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Title: The Universe -- or Nothing


Author: Meyer Moldeven



Release Date: April 25, 2006  [eBook #18257]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNIVERSE -- OR NOTHING***


Copyright 1984 Meyer Moldeven



 THE UNIVERSE -- or nothing


 by Meyer Moldeven



 Copyright 1984 Meyer Moldeven
 yarnspinner7191@aol.com
 This work is under a Creative Commons License.





 Table Of Contents


 THE UNIVERSE -- or nothing
 Table Of Contents
 About Meyer Moldeven
 Also by Meyer Moldeven
 The Preface
 The Prologue
 Chapter ONE
 Chapter TWO
 Chapter THREE
 Chapter FOUR
 Chapter FIVE
 Chapter SIX
 Chapter SEVEN
 Chapter EIGHT
 Chapter NINE
 Chapter TEN
 Chapter ELEVEN
 Chapter TWELVE
 Chapter THIRTEEN
 Chapter FOURTEEN
 Chapter FIFTEEN
 Chapter SIXTEEN
 Chapter SEVENTEEN
 Chapter EIGHTEEN
 Chapter NINETEEN
 Chapter TWENTY
 Chapter TWENTY-ONE
 Chapter TWENTY-TWO
 Chapter TWENTY-THREE
 Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
 Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
 Chapter TWENTY-SIX
 Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
 Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
 Chapter TWENTY-NINE
 Chapter THIRTY
 Chapter THIRTY-ONE
 Chapter THIRTY-TWO
 Chapter THIRTY-THREE
 Chapter THIRTY-FOUR
 Chapter THIRTY-FIVE
 Chapter THIRTY-SIX
 Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
 Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
 Chapter THIRTY-NINE
 Chapter FORTY
 Chapter FORTY-ONE
 Chapter FORTY-TWO
 Chapter FORTY-THREE
 Chapter FORTY-FOUR
 Chapter FORTY-FIVE
 Chapter FORTY-SIX
 Epilogue
 Afterwords
 Appendix
 The References
 Words With(Out) Diacritics
 Creative Commons License
 about "zen markup language"





 About Meyer Moldeven


Meyer (Mike) Moldeven was a civilian logistics
technician with the United States Air Force
from 1941 until 1974. He was an aircraft
emergency survival equipment specialist
in the Pacific Area during World War II and a
technical writer for several years afterwards.
During the Cold War he transferred to a USAF
base in North Africa where he developed logistics
plans for USAF-NATO emergency maintenance
of disabled aircraft that would land along the
North African coast after returning from missions
in any future war with the USSR. During the U.S.
post-Sputnik initiatives to create a national space
program, he critiqued aerospace industries' logistics
concepts on future space systems organization,
infrastructure and support. Among the studies
he critiqued was 'Space Logistics, Operations,
Maintenance and Rescue' (Project SLOMAR).
During the Viet Nam War, he was the senior
civilian in the Inspector General's Office at
McClellan Air Force Base, a major logistics
installation near Sacramento, California. As
part of his 'added' duties during 'Viet Nam' Mike
was a hotline volunteer in a suicide prevention
center and consequently, an advocate for
professionally-staffed 'suicide prevention'
capabilities throughout the entire Department
of Defense. He compiled documentation,
published, and widely distributed copies of
his book, "Military-Civilian Teamwork in
Suicide Prevention" (1971, 1985 and 1994.)
Mike's updated essay on suicide prevention
in the U.S. Armed Forces has been included
in his collection of memoirs, "Hot War/Cold War
-- Back-of-the-Lines Logistics", which is at:
http://hometown.aol.com/yarnspinner7191/
myhomepage/military.html





 Also by Meyer Moldeven


                 Military-Civilian Teamwork in Suicide Prevention
                 Write Stories to Me, Grandpa!
                 A Grandpa's Notebook





 The Preface


 "It is difficult to say
 what is impossible,
 for the dream of yesterday
 is the hope of today and
 the reality of tomorrow."
 -- Dr. Robert H. Goddard


 "There is no way back into the past;
 the choice, as H. G. Wells once said,
 is the universe -- or nothing.
 Though men and civilizations
 may yearn for rest, for the
 dream of the lotus-eaters,
 that is a desire that merges
 imperceptibly into death.
 The challenge of the great
 spaces between the worlds
 is a stupendous one; but
 if we fail to meet it,
 the story of our race will
 be drawing to its close."
 -- Arthur C. Clarke





 The Prologue


 The Present

A conclusion in the Report to the Club of Rome:
The Limits to Growth states: "...within a time span
of less than 100 years with no major change in
the physical, economic, or social relationships that
have traditionally governed world development,
society will run out of the nonrenewable resources
on which the industrial base depends. When the
resources have been depleted, a precipitous
collapse of the economic system will result,
manifested in massive unemployment, decreased
food production, and a decline in population as the
death rate soars. There is no smooth transition,
no gradual slowing down of activity; rather, the
economic system consumes successively larger
amounts of the depletable resources until they
are gone. The characteristic behavior of the
system is overshoot and collapse."

Jeremy Rifkin, President of the Foundation on
Economic Trends and the Greenhouse Crisis
Foundation, in Biosphere Politics: A New
Consciousness for a New Century (Crown Publishers,
New York 1991) reports how industrialized and
developed nations exploit the sea beds of the world
for their rich deposits of industrial minerals and
metals. He notes that the struggle between rich
and poor nations and multinational corporations over
minerals in the vast oceanic seabed is likely to be
heated in the years to come, especially as reserves
of land-based minerals approach exhaustion.

News media reported in October 2000 that the
People's Republic of China announced plans to
explore Earth's moon for useful substances. On
October 15, 2003 the PRC launched into Earth
orbit its first manned rocket.

In a speech on January 14, 2004 the President of
the United States of America unveiled a new vision
for space exploration. He called on the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) to
"...gain a new foothold on the moon and to prepare
for new journeys to worlds beyond our own."

"We do not know where this journey will end," said
the President, "yet we know this: Human beings are
headed into the cosmos." White House Press Release,
January 14, 2004.

 ##

 The Future

 The Interstellar Mining and Teleport System

The System consists of two terminals, each of
which includes an integral, fully robotized capability
to conduct internal command-and-control,
self-maintenance and repair, and logistical,
teleportation, communications and other functions
and operations essential to its unique mission. The
terminal positioned in orbit above Alpha Centauri is
designated the Extractor and the terminal positioned
along the Solar System's rim is designated the
Collector.

The Extractor selects and draws pre-designated
elements, minerals and other usable substances
from the Alpha Centauri star system, and collects,
accumulates, converts and channels the matter
into its spunnel transmission subsystem for direct
interstellar transfer to the Collector.

The Collector receives the product, converts
it into its original form, identifies, classifies,
quantifies and records constituents and mass;
refines and ejects the raw product for transport
to and storage along the solar rim or at a location
that Authority determines to be more suitable.

The Extractor and Collector terminals are
constructed four million kilometers beyond Planet
Pluto. During the System's research, development,
test, evaluation, engineering, construction, launch
and voyage phases, the terminals are spunnel-linked
and tested both as separate machines with their
support systems, and as the integrated master
scheme.

During construction the System is linked to Planet
Pluto, employing mass attractors, orbital dynamics
controls and stabilizers, and other means, as
appropriate.

The System Authority possesses and Commands a
Self-Defense Force under Powers delegated by the
President of the United Inner Planetary System
(UIPS).

At launch, disengage the Extractor fleet from the
Solar System's gravitational and other constraints
employing Planet Pluto's outbound orbital momentum
plus augmentation thrusters in a manner that the
Extractor fleet retains its integrity in transit to
destination, and on station in perpetuity.

Position the Extractor in orbit above Alpha
Centauri at a location commensurate with data
provided previously by drone scouts. Authority,
at all times, maintains surveillance and exercises
control over operations and support systems, and
analyses of the Extractor's functions, structures
and equipment.

The Collector is positioned along the solar rim, or
elsewhere, as determined by Authority. The Collector
is fixed to the Extractor's product launch nodes,
functions and operations, and to the Extractor's
orbital dynamics at destination.

The Extractor, operating at destination, analyzes,
selects, and draws substance from proximate
asteroids, comets, satellites, planetoids, space
debris, swarms, star surfaces, subsurface and other
accessible bodies and strata, reduces the substance
to teleportable constituents (the product), loads
the product into launch hoppers and dispatches
it to the Collector.

Critical to the program's success is timing the
Extractor's launch. Piggy-backed to Planet Pluto
during construction, the Extractor uses the
planet's orbital momentum for launch. The launch
window is precise and short-lived along Planet
Pluto's outbound orbit; there is only one launch
opportunity in centuries for the Extractor.

Disengaged from Pluto, the Extractor fleet
accelerates along its course to optimum velocity
through integrated thrust of augmented thrusters
or other more advanced propulsion systems that
are or become available in time to accomplish the
Objective.

 ##

The Terminals and their command and control,
supporting research and development schemes
and projects, facilities, spunnel teleport and other
logistics and communications networks, surface and
space stations and outposts is formally designated
The Interstellar Mining and Transport System.
Authority acknowledges that the mission, launch and
assets acquisition processes intrigued the whimsical
fancy of the solar community during pre-program
definition studies and the System was nicknamed
"Slingshot".





 THE UNIVERSE
 -- or nothing





 Chapter ONE


The recon-patroller's leg and torso-pads fine-tuned
their tensions as Lieutenant Pete O'Hare shifted
position. His eyes ranged the banks of flickering
lights around him. An aberrant indicator caught his
eye and he mind-stroked a sensor control. Satisfied,
he moved on; the greens held firm.

Planet Pluto arced into view from starboard, half
a million kay distant. The mottled moonlet, Charon,
orbited the mother planet tightly. Only tanktown
Coldfield's dome and its hard unblinking lights
broke Pluto's drab crust. A dozen or so rutted
trails formed a network that connected encapsulated
outposts to each other and to Pluto's solitary city.

The recon-patroller's omni-directional screen
displayed the huge cylinder that floated in space
behind him, its gravity-enhanced rotation barely
perceptible to O'Hare's vision. Five-meter high
orange letters glowed brightly along its blunt
bow and stern, and on each quarter sector of its
exposed surface, proclaiming the huge cylinder
as the UIPS SLINGSHOT LOGISTICS DEPOT.

Space transports, no two alike, rode their
magnetic-beam's moorings along the Depot's flanks.
Space tugs and barges labored in all directions,
taxis charged about, and space-cranes swayed above
dozens of platforms that protruded from the Depot's
hull.

Leviathans off-loaded to barges as other ships in a
multitude of shapes and sizes grappled with cargo
from flex-conveyers that snaked from the Depot's
gaping portals. Slender, multi-armed space cranes
raised and lowered crates, bundles and modules, and
arranged, aligned, connected and disconnected gear
and cargo in all directions.

Aggregations of netted or tethered girders,
platforms, multi-meter-wide conduits in hundreds
of shapes and lengths, and modules linked by
stabilizer-beams crossed open spaces, pulled or
pushed by robot tugs controlled from the station's
cargo control centers. In trains or clusters,
machines traversed the open stretches between
the Depot's portals and nearby transports in their
final step toward a long journey.

The brightly checkered Depot slipped from O'Hare's
screen. A deployment station to O'Hare and hundreds
of his colleagues, and to more than four centuries
of his predecessors, the Depot was as much home
to him as his permanent station afloat in space
between Earth and Luna.

"Time," O'Hare silently flashed the code that
opened his spunnel channel to Keeper. "This is a
Slingshot Tac Ops from Red Fox to Keeper. I am hot
to trot on Point Charlie off Fandango Force Field.
All coordinates green for Scout Operation Xray
Delta slash Four. Time for go is 2112 slash 14
Solar. Keyed to transmit status on Spunnel Channel
9212, scramble 38. Confirm. Over."

The response was equally silent, registered
directly in his consciousness. The message's
clarity was unaffected by passage through
hundreds of spunnel boosters that linked O'Hare
to a shielded bunker beneath Luna's surface.

"Keeper to Red Fox. Your orders to scout Planet
Pluto Zone confirmed. You are cleared to start
at 2112 slash 14 Solar. Spunnel 9212 slash 38 is
open for your transmissions. You are spunnel-psy
monitored by Spacetrack Ceres. Out."

