

They X-fanned just as the entire second storey of the temple collapsed on the floor where they had lain moments before.

* * *

Back in the kalyvi, we'd lost track of Matshi and Ulenem after they'd Ergaled back in time. Getting the Trojan horse through Wart's loophole had been a stroke of good fortune. There was a very good chance we'd be expected, and they would be monitoring for our Ergals and DNA. Matshi knew to use my Ergal only in emergencies so it couldn't be picked up easily, ruling out his sending us a live feed. Even routine communications would be pushing our luck.

We had hoped that our men would find Sutherland and be back out in less than an hour, what with time looping and all. Our worry grew after half a day had passed and we hadn't heard a thing.

"Second team?" Eikhus suggested generously.

Spud snorted. "You would evaporate in five minutes in that climate. You, as well, Nephil Stratum. No, if they have failed, so have we. We were fortunate to get the Trojan horse in the first time. Wart will have surely sealed up that door by now, especially if that troglodyte Platt has informed him he met a Wart doppelgänger at Headquarters."

I nodded. "Thanks, Eikhus, Nephil Stratum. Rain check. For once I agree with Spud. We've just got to wait. Matshi and Ulenem are fighters. I'm not giving up hope. They'll come through."

Susthi sighed, "Everybody loses sometimes …"

"You're always such a ray of sunshine," I muttered, adding more loudly, "If Matshi and Ulenem don't succeed," I looked at Spud, who nodded, "we're the ones who'll go back in."

* * *

"Where are we?" Ulenem opened his eyes, wincing from the pain.

Matshi dabbed at Ulenem's head with a cloth soaked in verdar, a Madai antiseptic balm. "In our skinos. Can you move your arm?"

Ulenem carefully tried moving the stunned part of his body. His reflexes were slow, but the motion was fortunately there.

"I got the microstunner out, the bastard, but chemical unstun has to take its time."

"Looks like I'm out of commission for the rest of the day," Ulenem grunted. "Bakari15 hurts."

"The verdar will help you heal more quickly. Just keep rubbing it on your skin."

Ulenem tried to sit up. "Where are you going?"

"We lost Yeshua." Matshi's eyes flashed. "I'm not going to lose that bastard Sutherland!"

Ulenem lay back and grunted again. "This is why we Izmalis don't bother taking prisoners. Kill them before they can get the advantage …"

"Sutherland?" Matshi snorted angrily as he stood up to leave. "He's a dead man walking."

* * *

The villagers combing through the charred wreckage of the temple didn't pay much attention to the horseshoe bat that glided through the burned naked branches of the once-proud cedar trees. Blending in with the circling vultures, the bat swooped in and out of the site, unnoticed. His surreptitious Ergal scan of the fire residue was almost complete and there was still no evidence of Yeshua's DNA.

Matshi landed on a stable tree limb and hung upside down watching the villagers as they mourned their family and friends. How many such scenes of sadness had he witnessed in his relatively short life? Tears, dakris, beshun. A planet the size of Orion Alpha could be filled with the Universe's liquids of grief. And he was powerless to help. All of us were … except the Omega Archon. He could put a stop to the madness of war, and yet His Highness had always turned away and let the wars go on.

That's really why, Matshi admitted to himself, he had left Mingferplatoi. There wasn't any sense in fighting when nothing ever really changed. The wailing of last year's Hutunye massacre survivors, thousands of years in the relative future, echoed in his ears, little different from the sobbing mourners below. Sentient life had not much evolved beyond the aggressive competitiveness of natural selection, despite the intricate pacifist oratory of philosophers like T'PlanaHath. And probably never would.

A new mourner caught Matshi's eye. The young man's stride seemed a bit too chipper. Surprisingly free of the dazed dullness of the rest of the villagers, the young man seemed intent on vigorously combing through the ashes with a stick. A polished stick. Unlatching from his perch, Matshi swooped by for a closer look. It was a scanner.

Sutherland. Matshi was pleased to note that the man's swagger seemed to ebb, as he, too, apparently didn't find Yeshua's DNA. Clearly irritated, Young Sutherland stood gazing at the ruins, scratching his head. Finally, puzzled, he started off down the road.

Matshi swooped onto his shoulders as soon as they were out of view of the villagers. Sutherland let out a sharp cry and spun around, aiming for the bat with his stick. The Chidurian quickly Ergaled into himself—at his fighting peak in his own exoskeleton armor—and laid into Sutherland with all four arms.

No more the elderly teacher, Sutherland, the young man, was a superb fighter, and, to Matshi's dismay, was grav-trained. The two men sparred in the isolated field for what seemed like hours, before Matshi's size and multiple limbs allowed him to knock Sutherland out, stun him, and search him for any additional hidden weapons. Holding the scanner stick under one arm, Matshi grabbed Sutherland with the others and tractored him to the skinos.

But Ulenem was nowhere to be found. Leaving Sutherland safely stunned inside the chamber, Matshi stepped outside and pulled out his Ergal to scan for his partner. A muffled sound from inside the skinos caught his ears, and Matshi dashed back in. Sutherland was still lying in his stunned position on the floor, but his torso was now framed by a halo of crimson blood from the fatal slice across his throat.

Matshi looked up to see Ulenem wiping his blade with a smile of satisfaction.

"What have you done?!" Matshi shouted at the Assassin.

"We don't need him any more," Ulenem answered quietly.

"Didn't you hear Spud? We bring him back alive, we can interrogate him. Who knows what he'd tell us about Benedict?"

Ulenem's voice was cold. "Nothing. He will tell you nothing."

Matshi snorted, then stiffened with the realization. No, impossible… not his friend … His hand eased toward his Ergal. "You're …"

"His job is done. Yeshua is dead," Ulenem said. A momentary flicker of sadness crossed his eyes, and then, without visible emotion, he began once again. "And now …"

Matshi was ready for the attack, but the flying blade from across the room still severed one of his arms. Purple blood gushed as Matshi ducked and dodged the onslaught of whirling blades from Ulenem and tried to get in a few blows of his own. Ulenem somehow seemed to have an unlimited supply of weapons hidden in his robes, and was no longer hampered by his earlier paralysis. Matshi soon lost a leg to the knives, and began to feel weakened by the loss of blood. Ulenem did not pause in his assault, however. It was clear that Matshi's death was his goal, and that he would likely succeed.

A feral instinct overtook the Chidurian. Matshi was no longer thinking of his partner, of Sutherland, of death. He could only feel the waves of adrenaline pouring from his brain and giving him a strength he never knew he had. As the next volley of knives rained upon him, Matshi grabbed as many as he could with his remaining hands and feet and, fastening them point out on his exoskeleton, launched his massive torso at his smaller opponent. Matshi landed directly on top of Ulenem, the knives piercing the Assassin's chest like a bed of nails falling sharps-down from a painful height. Ulenem's final scream faded as his celadon-colored blood washed over Matshi and drained on the floor of the skinos to merge into a Chidurian purple as it blended with Sutherland's red heme.

Shaking, Matshi rolled off of a now still Ulenem and lay on the ground, breathing heavily. He had lost two limbs, but not his life. But he had not managed to escape grievous tragedy. He had killed his partner and his friend.

* * *

Part II of Renegade Paladins is available for ninety-nine cents on kindle and other e-readers.