O'Hare tensed, psy-blinked his view screen down to
the instruments vital to his immediate mission, and
mind-keyed several controls. The fifteen-meters-long
vessel, with a barely two-meter beam, swooped
low and snapped into its run barely fifteen meters
across Pluto's desolate plains.

The view screen readouts showed subsurface
galleries, several outlined in irregular outlines
but empty, others reflected high-mass warship
configurations. He focused to adjust his
instruments for deeper penetration.

Quite suddenly, O'Hare's vision blurred. His head
and body swelled. In an instant, his brains, bones
and guts burst and splattered the cockpit as his
ship exploded.

 ##

Lieutenant Jake Ramirez smoothly accepted the
target blip that registered on his mind-screen. It
instantly displayed the target's dimensions, mass,
spin, velocity and coordinates. As the data strung
out Jake whistled, soft and low. He tapped the
channel traffic override to the Depot's spunnel
booster.

"Spunnel Flash to Keeper. Switch to Scramble 2."
Jake flipped the key and, without pause, mind-cast
his alert.

"Blue Fox to Keeper on Scramble 2. Message keyed
at 2115 slash 14 Solar. Request Spacetrack Ceres
verify ship's position and readings. Field is about
one-fourth by three-fourths kay, depth one-fourth
kay. No organics. Neutronic penetray analysis shows
that in addition to thermonuclear power plants
the aggregate includes machined parts configured
to Catalog 11 long range lasers, explosive
decompressors, particle beamers and gun mounts.
I suspect this is a cache of contraband ordnance
and spares positioned for pickup by Planet Pluto
insurgents. Orders? Over."

"Keeper to Blue Fox. Spacetrack Ceres confirms
unregistered objects proximate your position.
Ceres' sensors verify the findings. Space Force
concludes the stores present an immediate threat
to Slingshot. Your orders: Destroy the cache
immediately using your Type K1 nuclear explosive
missile setting: Baker Two Seven. Launch at
not less than 15,000 kay. Remain on station and
follow up. Search out and dissolve all residues; use
your laser-doubles at setting 8. Report when task
completed. Your Tac Ops and psych systems are
monitored. Start now. Out."

Keeper's message simultaneously loaded into the
recon-patroller's computer as authenticator for the
mission and demolition and laser gun settings. The
computer adjusted thrust and vector to bring the
ship to the 'fire' point and engage the countdown
and sequence to launch, arm the warhead, and follow
up. Missile launch was at six seconds.

Without warning, the computer froze. The frame
of the pilot's enclosure glowed red, then white. An
instant later the ship disintegrated into thousands
of metal and composite fragments, and shards of
what had been human flesh and bone.

 ##

"Flash -- Spunnel Transmission Priority One. To
Supreme Commander, United Inner Planetary System
Space Force, Earth Headquarters, from Keeper,
Luna Station. Attack report. Repeat: attack report.
Recon-patrollers R-19557, Red Fox, and R-87265,
Blue Fox in Planet Pluto Special Zone on recon
missions under Keeper control, were attacked and
destroyed by particle beams; attack times: Red Fox
212014; Blue Fox 215514.

"Beamers fired from unidentified batteries, source
Sectus Gorge, coordinates GT165, Planet Pluto. The
UIPS patrollers were on directed Tac Ops missions:
cite our messages to Red Fox and Blue Fox
past half-hour, info recorded in Tac Ops Actions
Register, your Headquarters. Regret to inform you
that no life signals emanate from Red Fox and Blue
Fox wreckage. Spacetrack Ceres will monitor for
survivors. Ship recovery and investigation teams
dispatched from Log Depot to both sites. Out."

 ##

"Flash To President, United Inner Planetary System
from Supreme Commander, Space Force. This
is my initial report of attacks on two of our
recon-patrollers while on UIPS-directed missions
in the Planet Pluto Special Zone. No survivors. I
conclude that Plutonian weapons destroyed both
ships. UIPS ships and support stations sunside
of Neptune hold on Defense Alert Level Two.
Defense Alert One remains in effect at Slingshot
construction site and throughout Plutonian Special
Zone. Details follow."

 ##

"To President, UIPS from Commander, Space Force.
Copy to each Senior Elder of the General Assembly,
to Ministers of Intelligence and Diplomatic
Protocols, and to Slingshot Director. This is
follow-on to my initial report of attacks on our
recon-patrollers in Planet Pluto Special Zone.
Recon-patroller Red Fox was destroyed while on
assigned mission to scout Special Zone to locate
launch and support sites for spacecraft that
present a clear and present danger to Slingshot.
Thirty-five seconds later, sister ship Blue Fox, on
directed survey of the Planet Pluto Special Zone
for unregistered space debris and contraband was
similarly attacked and destroyed.

"Transmissions from the patrollers Tac Ops systems,
and scansplays of their external observations ceased
instantly at time of attack. Note that Spacetrack
Ceres' reports of the events, confirmed by
Keeper, indicate conclusively that in the last few
milliseconds of functional stability before the
ships' defenses were breached their damage report
systems salvoed message bursts to spunnel boosters.
The signals confirm that each patroller had been the
target of long-range particle beamers.

"The missions of the two patrollers have not been
completed. Although the Red Fox scout mission can
be rescheduled, we must be prepared for an increase
in such attacks throughout the Special Zone. Blue
Fox was four seconds from a missile launch to
destroy a cache of contraband, and was attacked
before it could complete the task. Consequently,
Plutonian insurgents have now added significantly
to their already large stores of space weapons.

"Repeat alerts have been spunneled to Commanders
of UIPS ships, posts and stations throughout the
UIPS, and to all UIPS vessels that enter or are in the
Outer Region; also to ships under way, and at space
and surface moorings. Note that UIPS ships en route
to Slingshot, the Log Depot, and work sites have
been on Defense Alert Red since the Outer Region
seceded from the old United Planetary System,
therefore Slingshot readiness in their sectors
remains unchanged.

"This completes Commander Space Force Attack
Report."





 Chapter TWO


Rymer Camari, President of the United Inner
Planetary System entered his official residence's
conference room in a brisk walk, a loose, gray
ankle-length robe draped about his thin shoulders.
He nodded perfunctory greetings to his Ministers
of Intelligence and Diplomatic Protocols, and to the
Commander of the UIPS Space Forces as he took
his seat at the head of the long table. An abundant
mane of white hair framed his aged features; his
stony glare reflected the rage they shared.

A panel in the wall slid upward to reveal a
two-meter square well. A cylindrical view tank
filled its available space. The tank cleared to the
United Inner Planetary System's standard simulation.
Colored and geometric symbols glowed the real
time positions of UIPS planets and their natural and
artificial satellites and outposts, schema of space
traffic lanes, space spunnel booster stations,
the Asteroids, and the twenty Guardian Stations
equidistant along the Asteroids' outer perimeter.

Stroking a key embedded nearby in the table the
President brought the Strategic Concepts Computer
on line. "Computer," he said, "integrate these
proceedings into the database. Follow, analyze
in depth across-the-board and display."

Turning to the Space Force Commander he said,
"What's the situation, Jim?" His voice was flat
with the effort to control his anger.

Admiral Jim Selvin, shifted his stocky torso about
to ease his discomfort. Battle-flinty eyes cast a
quick baleful glance at his colleagues and turned
to face the President. Thin lips, slashed across
his rough-hewn face, twisted as he spoke.

"There's little to add to what we had an hour
ago," he said. "Two good pilots dead; two
impossible-to-replace patrollers destroyed."

Rubbing his chin vigorously, he grated, "We
confirmed that the bandit beamer drew back into
an underground tunnel that cuts into an ice gorge
south of Coldfield. Their weapons' cache is even
now being approached by unidentified tugs. No doubt
that they're Narval's thugs and they're going to
clamp a tow beam on the stores and haul them off to
some subsurface storage or assembly shop. Once the
weapons are assembled, installed and calibrated we
could be on the receiving end of more nastiness."

Leaning forward over the table, he looked directly
at the President. His hand transformed into a fist,
and he pounded the table in cadence with his words.

"Mr. President," he said, "the real hell of it is
we can't stop them, and we've got no one to blame
but ourselves. It's downright unrealistic to keep
our self-defense forces in the Special Zone so far
below what's needed to protect our vital interests."

"What do you suggest, Jim," the President shrugged,
"break our treaties with the Outer Region? What'll
that get us?"

Jim looked directly into the President's eyes.
"But they're the ones violating the treaties,"
he growled. "If we've ever needed irrefutable
evidence, we've just had it rammed down our
throats. We'd better get off our duffs and do
something."

Allen Dynal, Minister for Intelligence, nodded in
agreement, but did not speak. His turn was coming.

Selvin leaned back, turned his head to scowl at the
view tank. Together, they contemplated the forming
scene.

The Admiral's outburst had given subject matter
guidance to the computer. The display shifted to
the Planet Pluto Special Zone. Two tiny red lights
flashed rapidly at the coordinates where the
attacks had occurred. A steady blue light tracked
the hijacked stores.

Selvin continued. "The entire sector from which
this attack was launched is honeycombed with
utility passages and subsurface supply and
maintenance shops," he said. "They date back to
when our earliest construction cadres went in.
The subsurface should have been returned to its
original state when we had no further use for the
tunnels and galleries. We did start to collapse the
ice walls and overheads; obviously, we didn't get
very far."

Selvin sighed, heavily.

"Understandable," he went on. "Hundreds of
junctions and cutouts were dug to serve one-time
needs. They were never mapped. The same can be
said for subsurface technical facilities. No question
that many are still usable."

The view tank's image blurred, then cleared to show
a broad expanse of Pluto's barren surface out to
the planet's horizon. A white, steady glow identified
Coldfield, the surrounding red and blue lines
identified scores of subsurface passageways and
rutted trails that curved away from the domed city
in all directions.

"There's no doubt that the underground passages
and caverns are being used by Narval as maintenance
and operations hangars for his fleet," Selvin said
returning his eyes to Camari. "Many have enough
room to accommodate nuclear energy capsules, ship
and equipment repair shops, and catapult launchers.
Pseudo-gravity enhancers during construction
stabilized the floors. Foundations are secured deep
in the frozen surfaces, and bonded well enough,
so that even under the planet's low density, they'll
take the weight of battle wagons."

The silence hung heavily as Selvin glared at the
view tank. His voice rasped. "They must have
installed heavy screens in the overheads. Many
of our penetration readings are dim, even with
our most advanced sensors."

"That's all I have for now, Mr. President," he
said, leaning back. Absently, his stubby fingers
drummed the tabletop. He caught himself and
glanced about guiltily as he drew his hands back
to the edge of the table.

Camari's eyes moved on to a somber-faced ancient
who gravely returned his stare. "Let's hear the
intelligence review, Allen," the President said.

The Minister for Intelligence placed his clasped
hands before him on the table and spoke. His voice
was hoarse, low and intense, and his eyes moved
from the President to Jim Selvin, who faced him
grimly.

The view tank flickered, clouded and cleared to an
overview of the Outer Region. The scale reduced
planets, satellites, and stations to the colored
pinpoints of light with which they all were long
familiar. The computer adjusted to focus on
a magnified Plutonian sector. The Uranus and
Neptune orbits, although contained within the
tank displays, were cut out by the compression.
The Slingshot Construction Site rode the rim.

"Updating, the latest reports of military
construction, commitments and political
realignments among the Outer Nations are ominous,"
Allen said. "They're pledging themselves to each
other through mutual assistance pacts and are
building military spacecraft, weapons and support
systems to back up their agreements."

Pointing thoughtfully with his right forefinger at
his left palm, Allen updated the military assets of
each opposing nation, and correlated its potential
capabilities to economic resources over the coming
decades and centuries until Slingshot reduced the
solar system's deficits. He wove into his analysis
the effects of orbital dynamics on normal and
spunnel transit times from each Inner and Outer
Region point-of-origin to the Slingshot work sites.
He moved on to the status of weapons research
and development, and identified the locations of
the Outer Region's weapons manufacturing sites
and military training facilities.

"The long-term defense of Slingshot through purely
military means," he added, following a deep breath,
"especially in protecting our routes and the Log
Depot, is, as Jim stated, not possible given the
prevailing circumstances. The so-called members
of the Independent Nations of the Outer Region are
expanding their field of operations, and they get
generous support from satellite collectives and
individual sympathizers throughout the region.

"Our intelligence sources," Allen concluded,
"report that many supporters of Plutonian
objectives are, themselves, descendants of the
insurrectionists that fomented the dissolution
of our first interplanetary union. Now, it seems,
their intent is to destroy Slingshot, and us as
well."

Allen Dynal and Jim Selvin glanced at each other;
they were not in disagreement.

Camari broke the hush that followed Dynal's words.

"We are well into an armed confrontation," he said.
"Nevertheless, whatever actions we take must
minimize destruction to life and property,
require no diversions from resources allocated
to Slingshot, and in no way restrict Slingshot's
construction and launch schedules."

Turning his head slightly, he nodded at the last
of his three advisors. Chan Dahl, Minister of
Diplomatic Protocols, laid his massive forearms on
the table, palms down. His abrasive voice matched
his heavy features and rotund body. He spoke
rapidly in summary fashion: offering little that
was new, Chan passed quickly over the diplomatic
chasm that had formed between the UIPS and
the Outer Region after the dissolution of the first
United Planetary System. He summarized the complex
alliances that had evolved among the independent
governments beyond the Asteroids following the
secession, and moved on quickly to the initiatives
of his Ministry to reconcile inter-regional
differences.

"The issue of the transit fee is critical," he
said. "Each Outer Region nation has expressed
vehement impatience to get on with its toll tax on
the UIPS for each transport or other vessel that
enters space contiguous to their planetary and
satellite orbits. They insist that such space
is legally within their natural boundaries, and
that by merely passing through, we trespass.
Restitution, they claim, is in order.

"Negotiations remain in limbo. The impasse will,
quite likely, remain for some time. Our position is
unchanged: the fees that they demand are without
justification, an extortion to which we cannot
submit."

Throughout the discussions, the Strategic Concepts
Computer flashed a continuing display. As each
topic was opened for discussion the view tank
portrayed the corresponding regions, sectors,
planets or satellites, shifting from one to the
other as needed to clarify points under discussion
or accompany the exploration for alternatives. The
lower section of the tank registered the computer's
quantification of speculations by the President's
advisors, and their probabilities toward
realization.

Finally, President Camari raised his hand. He
pressed a softly glowing disk on the table. The
view tank cleared. Resting his chin in the palm of
one hand, Camari gently rubbed his temple with
the fingertips of the other.

"Instructions to Strategic Concepts Computer," he
began. "Summarize the facts adverse to our cause
and our options for dealing with each. Arrange and
rate the options according to their probabilities
for results favorable to the UIPS, and separately,
favorable to the interests of the Outer Region's
Nations. Consider UIPS limitations in nonrenewable
metals, minerals and other vital reserves until
Slingshot begins to produce. Take the options into
account and assume that Slingshot will succeed
on schedule and will generate sufficient refined
matter over time to meet the needs of both Regions.

"Project each option's draw down on resources
committed to Slingshot, and estimate their impact
on schedules. We may need to gamble here. Crank
in the latest estimates on the years it will take
for the Extractor to reach Alpha Centauri, get
organized around the job, go online, and begin to
produce. Compute out to the time that we will
have rebuilt stockpiles within the Solar System."

Leaning slowly back into his chair as he spoke,
Camari lowered his hands into his lap. His eyes
moved from one advisor to the other. They returned
his gaze, the bleakness in their eyes matching his
own. "Try different combinations within the options
and rate them," he continued. "Examine our treaties
with the other powers and status of current
negotiations and pending proposals. Show how
each option, which has statistical probability
for success up to exponent three can adversely
affect those treaties or negotiations."

Camari drew a deep breath. "We need to take
a fresh look at where we are. We've also got to
avoid political irritations that may exacerbate the
situation further. On the other hand, revisions to
treaties and to our positions at the negotiating
tables may be essential. Slingshot may solve our
disagreements, but we cannot wait.

"Review our readiness and activation sequences
consistent with our Quick Reaction Capability to
deal with contingencies in the Slingshot Special
Zone. Work up details on what needs to be done and
by whom to upgrade our QRC initiatives for each
contingency that I keyed in as probable. Show
costs in still accessible resources separately and
integrate results with relevant commitments and
schedules. Draft implementation plans and execution
directives to commit resources. Update constantly,
but keep all implementation directives on 'hold'
until I direct otherwise.

"We meet again in two hours," Camari, said, rising
from his chair. "Computer: be ready to give a
presentation on each option and its variations
within the parameters I specified and which surface
through your analyses. Double-check resource
requirements and schedules, and tactical options
and their possible effects on UIPS forces and
assets in the Special Zone. Maintain current. When
I select the course of action and authenticate them
with the Presidential Implementation Designators,
release directives to implement the decisions.
Monitor and report. This completes my instructions
to Computer."

The President turned toward the door from which
he had entered. Pausing, he glanced back at the
Minister of Intelligence.

"Allen," he said, "give me a rundown, within the
hour, on our intelligence assets throughout the
Outer Region. I am especially interested in your
ability to intensify earliest possible infiltration
and disruption throughout Narval's domain."

The door slid shut as he passed through. The
wall panel across the view tank cavity lowered
as the advisors departed.

The Strategic Concepts Computer presented
visual displays accompanied by a gently modulated
audio. The analysis was incisive, the coverage
comprehensive. At its conclusion, the President
scanned the faces of his Ministers and the
Commander of the Space Forces.

"Comments?"

Scores of questions probed and tested the
computer's logic and conclusions. Questions became
observations, which, following discussion, became
revisions that, were instantly extended to
corollaries. Often, objectives and programs
were adjusted. Finally, it was done -- for the
time being.

Rising from his seat, the President's eyes took
in his grim advisors. Speaking softly, he passed
decisions on several recommendations to his
Ministers, Admiral Selvin, and into the Computer.
Done, they sat silently for several moments,
weighing the decisions' potential effects.

Rising and making his way toward the doorway,
Camari motioned to the Minister of Intelligence.
"I've read your report on our assets in the Outer
Region, Allen. I have a special task for your
Ministry."

He motioned the Minister for Intelligence to join
him. They passed through and the door closed
silently.





 Chapter THREE


The Watch Commander drew a hand weapon from the
rack, adjusted the power to low stun, and checked
the safety. He slipped the sidearm into the sheath
at his waist and scanned the monitors displaying
his areas of jurisdiction.

The agri-ecol bays and industrial shops of the
Guardian Station were orderly and busy. The
officer's fingers ranged the console's keys.
Aud-viz transmissions from passageways, wardrooms,
and work and recreation areas slipped across the
screens in rapid succession. Inmates and guards
moved about, operated equipment, or worked at
their benches, each, in his or her own way, putting
in their time on the station's business.

A keystroke brought up the eight people boarding
the Station through the lower air lock. Two were
station guards, their weapons sheathed but
retainer clips disengaged for instant withdrawal.

A slight adjustment brought into sharp focus the
closed features of the three men and three women
in dun-colored coveralls, under escort. He studied
their faces for a moment and turned away. The
bank of screens shut down as he stepped across
the doorway of the cubicle that served him as both
command post and sleeping quarters. He strode
briskly toward a hatch at the far end of the
passageway.

The lead guard, who had appeared a moment before
on the screen, stepped off the ladder leading
from the lower level and glided forward in the light
pseudo-gravity followed by the six prisoners he
had escorted from the transport. The prisoners,
without constraints, walked silently. All had their hair
trimmed uniformly close to their heads. The men's
faces were as hairless as the faces of the women.

The second guard brought up the rear.

The forward guard came abreast the Watch
Commander, stopped, barked a command to halt,
and turned to face his charges. They knotted
forward, not anticipating the order, separated
and spaced themselves.

"OK, inmates," the guard grinned, "up against
the bulkhead, please. Relax. You're gonna get the
official greeting to this paradise of the outback."

Swinging about, he tossed a perfunctory salute
in the officer's direction. At ease against
the opposite bulkhead, he watched benignly as
his charges shuffled about and lined up in no
particular order. The guard at the other end
stood astride the passageway in a casual stance.

The Watch Commander cleared his throat with
a slight cough to focus their attention.

"I'm Lieutenant Malcolm," he said. "I run the
Reception Center on this station. You may or
may not know where you are; let's be certain
that you do."

The six faces stared at him. One of the men in
the lineup, third from the head, shifted his gaze
from the officer to the guards and back again.
A bit above medium height, ropy necked and
thick-shouldered he gave the impression of a male
at ease, confident but wary. Below his gray-black
bristle of close-cropped hair and space-bleached
brows his deep-set green eyes moved on to calmly
scan the deck, bulkheads and corridor. He returned
eyes to the officer and the guards. He had the air
of a leader.

The officer drew a deep breath and continued.
"The manifest of the transport from which you just
disembarked listed you as 'cargo' transferred to
this station from the temporary holding jails of
Earth, Luna or Mars, or wherever you were being
held. Don't let being recorded as 'cargo' bother
you. Official visitors and guests are passengers,
prisoners are cargo. If the transport's brigs were
cramped, that's the name of the game; they're not
built for comfort. Each of you did get a separate
cell on board, I understand. In that respect, at
least, you all got better than routine treatment."

The last remark raised sardonic eyebrows on two
faces in the line. The rest remained impassive.

Malcolm paused, then continued.

"Be prepared to be here for a while. You know your
commitment period. Whatever happens to you here
depends on your attitude and your compliance with
orders, and on decisions by those conducting your
rehabilitation."

Pacing the line he stopped before each prisoner
and stared at him or her from under bushy black
eyebrows. Relaxed against the wall, or tense
and erect, they returned his gaze. Inspection
completed, he nodded at the guard astride the
passageway and turned back to address the line.

"You are inmates in the Social Rehabilitation
Center of Guardian Station 15, about five million
kay outbound from the Asteroid Belt's rim, or what
was the Belt before the space-miners got through
with it. This station was the mining operations
center for this sector.

"Our internal security is good. We've had no
attempts at breakout in a dozen years. In the
attempt that was made before then, the inmate
didn't clear the sector. When it was over, I might
add, he was a bit the worse for the experience."

Malcolm paused to let his words sink in.

"This prison," he continued, "is where the rehab
system confines its high-risk and special treatment
prisoners. Inmates include persons convicted of
piracy of spacecraft, smuggling controlled minerals
and other substances, theft of government and
important private properties, hijacking, espionage,
armed robbery, gun-running to insurgents and
terrorists in the Outer Region, and murder. That's
the short list."

The prisoner's faces remained expressionless.

"Bear in mind..." the Lieutenant reached the end of
the line and reversed direction, "that although the
Guardian Stations are along the border between the
Inner and Outer Regions, we're far from isolated.
For example, this station's present orbital
coordinates accommodate Inner Region traffic to the
Planet Pluto Special Zone through both normal space
and spunnel express.

"Escorted Inner Region convoys regularly pass
through this sector on their way to the Slingshot
construction site. They include high-mass-loaded
container ships, construction rigs under tow
and objects too large for the spunnel are routed
through this sector when we're lined up.

"Sometimes they stop to pick up and discharge
passengers and cargo, or technicians to service our
specialized posts along the way and at destination.
We may have a half-dozen or so spacecraft alongside
at any one time, just doing their jobs. When the
moored ships are perceived as crowded, inmates
dream of stowing away to somewhere else. That's
no more than a dream; don't underestimate our
surveillance systems. You've been warned."

He pointed at one prisoner, then another in a
jabbing gesture.

"Our job is custodianship of those who can't adjust
to the realities of our society, and rehabilitation
and training of those who can be helped,
eventually, to return to the outside world. There
are other options for inmates who have special
attributes. You will learn more of those in time."

Pausing, he scratched at his jaw.

"You are sojourners among us, and transient," he
closed. "We will not abuse you; on the other hand,
we will not coddle you. We tell all new inmates, as
I'm now telling you: cooperate, and you'll find your
stay tolerable, resist, and take the consequences."

A stern, hard stare, a shrug and his features
relaxed.

"OK, that's the official greeting for all
newcomers. I know you've all had a long, boring
trip on a beat-up transport. I expect you'll want
to unwind a bit."

He glanced at the forward guard, back against
the bulkhead, and turned back to the prisoners.

"First, we'll get you into some decent quarters,
and let you clean up and rest. Get to know each
other; you'll be together for a long time.

"The guards will escort you to your core
compartment. Normally, you would have started
orientation and psy-phys testing immediately.
Your schedule is different. Your first orientation
lecture will be in two hours. Sergeant Jenkins," he
motioned the lead guard forward, "will escort you to
and from orientation. Don't play games with him; he
knows them all."

"All yours, Jenks," he said. "Move 'em out."

Jenkins came forward, pointed to a hatch further
along the passageway.

"Follow me."

Lieutenant Malcolm stepped aside. He watched the
line move past silently and climb the companionway
out of sight. None looked back.

Lining up in loose formation at the head of the
companionway and responding to Jenkins signal the
prisoners started along a passageway. The other
guard brought up the rear.

They crossed spidery overpasses that spanned busy
workshops and agriculture bays under cultivation.
People and service robots moved about; the new
prisoners drew few glances.

Jenkins drew them to a halt in a wide corridor.
Ahead was a shimmering force field. He murmured
words and placed the palm of his hand on a dull
composite plate embedded in the wall. The force
field faded to a haze. They passed through, and
the haze resumed its shimmer behind them.

A portal came into view up ahead.

Jenkins motioned toward it and stepped aside as the
prisoners passed him and on through the opening.
The guards did not follow.

Of a sudden minus their escorts, the inmates
clustered inside the entry and stared about.

The compartment was generous by space habitat
standards. Well-lighted, it stretched ten meters
from wall to opposite wall. Parallel in the center
of the room a double line of four gray tables stood
fused to the deck, each with benches on each long
side, similarly immobilized. Evenly spaced along
the wall were curtained sleep-privacy enclosures.
Behind partitions on opposite sides of the
compartment were entries to two standard
wash-lavs. The furnishings were functional and clean.

One after the other, the prisoners drifted off to
inspect the enclosures. All were back in less than
a minute; they silently kept distance from each
other.

The inmate who had so carefully examined the
corridor while Malcolm talked, leaned against one
of the tables and crossed his arms. He repeated his
scan of the compartment, but this time one sector
at a time, turning to take it all in yet pass over
each cell-mate that entered his field of vision. His
movements gave the group a focus; it was easier
than to just stare at the walls and the austere
furnishings.

"I don't get this," the table-leaner locked arms
across his chest as he spoke with a puzzled
expression on his face. His voice was low, flat yet
courteous. "We may as well get the formalities out
of the way. Who are we? Names will do for starters.
I'm Brad."

Faces relaxed a mite. One of the women sat on a
bench. The ice may have cracked, but the silence
held. Brad had their attention.

Seconds passed.

"Hodak."

The word welled up as a growl, low and rumbling
from a squat, muscular man. His deeply embedded
eyes circled the room from under a boulder-brow
that bridged the space beneath his bald pate to
blend with the stub nose, wide mouth and crinkled
skin of a seemingly amiable face.

"I'm Zolan," said the third male. He was of medium
height, slight of build, waxy features and a high
brow with the pallid complexion of a spacer. As
alert and tense as a coiled spring, Zolan leaned
against a bulkhead, eyes moving rapidly from
Brad to Hodak to the walls to fix on an opposite
bulkhead.

"That takes care of the men." A woman's voice,
melodious, dulcet. "I'm Adari."

Sturdy, tightly curled hair and chocolate-toned
skin. Her soft, rounded features were dimpled,
cheerful, animated. Standing near a sleep
enclosure, her grin was infectious. She brought
long-absent grins, twinkles and nods from the
others.

Repeating her name slowly, she smiled invitingly
at the petite woman seated on a nearby bench.

"My, aren't we cautious," the little one said as
she looked up and returned Adari's grin. "I am
Kumiko," she shifted her eyes to take in the
others, "and I regret to say that I am not
particularly pleased to be among you." She
paused, looked down. "Nothing personal, mind
you, it's just that I did have other hopes."

Eyes shifted to the last of the group. Tall and
slender, olive-skinned, she paced the narrow space
between the wall and the cell's central section.
Her turn, no longer to be put off.

"Myra," she said flatly.

The silence closed back in.





 Chapter FOUR


The meeting hall was roughly triangular, the rows
of form-fit seats molded into the deck which sloped
downward toward a slightly raised platform jammed
into a corner. Alongside the platform a meter-wide
view tank rose from the deck to merge with the
overhead. A single cable snaked from the view
tank's base and disappeared into the nearby
bulkhead.

The six inmates entered, milled about, silent,
their features without expressions. In their own
time, they each took seats, several empties apart.
The first three rows remained vacant.

Hodak broke the silence. "The Blue Plate Special
the Looie gave didn't sound right," he growled.
"I want to know more about what he was gettin' at
with that crack about our schedule 'being different'."

Adari turned, eyebrows raised, to stare at him
thoughtfully. She nodded slowly and turned back
to join the others to focus on a figure perched
on a high stool beside the view tank.

He looked tall, despite his being seated. A
slate-gray uniform covered him from neck to ankles;
his feet shod in high-top deck slippers that matched
the shade of his garment. He wore no insignia. Long,
crowded features and tawny space-worn skin formed
a face of planes and angles. His hairless head and
long hands looked like they might have been hacked
from a block of Mercurian tuscanite and left to
weather for a few million years in the sun's glare.

The hall quieted. Satisfied that he had their
attention, the man stood. The mere suggestion of
height, seated, did not do him justice. He unfolded
like an articulated, mechanical crane. Fully
extended, his towering frame rose more than
two meters from heels to naked, gleaming scalp.

His first words took Hodak's challenge.

"You will know, Hodak." His voice was soft, and
carried the gravity of authority.

His eyes moved from one to the other.

"What I say here applies to all of you," he said.
"I will not answer all of your questions, but you
will be told all you need to know at this time."

He stepped down toward them from the dais,
halting inside the curve of the first row of seats.

"I am Ram Xindral," he said, "your orientation
lecturer, your trainer and, should you need one,
your counselor. I am also your Control. Take
specific note of the term 'control'. It has only
one meaning: you are in a prison, but from here on
take no orders from prison staff. You take your
orders only from me; I am not 'prison' staff."

"What the hell!"

Hodak again, bouncing up, down, up again. Adari,
her mouth open in surprise and alarm, also stood,
paused, and moved to stand beside Hodak. Zolan
remained seated, his hooded eyes on Xindral. Kumiko
shifted position slightly and stared vacantly at
the deck. Myra remained motionless, her face also
closed. Brad, brows drawn into a frown, crossed
his arms, waiting.

"Hah! This sure as hell isn't the standard
orientation lecture for new inmates." Adari's
jeering laugh burst from her in a sardonic cascade.

"No, Adari, it isn't," Ram said with a smile, "but
hear me out."

The hall was suddenly charged with tension and
wariness. Hodak remained on his feet, bent forward,
hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him,
challenge in his eyes.

Xindral clasped his hands behind his back. The
gesture tightened his frame and seemed to increase
his height. He faced away from them, strode back
to stand beside the view tank and turned. Hodak
grunted, sat, muttered under his breath; Adari took
the seat alongside, leaned in toward Hodak, listened
to him mumble, and grinned, nudged and nodded.

"Details later," Xindral continued. "Let's get
this first part over with. I'll talk. Cut in with
questions if you must, and bitch if it helps; we'll
get to know each other better. If you take off
on a tangent, so be it. I'll go along, within limits.
I didn't expect this to be a monologue, by far.
It'll take a while, but you'll get the information
I intend you to have."

An uneasy shifting about ensued. The prisoners
weren't buying. Brad sensed the apprehension in
the others that he felt in himself. Xindral's opening
remarks along with his aura projected formidable
power despite his slender frame.

"Before we continue," Xindral said, "know that
you are not quartered in the penal section of the
station. The usual new arrivals don't get this sort
of attention. Furthermore, the lectures given
to them are confined to station routines. Their
processing includes a few tests that are evaluated
for basic intelligence and skills. It helps the
staff assign them to shops, rehab training,
and eventually for return to the outside world.
You're not that lucky."

Xindral's last words jolted Hodak back on to his
feet.

"Look, whoever the hell you are," he rumbled,
jabbing a stubby finger at Xindral, "let's cut out
the crap about our luck. First the Looie, now you,
puttin' on this mystery act with fancy hints that
don't make sense. You said we're allowed to ask
questions. OK, here's one: am I an inmate in this
prison or not?"

"You are, and you aren't," Xindral shrugged.
"That's my answer at this time. As we talk,
the picture will clear."

Xindral's face flexed into a grin.

The animosity in the hall was palpable, exacerbated
by Xindral's evasive response to a fair question.
As Hodak grumbled his way back down into his seat
the elongated figure drew a flat, palm-sized control
from a sheath fastened to his belt and pressed an
embedded key.

The view tank's haze cleared to the standard solar
schematic. The scene faded, replaced by a ring of
tiny multicolored lights: the Asteroid Belt.

"This display is tailored to the general run of
inmates processed through orientation, just to give
them an idea where they are. Their familiarity with
deep space is often limited, so station lectures
start with fundamentals. We'll pass on this."

Brad tensed at Xindral's choice of words, and
sensed the others had been similarly alerted.
He glanced sideways. His companions, as he,
stared at one another as if seeing them for
the first time. Were they of a kind?

Xindral continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"A footnote," he said. "The Belt's been cleared of
almost all rocks and swarms, plus the big ones that
we couldn't use for outposts. As you may recall
from your school days, it wasn't easy hauling
micro-spunnel terminals around the Belt and ramming
rocks into the hoppers for transfer to meltdown and
refining above Venus.

"In short, the big space sweeps of five to eight
hundred years ago cleared away most of the residue
in Belt orbits that had no beneficial purpose and
were a hazard to traffic. The Belt was a good
source for minerals -- while it lasted."

He paused to key the instrument in his hand.

"That's done," he said. "What's left are only a few
of the big asteroids, like Ceres. They serve both
regions as Solar Spacetrack Centers, communications
relays, search and rescue operations, space lanes
debris collection teams, urgent care hospitals, and
for spunnel gateways management."

As he spoke the ring of lights in the tank
flickered. Another ring formed, evenly spaced rods,
each glowing a contrasting color.

"The Guardian Stations," Xindral said, "have been
in position for more than six centuries. Twenty
stations; no more are planned."

The tank zoomed in on five of the twenty rods
in a quarter segment of the full orbit; the rods
expanded to form slowly rotating cylinders.

"The Guardians are apportioned among four
generally equal sectors, any one of which serves
the quadrant that it happens to transit at the
time. Responsibilities and missions overlap, and
are passed along from the station moving out of a
quadrant to the one entering it along the common
orbital path. Using standard and hyperspace
omnidirectional surveillance, each station's
primary job is to monitor its sector: inward toward
the Sun, and outward to the rim and beyond as far as
our technical capabilities extend. The service areas
change constantly in keeping with the alignments
and dynamics of planets and their satellites,
traffic-lane management, neutralizing debris
intrusions, and conventional and spunnel teleport
maintenance."

Xindral folded himself back on to the high stool as
he spoke.

"After the political separation of the Inner and
Outer Regions these Guardian Stations reverted
to us by the treaty. Formally, they serve only the
Inner Region's jurisdictions. Informally, however,
the stations cover the entire system; to do
otherwise would bring about enormous disruptions
and disasters in space traffic and communications.

"The Guardians' functions include standard and
spunnel communications, disaster relief, search and
rescue of distressed spacecraft, intercepting and
diverting comets-of-hazard, meteors, debris and
other threats to traffic in the space-ways that
serve the Inner Region's space colonies needs.
Often the Outer Region's folks help when their
interests are involved; just as often they don't.
It's one of the prices we pay for this political
breach, and one of the most frustrating."

Zolan turned to aim a remark at Adari. She giggled
and elbowed Hodak. He growled and twisted away.
Kumiko's eyes lifted from the deck to lazily roam
the blank overhead.

Myra's face openly played non-listener. Brad
continued to observe Xindral closely, glancing
occasionally at the tank.

Aware that he was losing his audience, Xindral
paused and stood quietly for a moment.

"Do my words bore you?" He leaned forward to
take them all in. His voice, still soft, nevertheless
exposed a cutting edge.

Zolan looked at Xindral as he contemptuously gave
the tank the back of his hand.

"Who're you trying to kid?" His challenge was
cast low, tight. "I don't know about the rest of
these folks. I haven't asked any of them about
themselves, nor have they tried to check me out.
But you wouldn't have brought us together without
first investigating us for whatever your purpose
might be. For example; you must know I'm a space
communicator. So, frankly, your rambling on like
this not only bores me, its phoniness is clear and
insulting."

Hodak slapped his knee and laughed. He pointed at
Zolan, then wagged his finger at Ram.

"Comm isn't my beat," he said. Thumbing over his
shoulder at Zolan, he added, "but what he said goes
for me."

Xindral brushed the keys on the control and
returned it to its case. The view tank faded
as he fixed his eyes on Zolan.

"Yes, Zolan, I am familiar with your background."
Shifting to Hodak, "Yours, too." His glance widened
to include the others, "as I am with the backgrounds
of you all."

In response, the prisoners silently glared defiance.

"Zolan's observation is correct and on point,"
Xindral said, ignoring their disdain. "We're not
fooling one another. Simply stated, you have much
in common. You are professional space men and
space women, and highly qualified at that. Your
skills and resourcefulness remain with you and
I am aware of them."

Slouchers straightened. Hodak and Adari looked
around and their faces broke into grins, which were
returned. Tension remained, but subtly altered.

"A couple of points," said Xindral. "First, you are
all from sunside of the Belt and you are not known,
as far as my sources can determine, where I don't
want you to be. Second, together, you represent a
cross-section of space professions and experience
vital to the success of an important and urgent
task. What you are going to be asked to do will
place your lives at risk. You will need to rely on
each other, personally and professionally, under
difficult circumstances."

Brad had enough.

"Now let's just wait a minute!"

Brad was on his feet, instantly joined by the
others.

Xindral, head cocked slightly to one side, sat
and listened.

"Zolan said it first," said Brad. "None of us
speaks for the others, so what I say is for
myself. Who are you to force me -- us -- into
a life-risk situation?"

The words, tightened in long-suppressed rage,
spewed forth.

"You just counted off a couple of 'points'." Brad
raised his hand, index finger raised. "Now here's
one for you. I'm here because I was convicted
of a so-called offense against society. No way
do I consider myself a criminal; furthermore, I
don't know if these others," motioning in their
direction, "consider themselves criminals or not.
Again, I say, not my business. I'm here to serve
a prison sentence, and that doesn't include doing
odd jobs where my life goes on the line."

Brad and Xindral faced each other across
tension-charged space. The momentary
confrontation passed, Brad, obviously fed up
with Xindral's evasions, crossed his arms across
his chest and waited. The tall man studied him.

"Your point is well made," he said. "You have
forced the issue forward, and your challenge
must be answered before we go much further.
Here are a few of the pieces. Think about them."

He stepped back on to the platform and took his
seat.

"You were selected only after a searching
investigation into your backgrounds," he said.
"We considered your records, personalities,
and your capabilities: phys and psy, professional
skills, job performance, resiliency, whatever the
task I assign to you will likely call for.

"You are now a UIPS task group, for want of a
better designation. One of you will be appointed
Commander. You will be given a job to do. You
will depend on each other in most difficult
circumstances: your records for reliability
under stress were among the selection criteria.
You were acceptable.

"As to your appointment, that was made by an
authority outside this station, actually, outside
the Correctional Service of which this penal
institution is a part. From the time you were
moved into the holding cells for transfer here, you
came under the jurisdiction of a Ministry that is
involved with the most vital interests of the UIPS.
The specifics of your mission will be covered in our
next session."

"The hell you say." Hodak bounced again. "You're
still dangling us on a string. Lay the whole bit
out. Now!"

Nods and grunts followed Hodak's demand.

"Very well," Xindral said, after a short pause.
"Actually, there's no reason to delay your marching
orders."

His voice flattened.

"By direction of the President of the United Inner
Planetary System you are appointed to the Strategic
Penetrations Detachment of the Ministry of
Intelligence. Your unit identifier is 'Sentinels'.
Your unit commander is Brad Curtin, present.

"Copies of your orders are in a secured file in
the Ministry of Intelligence. A copy is temporarily
posted in your core compartment. When you read it,
note that all requests for release or reassignment
are denied."

Xindral folded back into his normal, slightly bowed
posture. His audience, frozen, stared at him blankly.

"That's it for now." Xindral ordered, the flatness
gone. "Return to your compartment and report
back here in an hour. Brad, please stand by."





 Chapter FIVE


His jaws clamped tight, eyes glaring, Brad sensed
his companions rise to their feet around him.
Kumiko first, stood and wordlessly glided to the
closed passage portal. Her back to the others, she
waited for the panel to clear. Zolan, on his feet,
mouth agape, stared at Xindral.

Adari, still seated, gawked in bewildered disbelief
from Xindral to Brad to Hodak. Hodak glowered,
gestured rudely and cursed furiously and loudly.
Myra stood, silent behind an icy mask. Xindral,
perched on his stool, arms in his lap, impassively
observed their reactions.

The scene held for several seconds. Xindral broke
the silence.

"Your formal orientation and training begins when
you return. First I must speak with your Commander.
Please excuse us."

He turned and touched a disk on the bulkhead. The
entryway cleared and Jenkins appeared.

"Escort our friends back to their compartment,
Jenks. Commander Curtin will remain with me.
Return the group in an hour."

"Yes, sir."

Myra, Adari, Hodak and Zolan milled about for a
moment, then joined Kumiko at the portal. Passing
through, they spoke and gestured animatedly to
each other. The portal clouded over.

Xindral hefted his stool forward, placed it
alongside Brad, and folded his long frame onto it
facing the view tank.

"Just so you know, Brad," he said gently, bridging
the silence between them, "those of us who work in
Strategic Penetrations carry no formal rank. If we
did, yours would be the equivalent of a Lieutenant
Commander in the United Inner Planetary System
Space Force. Mine would be a notch or so above."

He shifted his frame about and bent a long leg
to bring his foot up to the lower rung. His tone
shifted into neutral. Cool.

"My friends call me Ram. OK?"

Brad nodded, eyeing him. Ram drew back a bit
and contemplated the control in his grasp. After a
moment he stroked the keys. A rainbow of colors
swirled and drifted off, replaced by an ash-gray
sphere. Planet Pluto spread across half the tank
with its flat stretches of methane frost broken
by low, jagged chasms, hillocks and craters. Charon
and the Slingshot Logistics Depot hung off near
the edge of the tank's flattened top.

Brad glanced at the scene, and back to Ram.

"Brad," Ram spoke slowly, quietly, "a trite
expression, repeated all too often during our
history, is 'humankind now faces its greatest
crisis'. The statement has been declared so often
across the ages that it's lost meaning, obviously
because it changes in context and perception
from one event, century or millennium to the
next. I suppose those who said it, believed it.
Nevertheless, even if the term 'crisis' never
really applied in the past, it does in these times
for humankind's destiny.

"The deficits in our nonrenewable assets, and the
many other natural substances we depend on, if
not resolved within the next few centuries, could
force us back into caves, and I don't use that word
'figuratively'. Ceramics, composites, and other
substitutes are fine as far as they go, but they
do only a tiny part of the job.

"We'll soon be running short of substitutes for
our substitutes. Building bigger and better colonies
in space over the past thousand years or so has
consumed far more of our resources than expected.
Earth is almost barren and many space colonies in
both regions can no longer meet existing needs
fromtheir regions, let alone those of the future.

"In short, our dispersed civilizations must have
access to sources for minerals and other industrial
substances, not only now but in perpetuity, in order
to survive and evolve. Our species isn't built to
accept inactivity or slipping backward. If we don't
move on to something new and challenging, then
we'll drift into extinction. You've heard this all
dozens of times; I won't dwell on it further."

Ram stood, paced, and turned his head to keep Brad
in sight as he paced and reversed direction. Brad's
eyes fixed on the view tank and stayed there.
There was nothing new in Ram's words, so far.

"Slingshot schedules are in their most critical
phase. We have a launch window for the Extractor.
It's not much of a window. If we miss it, Slingshot
fails. It's that simple. The launch cannot be
aborted; there'll be no second chance. People
across the system, by the millions, are committed
to the schedule. You, and your crew now serve in
that legion."

"What's going on here?" Brad cut in. "Are you
telling me we've been pressed into this job with
no choice of our own?"

His anger showing, Brad thumbed over his shoulder
toward the entryway, then at his chest.

"Tell me, Ram," Brad demanded, "how did it happen
that we six, three men and three women, are here
at this time for this purpose?"

"We'll get to that in time." Ram said, "I've
reviewed your trial record, but I'd like to hear it
from you -- straight. What happened?"

Brad stared at Ram for several seconds, obviously
making up his mind. Finally, he shrugged, and
contemplated his hands.

"Well, then you know I was Captain of a space
freighter," he began. "My job was to transport
high-mass mining equipment, ores and refined
stuff between Mercury, Venus and Luna.

"When this mess happened, we were Luna-bound with
a full load of worn out track-layers, rock-crushers,
drill robots, filters and other tools in the
forward and aft storage bays, and ingots
well-secured in stress-certified compartments.
The ship was at capacity, but within legal limits.
Mass and balance had been certified by Space
Traffic Control before they cleared us from Venus
orbit. The ship was in order.

"We were only about twenty-million kay from
the Luna Space Traffic Control Zone, but still in
max drive. Plenty of time to kick-in vector and
deceleration programs."

Brad paused, shifted position, rubbed his jaws,
sighed deeply, glanced sideways at Xindral and,
his voice tighter, continued.

"That's when that strung-out jock in a space-buggy
took us on for a game of 'chicken'.

"The buggy was a single-seater, tiny, barely ten
meters bow to stern, but the way she whipped
around us, it was plain to my duty officer that
she was charged by a micro deep space drive.
My duty officer hit the alarm; I got to the bridge
within ten seconds after the buggy's first pass.

"I checked our status and proximity-to-mass
in vicinity; then my ship's scope analyses of the
buggy's thrust and gyrations. She was obviously
overpowered for mass, especially in the confined
lanes plowed by slow freighters like mine.

"My three-hundred-meter freighter with all storage
bays packed bulkhead to bulkhead with high mass, is
barely maneuverable under the best of circumstances.
Evasive action against some hot shot in a souped up
space-buggy was out of the question.

"It got worse. Not only did the jock ignore my
warnings; he lined up alongside my bridge and
danced on his thrusters. He flipped from relative
vertical to horizontal, then corkscrewed us
lengthwise fore to aft and back. To add insult, he
whirled his buggy on its tail like a damn dervish,
right alongside where I stood on my bridge and
then cut across my bow. That hotshot was one
good pilot, I'll grant him that.

"After a minute or so of that, the buggy circled
my ship, close. The pilot probably liked what he saw,
because he surface-snaked us again bow to stern.
That must have been boring; he peeled away, tore
ahead a quarter-million kay, skewed around, and
came straight at my bow, curdling space. When
collision was just about unavoidable, he did an up
and over. In doing that, he cut us much too close,
snapped off a dozen masts, sensors and nav guides.

"The jock must have gone berserk; he took us on
for full 'chicken'. He shot ahead about a million kay,
flip-flopped, and came at us head-to-head, taunting
us with his collision signals. Our computer showed
him as boosting all the way."

Another long pause. Brad looked directly at Xindral.

"We collided, head on," he said. "That brightly
colored, beautiful little flitter buried itself
deep in our forward cargo bay. My rescue team
went in, but we knew ahead of time what we'd find.
It was there: chunks of metal, shards of bone,
and scraps of flesh splattered on mining gear,
rock-crushers, and other odd pieces of equipment.

"The Space Guard hearings were followed by a
quick trial. The jock was the son of a politician,
so here I am."

Brad looked away, then back at Ram.

"Your turn," he said. "What's the story on how we
became the 'chosen'?"

"The selection was certainly not random," Ram
stood and stretched to his full height as he
spoke. "Despite the billions of citizens in the UIPS,
we're all tagged and catalogued. It's a simple job
for the computers to correlate any unique manpower
requirements the government might have to the UIPS
index, cross-check phys-psy profiles, professions
and technical skills plus experience, competence,
reliability and anything else that we crank in as
rating factors. You mentioned 'three men and
three women'; your mission can not exclude
gender compatibility consistent with the prevailing
psychosocial construct -- this is what we are.

"In my line of work, our data bank produces
an optimal selection of personalities, skills and
identities for the best possible teams we might
need to support our contingency plans. Old stuff;
we've been doing that throughout history. Why you
folks? The computer selected you, showed where
each of you was located and why, and that you were
all, shall we say, relatively unknown and available.
None of you will be missed."

Brad and Ram locked eyes as Ram added, "As far as
the mission goes, you and your colleagues were sent
here for confinement and rehab, whatever the reason
and however rehab was to be done. It's just that
your team has been diverted. Coddling and other
amenities of confinement are not part of our
program. If you feel you're being treated unfairly,
that's unfortunate. We need every qualified man
and woman we can get. The prime requisite is that
the team, meaning you and your colleagues, have
and share the intelligence, initiative, guts and
whatever else it takes to do the job."

"That's another point right there," Brad shot
back. "You've assigned us a mission, you tell us it's
dangerous, and then add, as an aside, you've judged
us up to it, whatever in hell that's supposed to
mean. But let me tell you, if I'm the guy to run
it, I want to know a lot more. I've got to have
confidence each team member will be there when
the chips are down. So, what can I expect?"

For a moment, Ram gazed shrewdly at Brad. His
eyes twinkled, and his features mustered a sly grin.

"You seem to have slipped into the role of team
Commander," he said.

Brad looked away, hesitated a moment, and rubbed
his jaw thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "I agree with what you've said
about the mess we're in. No question in my mind
that Slingshot is our only option. Obviously, I
have nothing else on my schedule. Just doing time
in this tin can would be a bore. But that doesn't
justify your pushing me -- us -- around. OK, that's
said, let's get back to my crew. I'll not pry where
I've no business to, but who are they?"

"Their psychological profiles are available to
you," said Ram. "I agree, you'll know all you need
to know about them to get the job done. I can give
you a quick rundown on each now, if you wish."

"I do."

"Myra is a logistician and a Medic certified to
Level 4 in space-related trauma, physical and
psychological. She was Med-Exec to a research
team in a mini-tank town off Venus. Somehow,
she got involved with the leader of a gang running
controlled substances around the Inner Region. When
the net was pulled in, there she was. Tried as an
accessory and judged guilty. Nowhere near criminal
in my judgment. She's quite bitter because she was
used, and then convicted and sentenced on what
she feels are false charges."

"I understand her bitterness."

"Nothing we can do. Your engineer, Hodak, is a
damned good heavy-duty spacecraft maintenance
engineer. Also lots of experience on a broad range
of space support equipment used in surface ops.
He's been all over the Inner Region, and worked
on Ceres where he was the spaceport's Chief of
Maintenance for about ten years. Got into a fight
off Mars while on R & R and killed a guy. Convicted
of manslaughter. He's an expert in the martial arts
and in using exotic weapons. Space-wise."

"Understood. Next?"

"Zolan. As he said, a communicator and, I might
add, from way back. As a child, he was classified
'gifted' and treated accordingly by the system.
At the age of twelve, he came up with design
refinements for spunnel cracking and transmission
that raised eyebrows among the top pros in
the field. His skill caused his downfall: he was
convicted of illegally penetrating and modifying a
database that was integrating a highly sensitive
project. Just enjoying the challenge, he claimed.
The project engineer didn't get wise until too
late. During the trial he told off his former
bosses; called them incompetent and not qualified
to pass judgment on him or his work. Anyhow,
he got a couple of years to cool off."

"Does this job call for his kind of communications
expertise?"

"Yes, and more. Zolan is an extremely important
asset for your mission. You'll agree, I think, when
we get to your orders and the operation. I should
add that, when your training is over, you will all
be good communicators. But Zolan is at the hub."

"That leaves Adari and Kumiko. What's their input?"

"Adari is your navigator. She knows both Regions
like the palm of her hand, and her record shows
she's well versed in nav for the entire system. She
got drunk on duty and borrowed the ship's recreation
funds without permission to have a gambling holiday
on Luna's Station Vegas. She returned broke as well
as hung over. To add to her problems, some joker on
Vegas gave her a whiff of Titan's deep strata gas.
Almost blew her mind, but she's OK now. Spent
a year in hospital on Guardian 18. No permanent
damage. Now, she's doing time on the funds charge.
Excellent navigator and gutsy."

"Kumiko?"

"Ah, little Kumiko," Ram smiled. "Last, but far
from least. Kumiko is a former officer of the UIPS
Space Force and an expert in space armaments.
She can break down entire systems, and repair and
reassemble them, blindfolded, from micro-miniatures
to the big stuff. For some reason, her talent
made her rather defiant of authority. Took
manual control of her ship's guns when her patrol's
sensors tagged unknowns inbound across no-mans-land
sunside of the Jovian orbit. The unknowns were
under a heavy screen and wouldn't cooperate with
the Space Guard's self-identification requirements.
Her Commander told her to punch a tiny hole in the
screens, just enough to identify.

"Instead, she not only blew the screens away, she
scorched the bow of a UIPS cruiser on a classified
mission. The cruiser was out-of-line, of course;
they should have responded to the query; protocols
call for them to do so. But Kumiko went too far.
She was forced to resign from the Service, and
offered a choice to either join a penetration team
to the Outer Region or work in an arsenal under
tight supervision. She made her choice."

"Quite a group."

"All different, yet six of a kind," he said. "None
of you, by far, are hardened offenders of the law.
The crimes you were convicted of were, how shall
I put it, less than deliberately malicious."

"Hah!" Brad's bitter snort curdled in his gullet.

Xindral shrugged. His manner changed; tightened.
He motioned toward the view tank.

"Let's get on with it, Brad," he said. "There's a
lot we need to cover."





 Chapter SIX


Brad leaned back, drew his legs in and stretched
them straight, heels to the deck. His eyes followed
Ram to the dais and as he turned to face him.

"You and your crew will start intensive training in
intelligence operations using our most advanced
methods. It will cover infiltration, interrogation,
psychological defenses against psychic probes
and other means that might be used to acquire
information from you, under duress or otherwise.
You will absorb intelligence countermeasures and
counter-countermeasures, identification of military
spacecraft and weapons used by both the UIPS
and INOR, analysis of our military capabilities and
those of our adversaries, covert communications
through conventional, unconventional and spunnel
channels, and other tricks of the trade. Your quick
reaction reflexes will be enhanced through means
that will not be apparent to you."

"What does that last part mean?"

"I'll get to it. First, your mission. Your escape
from this Station has been arranged. The pieces
are being moved into place. Your immediate
destination is tanktown Coldfield on Planet Pluto."

The view tank's image of Pluto expanded as did
the gray-black contrasts of the planet's surface.
A white light in a mottled area blinked, drawing
Brad's momentary attention. His eyes returned
to Ram.

"Your initial field of operations is centered in
Coldfield," Ram pointed to the light. "Where you go
from there depends on the contacts you develop
and how well you exploit each opportunity. The tank
town has a permanent population of about fifty
thousand plus about ten thousand transients.
Mix with the transients for starters."

"Get to the mission, Ram," Brad cut Xindral short.

Ram sighed. "We've sent a succession of formal
diplomatic missions to INOR," he said, "including a
few to the renegades that now run Planet Pluto.
We've asked them repeatedly to not interfere with
the Slingshot program. We've emphasized to each
INOR government that Slingshot is as important
to them as it is to us. They're not listening. We're
still pressing diplomatic means, meanwhile, our
logistics is being disrupted by Pluto's President
Narval's hoodlums."

"How does this team fit in?"

"If we send in a military force to sweep away
these scoundrels, our action will be seen as an
imperialist intrusion into the Outer Region. It
will create such resentment among the governments
out there that the Slingshot schedule cannot help
but suffer serious harm. Getting INOR's cooperation
will also become more difficult than ever.

"Maybe, if we gather enough hard evidence of
a conspiracy and confront them with it, they'll
change their ways. Right now, they're blaming the
attacks on partisans over whom they say they
have no control. We don't buy that. We need you
to gather and send confirmations to us and, while
you're doing that, disrupt the plans and weapons
being marshaled against us. Use whatever
initiatives you can devise on site. Go where you
need to, do whatever it takes to frustrate our
adversaries."

"What happens if we fail?"

"Failure is unacceptable. As long as you or any
of your people are alive and useful to us we'll get
through to you and we'll expect you to keep us
current on developments."

"Big order."

"Yes, it is."

"I am, or rather, I was, skipper of a space
freighter," Brad said, tenting his hands. "I know
almost nothing of military operations, intelligence
gathering, and especially covert actions, whatever
those might entail. I'm not familiar with space
weapons except for garden-variety small arms. Other
than Kumiko, I gather that the members of this team
are not experts in the weapons and explosives we
are likely to encounter or use. You're sending us
in against a rough crowd, from the way you describe
them. Aren't you risking a lot on us?"

"Absolutely."

"I refuse."

"You're not being given the choice. Neither are
the others."

"I can withhold my cooperation."

"I repeat, Brad, you have no choice."

Ram paused, eyeball to eyeball with Brad,
whose eyes had gone cold. Ram's voice went as
flat as when he had read the group their orders.

"You will be psychologically adjusted as you
progress through this indoctrination. The
'adjustment', for want of a better term, is
necessary for several reasons. It applies to
the entire team."

Brad stared.

"What does that mean?"

"Just that we can't afford to let normal human
weaknesses and scruples interfere the mission."

"The hell you say," Brad raised his voice. "You're
telling me we're expendable?"

"You're in covert intelligence work, Brad, and
you'll be in the enemy's camp. Doesn't that
answer your question?"

"Come on, dammit."

Meeting Brad's eyes, Ram shrugged.

"Each of you will be full to the brim with
motivational boosters to keep you oriented to
the mission. You won't stray, whatever the
temptations. We'll install undetectable barriers
against psychic probes; then there are..."

"Damn you, Ram." Brad cut in, his voice crackling
with rage. "You sons of bitches are going to
robotize us. Expendable is bad enough; you're
programming us into suicide."

"Not quite, Brad. Hear me out."

Ram paced restlessly as he spoke, his tall, slender
frame swaying, his head changing direction to
maintain eye contact.

Brad rose and stood erect, legs apart, fists on
hips, fury pouring out in his body language.

"Your team has just been assembled," Ram said,
"yet we don't have a moment to lose to get you
in place and operational. Orientation and training
will allow no more than four sleeps. The special
knowledge and skills each you needs for this
mission will be implanted into your conscious and
subconscious minds, and, as it suits our needs,
into your survival instincts. We have a long
history at this game."

Brad rose and strode angrily up the aisle to the
door and pressed the panel that would slide it
open. The panel did not function. Other than raise
his eyes to follow him to the door, Ram continued
talking as if Brad had remained nearby. After a
moment's hesitation, Brad returned to his seat.
Ram paused and gazed at Brad sympathetically.

"If you're all going to operate like a well-lubed
machine, without appearing to be doing so," he
said, "you'll need all the gimmicks we can hang on
to each of you."

Ram shrugged and went on, "News of your escape
will be broadcast system-wide; all part of the cover.
They'll be suspicious for quite a while, but you've
got to infiltrate, despite the risks.

"The mission has many subtleties; you must all
understand how they interact. Above all, you must
never, despite the most extreme interrogation,
betray the mission. In that sense, yes, you are
expendable. Small comfort, I know, but insurance
against betrayal will entail a simple psy-mod."

"Is there to be a complex one?"

"Yes."

"Let's have it all, man."

"If you are to join these terrorists, pirates, or
whatever they are, your characters must be suitable
to blend with theirs. On the one hand, you will be
loyal to each other and to us; on the other, you,
and I mean each of you, will lie, cheat, bribe,
subvert, sabotage, and kill for the mission, and
if it serves our greater purpose, act convincingly
against us. That's one complex psy-mod."

"There's more?"

"There's communications and one other. About
comm, off-planet messages from Planet Pluto,
especially through spunnel channels, are under
the tight control of Pluto's insurgent government.
Transmission facilities are under constant heavy
guard. You'll all be checked out by the Pluto's
security people to make sure none of you are
carrying prohibited comm gear or are otherwise
wired."

"The 'other'."

"Last resort. It's need-to-know, if and when
needed. When you become aware of the
crisis to which it applies it will surface in your
consciousness and in the mind of one other member
of your team. You'll each know what to do."

"Sounds like a jolly crowd."

Ram grinned.

"I'm sure you'll all have a party. Back to comm:
the Log Depot and the Terminal work sites
have spunnel centers. Zolan will have the access
codes to the Log Depot. At all costs, keep the
construction site from becoming involved in
this intelligence operation. If word got out that
we used the Terminals for covert intelligence
or military transmissions, the Outer Region
governments would blow their collective tops.
We can rationalize using the Log Depot if we
experience piracy and harassment of our
transports and citizens. It'll be extremely
dangerous to go beyond that."

"No chance of using the Pluto comm center?"
Brad asked.

"Don't count on it." Ram replied grimly.

"What happens afterward, assuming that we
survive? Also, can what you're doing to each
of us be reversed so that we can return to
what, for us, would be normal?"

"In the order you raise them: first, after this
is over you will all be free citizens, records
cleared, and we'll help you to return to your
former lives, or reasonably close to what they
were; second, the mods are reversible and you
will all be de-programmed.

"You mention survival, Brad. You may be searching
for assurance that you'll come through alive. I
can't give you that assurance, for you or for your
team. In all sincerity, I think that you and your
team have less than an even chance for survival.
Understand then, the name of the game is dare,
but not stupidly."





 Chapter SEVEN


Arms folded across his chest, Brad half-listened
to Hodak reeling off status from screens that lined
the Raven's flaked, time-battered bridge.

The indicators in Brad's line-of-sight, at least
those that still functioned, displayed erratic and
uncertain status of systems and accessories in the
main power plant, fluids pressure pumps, oxygen
generators and other vital gear. More than slightly
precarious, according to the dials and blinking
lights, but the records would show that the ancient
utility had been accepted at the spunnel gateway
in the void between the Asteroid Belt and Jupiter,
despite its technical difficulties.

Sneaking into the tail end of a crowded convoy of
Slingshot-bound transports gave them the 'jump'
they needed. The Neptune spunnel exit would do
fine and provide a seemingly reasonable story
under interrogation, if it came to that.

Stripped to her vitals, all but the simplest
decisions diverted from her computer, the Raven
reminded Brad of his old freighter when he first
took her over. The Raven's maintenance records
showed that she had slipped to less than marginal.
Hodak's expertise with duct tape and hand tools
would get credit for the successful escape.

Planet Pluto, in her ashen melancholy, lay dead
ahead. Sprawled across the frozen methane plain
a couple of points to starboard Coldfield's lights
shimmered through its frost-crusted, barely
translucent dome. Stretching away from the
twenty-kilometer-wide city, the mottled terrain
spread in all directions, slashed by ravines and
man-made, soil-fused excavations, roads and
bridges. Mooring towers, launch and landing pads
spotted the barren landscape across which
crawled processions of utility tugs.

Near-space cargo and passenger shuttles and
taxis landed at and departed from pads adjacent
pressurized air docks into the city. Deep-space
transports and utilities rode high, immobilized
by fore-and-aft mag-beams at the pinnacles of
two-hundred-meter mooring towers.

The Raven drifted closer. Brad noted the hard
orange glow of energy packs encapsulated in
vehicles moving about on the dome and surrounding
land surfaces. Adjusted magnification defined the
vehicles as personnel carriers, flatbed trailers,
dome fissure-fusers, and methane frost scrapers.
Coldfield was a busy place.

Charon drifted into view from over the horizon as
the Raven nosed forward. Only Lamplight's dome
and high-intensity flashers that pinpointed its
landing pads, gateways and walkways broke the
moonlet's solid gray-green landscape. Further out,
the logistics depot slid slowly across the sky like
a glowing green-and-orange sausage.

Zolan keyed a signal to Pluto Traffic Control
as the Raven crossed the line into the planet's
jurisdiction. He added the ship's name and call
sign. Several minutes passed without response.
Zolan leaned back from the console and winked at
Brad. News of their presence had preceded them
and the locals were likely wondering why had the
ship appeared in their skies.

The receiver squawked, "Raven. Stand by for escort."

A yellow-and-green-striped space tug drifted
alongside and flashed its 'Follow Me' signal. Brad
nodded at Zolan who acknowledged the tug's
instruction. Adari trimmed the Raven's controls
and clamped a mag beam on the tug. She and the
tug driver exchanged salutations and prattled
navigational details as the escort moved off with
the Raven following like an elephant leashed to a
flea. Adari logged their destination: Slot 09 along
Coldfield marker 13K.

Their passage was slow. Despite the heavy traffic
of tugs, taxis, and other small craft the lanes
were orderly and the flow steady. Traffic thinned
as the ship drifted across surface-parked lots for
small vessels and disappeared entirely as the Raven
closed on its mooring towers.

The escort rattled off the coordinates and the
Raven fixed her position. Adari released the
mag-beam. The tug slipped around to starboard
and mag-nosed the clumsy vessel into its slot. A
command from the tug and mooring beams glowed
at the fore-and-aft towers to immobilize the Raven.
Adari and the tug driver exchanged rough civilities
and the escort was up and away.

"Lock down, fore and aft," Brad intoned. "Safety
check mooring beams and vital connections. Secure
all internal hatches and passages. Set environment
controls at minimal levels for an indefinite stay.
Report."

He keyed the order into the log, added the time
of entry, and keyed the record closed using his
suspended Space Master's code.

Myra assembled records required by port officials.
Hodak and Adari consulted checklists as they
trooped from one compartment to the next; Hodak
opened and closed switches, turned wheels and
secured and sealed valves as Adari observed and
verified. She surveyed each station, mumbled,
"confirmed," and initialed the appropriate items
on her copy of the checklist.

Zolan closed down the deep space communications
system and inspected their suit's intercoms. Kumiko
drew six handguns from a rack, checked firing
controls and charges, and fitted the weapons to
suits.

Zolan called for a taxi.

 ##

"Lock-sealing the effective range on personal
weapons is the first order of business for all
newcomers."

The officious clerk in the Port Registration Office
was skinny, short, stooped and sallow; and he
squinted as if he had just emerged from darkness
into glare. The deep wrinkles around his mouth
twitched from cast-iron grin to scowl and back as
he pointed from Brad's holster to the waist-high
counter that separated them.

Brad drew his sidearm, checked the safety and
set it on the counter. His companions followed
suit. The clerk hefted each weapon in turn,
double-checked the safety, and positioned it
under a penetray scanner to check for illegal
modifications and, using a hand-held standard,
reset the range to Coldfield's limits.

"Five meters, max," he said as he worked, "and
minimum-effect level at all times. Set it any way
you want when you leave the dome, but reset it as
soon as you come back in. We do the first one for
the record; after that it's up to you. Penalty for
violation depends on circumstances; minimum is
a couple of sleeps in the brig."

He peered at them across the counter.

"We know who you are and where you came from,"
he said. "Keep out of trouble and you'll get by OK."

As he finished each weapon inspection he returned
it to the countertop, pointing the muzzle into
a shielded enclosure and stepped back behind a
barrier. The owner picked up the sidearm, rechecked
the safety and the setting, and slipped it back into
its sheath.

"Hope you were listening when I said we know
who you are," said the clerk, scowling, looking
from one to the other. "If you didn't hear me
the first time, I'll repeat it: keep out of trouble
and you'll get by OK. Y'hear?"

Brad scowled back, silent. Hodak grinned; Myra and
Kumiko nodded and vigorously pointed at themselves.

"I hate trouble," Myra said with solemn sincerity.

"Me too," Kumiko chimed in. "I hate trouble.
I really do."

Adari laughed, leaned over the counter, and
rumpled the little man's scant hair. He jerked away.

"Wouldn't think of it, Buster," she boomed.

She drew her hand back, looked at the palm,
and rubbed it on her suit as she turned away.
Zolan ignored the scene.

Hodak leaned over the counter and waved the clerk
closer.

"So you know where we're from, do you?" His voice
was a friendly growl and he got a curt nod in reply.

"Then you know we came here for sanctuary,"
Hodak said. "How do we get it?"

"Your entry permit is provisional; permanent party
status depends on how you adjust to our rules."

"This is the only place left to us," Hodak added
a whine to his voice. "We're not about to start
trouble and wear out our welcome." Switching to
a hoarse whisper, he added, "Look, man, we need
a place to put our stuff, and then we want to look
around. Maybe we can find action in our kind of
work that'll build up our credits. We've talked it
over." He thumbed to include his companions.
"We're available, and we can't afford to be choosy.
The Inner Region doesn't mean a thing to us. Know
what I mean?"

"Sure."

The clerk repeated his grin-scowl, snickered, and
slapped Hodak on the shoulder.

"What's the word on living accommodations under
the dome?" Adari cut in.

"Gotta register for permanent quarters, and you'll
need a permit to build a place of your own. They're
almost impossible to get. Try for 'temporary' until
you know your way around. Good place to start is
the Condor over on Con-man Slash."

"How do we get there?" Kumiko asked.

"Taxi to dome air lock 22," he replied. "Inside,
take the second transit strip. The off-ramps are
Smuggler's Alley, Faithhealer's Spread, Plunder
Cove, Bunco Crawl, and then Con-Man Slash.
It's in the center of town; you can't miss it."
He waved them toward the air lock. "On your way,
folks; you're cleared."

He watched them suit up and enter the air lock.
When he heard the whisper of the outer door, he
lifted a comm device, pressed buttons and spoke
hurriedly.





 Chapter EIGHT


Clearing the outer door, Zolan leaned against the
buffer, tightened his bootstrap with one gloved
hand, the other pressed against the wall to steady
himself. Seconds later, he pulled away, shook his
leg to settle the boot for comfort, and caught up
with Brad.

Grasping Brad's elbow activated the secure to-suit
circuit. Myra, Hodak, Adari and Kumiko crowded
in close and energized a camouflaging mix of
artificial jive and loud laughs on the nature of
the terrain, the location of the Transit Strip, the
tank town's appearance in the distance, whatever
served as a barrier to electronic penetration.

"The clerk passed the word about us," Zolan said.
"Gave full descriptions and said to notify someone
called 'Scarf'. By the way, he did a lot more than
check our weapons while we stood at the counter.
We were scanned down to our bones. He's sending
the file to his control, including the main portal's
lock combination on the Raven. He'll have a lifter
ready for someone who's to arrive soon. Looks
like they're going to search the ship."

"Fine," Brad nodded. "Nothing there to cause
us a problem. Pass the word as we move along.
No changes in plans until some contacts develop.
Then we'll regroup and go on from there."

Boarding a robo-taxi that had just discharged
suited figures at a nearby mooring tower, the
Sentinels lined up along the taxi's portal. Zolan
consulted a placard on the instrument panel and
punched in the coordinates for Air Lock 22. As
the flitter rose and headed toward the dome Brad
thought back as he weighed their chances.

The processes of intense physical training and
weapons drills, the concentrated telepathic loading
of Plutonian political history and its government's
despotic apparatus had been cleared from their
consciousness; the substance remained. Nor were
they aware of any new or altered neuro-muscular
capabilities or functions. They knew they had a job
to do, and what the job was. They were on their own:
no mercy from one side, no help from the other.

More than three-score sleeps had passed since
their choreographed escape; only the events flashed
through his mind; why they happened did not.

The Raven, on a lengthy umbilical-catwalk, had
been tethered to the Guardian Station, ostensibly
for maintenance after a servicing round of
nearby communications boosters. The ship was
skeleton-staffed. Brad and his companions had
been secretly transferred beforehand to a cubicle
adjacent access to the catwalk.

At Brad's signal, the Sentinels moved quickly.
Hodak, acting as clumsily as he could, slammed
and locked the passageway safety doors with the
loudest noises he could generate, broadcasting the
unusual activity to all within hearing range and for
electronic sensor pickup.

They had lurched and stumbled noisily along the
catwalk, Adari suppressing giggles. As the last
of the six cleared in through the Raven's air
lock, Hodak had hit "Emergency," on appropriate
switches and the ship-to-station servicing lines went
through quick-disconnect. Portals closed and locked.

Within seconds, Brad was on the bridge and his crew
at rehearsed departure stations. The caretaker
officer and his two aides stepped aside, silent,
businesslike. They were Ram's men.

Adari hit the tether-disconnect. Disengaged, the
catwalk coiled in toward the station as the ship
edged away. Signaling Hodak for minimal repulse and
acceleration to increase the drift, Brad ordered all
hands immediately into accelo-nets. He increased
thrusters to 'low' and, following a moment's pause
into 'intermediate'. As soon as he sensed they
could handle the acceleration he stepped the thrust
up to successive levels.

The old tub creaked, pitched, rolled and yawed;
lights flickered and dimmed; systems slipped
into yellow or borderline red on half a dozen
indicators, all recorded on the ship's log. The
Raven all but flapped wings, and true to her
name, took off. To the hundreds who watched
from the station's portholes, the escape was
real. The cover might hold.

The alarms went out from the Guardian Station to
Sector Space Guard, and from there to a patroller
conveniently distant.

Messages spunneled throughout the sector and
to Earth and Luna: "Escape of dangerous felons,",
"Sabotage of station surveillance system,",
"Station 15 unable to respond in time," or
"Immediate pursuit and capture essential" with
abundant 'Expedites' and 'ASAPs' scattered
throughout the text.

The scenario was exquisite. The word was out,
and within hours, had spread system-wide.

 ##

A couple of million kay out, Ram's men boarded
a well-stocked lifeboat and headed back to a
prearranged pick-up. The Raven settled into
outbound, Brad aware of an opportunity to merge
with traffic at a not too distant spunnel gate.

 ##

Brad brought his mind back to the present as
the flitter settled on the landing pad near air lock
22. Entering the pressure compartment and attaining
atmospheric balance the Sentinels removed their
suits and sealed them in wall lockers. The switch
of weapons and holsters to clips on their inner
coveralls completed, they strolled out of the
storage room and mingled with a throng of citizen
commuters. Moments later they were on a moving
transit strip on their way to beautiful downtown
Coldfield.

The strip cut across and through narrow streets
and alleys lined with huts fused from the gray
detritus of the planet.

Occasionally, a mall or square appeared along the
transit route, lined with workshops, playgrounds,
and colorful private houses or apartment complexes.
Occasionally, they passed a dwarf tree or a
flowering shrub in an earth-filled container.

Running and leaping alongside the moving strip as
it passed slowly through stations, hawkers waved
and shouted at the commuters and passers-by,
inviting them to examine and purchase the novelties
and artefacts they waved about or in nearby open
air stalls. From above, lighted globes, strung close
beneath the dome, cast a harsh, grotesque glare
across the city.

People swarmed, and a raucous clamor shrilled along
the tightly packed streets and alleys. Men, women
and children in all shapes and sizes: tall, short,
stocky, slender, organic, bionic, robotic, and
combinations thereof. Hairstyles ranged from
totally shaved skulls to elaborate hair-puffs, and
garments from dreary, simple shifts to flamboyant,
complex robes that twisted, circled, and knotted
around their wearers.

This was Planet Pluto post-secession: a mixture of
migrants from across the system. The tank town
took them all, for itself or for Slingshot, or both.
Those who stayed procreated, natural or clone,
according to their customs or inclinations. The
effect was a mixture of breeds whose interactions
had brought out a bewildering patchwork of hybrid
cults, philosophies and arts. Behavior ran the
gamut; newcomers accepted or were overwhelmed.

Kumiko pointed ahead. The Condor loomed,
a sprawling, multi-storied, down-at-the heels
apartment-hotel, its surface colors akin to the
low, drab rise on which it stood.

Disembarking the strip, the companions assembled,
slipped into an alley and entered a portal into the
crowded lobby. Joining the laughing, chattering
throng, they squeezed their way to the desk robot,
and registered as a group. Individual identicards
ejected from an aperture, assigning them to a small
apartment with sleeping cubicles off a common room.
The communal lavatory and electronic bio-shower
were down the hall.

Entering the apartment and tossing their gear into
a corner, they kept up a running chatter. Hodak's
main concern was where their next meal was coming
from.

"Gotta find jobs or we don't eat," he barked as he
hoisted his pack on to a sleep pad and tore at its
flaps.

Kumiko and Adari opened and slammed cabinets,
checked housekeeping supplies and "ooh-ed" and
"ah-ed" each discovery. Myra and Brad stomped
into a sleeping cubicle and heaved the sleeping
pads first one way, then the other.

"Look in the corners," Hodak bawled across the
narrow hall, "that's where the little buggers build
their nests."

Myra shrieked and drew her sidearm as Brad stepped
back. She set the ray-spread to conic and ran the
beam from one end of the pad to the other, into
the corners and along the walls. They inspected
the results, laughed loudly, and went on to the next
cubicle to repeat their exuberant performance.

Zolan strolled from one room to the next,
sharing the action with his noisy friends,
meanwhile scanning the walls, ceiling, floor,
lighting fixtures, visi-screens and cabinets.

He rounded toward Brad and brushed against
him. His fingers pressed their message. The
others, watching, drew the correct conclusion.

The rooms were bugged, sight and sound.





 Chapter NINE


Brad and Hodak pushed into the Charnel Pit,
Coldfield's popular tavern.

The bar-room was noisy, grimy and crowded.
Incense streamers slid and coiled along the
soil-fused floor, their dissipating pungency
unable to disguise the acrid stench of sweaty
bodies and unwashed garments.

The long bar was hidden by leaners. Narrow aisles
snaked among benches and clustered tables around
which boisterous, elbowing humanity teemed.

A coarsely seamed face along the bar turned,
observed Brad and Hodak as they glanced around
from inside the doorway. Whispers went down the
line, jumped to the tables and around the room.

The tumult ground down as necks craned. A hum
rose and fell as Brad and Hodak were inspected,
commented upon, and judged. It didn't take long
for the noise to return to its former level: the
amenities of bar-rooms everywhere.

From where he stood, Hodak failed to see a
table with a couple of empty chairs. They waited.
Shortly, nudging Brad's arm, he nodded toward
a table newly vacated against a wall.

They shoved and twisted through the narrow spaces
to the table in time for Hodak to slam his hand,
palm down, flat on the tabletop, glaring off a trio
of competitors.

They sat, and Hodak pressed the glow-disk in the
center of the table to summon the robo-dispenser.
Meanwhile, they surveyed the throng.

Some types were recognizable; others would
need to be guessed at. Mostly, they were familiar:
spacefarers and space tug cowboys in tight-fitting
foundation suits, construction stiffs in fitted
helmets and spacer harnesses, clerks and tradesmen
in business tunics, and street people in coarsely
woven, grimy open-necked shirts and shorts.
Slingshot technicians' jumpsuits were marked
by distinctive shoulder patches.

Scattered in knots, or leaning against walls and
supports, men and women, bare to the waist
and sporting sheer breechcloths or none at all,
flaunted their wares.

Brad recognized spoilsmen plying their trades.
They were the dandies attired in colorful, skin-tight
sports suits: thieves, pickpockets, high-tech gear
rustlers, black marketeers, professional gamblers,
and experts in all the scams that are or ever were.

Hand and shoulder weapons were everywhere: lashed
to thighs or slung across backs, flat on tables or
stacked along the bar. Churning and jostling, the
swarm shifted constantly: singly, in couples and
groups; from fledglings newly on the wing to old
timers diminished by adversity. Most were in their
prime: hard of face and body, wary, unbridled and
self-seeking. They mixed freely.

At a table further along the wall near to where
Brad and Hodak sat, Drummer gently swirled the
contents of his drinking goblet. He was gaunt, well
past middle years, with a high-boned countenance.
His head was capped by snow-white hair trimmed
straight across at his shoulders. Dressed simply,
Drummer wore a dark cloak over a white, open-necked
blouse tucked into loose breeches that ended a bit
below his knees. He did not bear a weapon.

Drummer stared about and searched for strangers
that might serve his purpose. When he heard that
the Raven was at planet-fall, he had called for
and reread all available newscasts and reports to
refresh his recollections of their crimes, personal
backgrounds, and escape.

Were they really escaped prisoners? Or were
they agents of the UIPS? If they were fugitives
they might be suckered into President Narval's
mercenaries where their spacer skills would help
fill the gaps. If they were revealed to be UIPS
agents, they would be quickly disposed of, or
manipulated and exploited through false leads
to Narval's benefit. When no longer useful they
would be terminated.

The newscasts and intelligence summaries on the
escape were insufficient. Drummer's position as
one of Narval's closest advisors, and his own private
and secret ambitions, compelled him to learn more
about the newcomers. How could they fit into his
schemes?

Drummer ordered a fresh drink from a passing
robo-dispenser. It arrived in a large snifter.
Cradling the rounded bottom in his palm, he swished
the gold-hued liquid with a gentle motion, eyes
moving from the drink to the crowd to Brad and
Hodak, and randomly round again.

A hard-muscled sledgehammer of a man barged
into the Charnel Pit, sullen anger knotting his beefy
face. His military uniform was skin-tight: a black
tunic belted over blood-red breeches. The military
helmet he wore was also halved black and red as
were his holster and the handgrip of the protruding
weapon. His black cavalier boots were made for
swaggering. Formidable.

Deep, red-rimmed eyes glared from under the
helmet's visor, searching for an open space along
the bar. The line was solid.

"Open ranks," he snarled, and leaned heavily into
the instant gap.

The barman rushed forward and raised his hand
in respectful greeting.

"Honored to see you, Major Scarf," he said,
"what'll it be?"

"Firehouse Red, and I don't mean the runny slops
you peddle to the bar flies."

The barman dashed off and returned with a
long-necked flagon and a large tumbler. He poured
a slow-flowing, crimson liquor that bubbled as it
settled. The barman set the brimming tumbler
close to the Major's massive, thick-fingered hand.

The Firehouse Red disappeared in a single,
spasmodic swallow, for all its slow-flowing nature.
The barman stood by. The instant the tumbler slammed
down, he refilled it, the ritual repeated in silence.

 ##

Finally, the sledgehammer hesitated, belched, and,
with a satisfied sneer, scratched his crotch. The
barman filled the tumbler a third time and turned
away. Instantly, the flagon was yanked from his
hand. The barman glanced back at the flagon, Major
Scarf's face, grinned sheepishly, and kept going.

Placing the flagon alongside on the bar, Scarf
raised the half-filled tumbler, fondled it, and
tossed a scornful glance up and down the line. Few
met his eyes, and those who did looked elsewhere as
soon as he fixed on them. With a snort of contempt
he wheeled to face the room. Removing his heavy
helmet and lowering it to the ground alongside his
leg, he leaned back to rest his elbows on the bar's
edge.

His eyes scanned the room, sectoring the crowd
and scrutinizing each person. Taking in the tables
along the wall, he paused at Brad and Hodak, and
scowled at them steadily through half-closed eyes.

Brad and Hodak returned Scarf's gaze with
expressions cold and closed. The Major's eyes
moved on and fixed on Drummer. His face twisted
into a malevolent grin.





 Chapter TEN


"Hey, everybody, quiet." Scarf's spit-and-phlegm
bellow tamped the bar-room noise. It ground down.

Pointing at the solitary figure seated at the wall
table, Scarf smirked and barked, "Give us the magic
words, Drummer."

The crowd's eyes went from Scarf to Drummer and
back. No one spoke.

"Drummer knows," Scarf added sarcasm to his
tone, raising his finger to tap his temple. "The future
is open to him."

Drummer sat, transfixed, staring at Scarf. His free
hand closed into a tense fist, then opened to cap
his knee.

"C'mon, Drummer," Scarf went on, derisively, "tell
us what you're going to do to make things right
for all of us, and how we'll all be prosperous after
Slingshot cuts away."

His voice became harsher, gibing.

"You've been sittin' on that Plutonian Council for
years, Drummer, pushing your pet ideas to loosen
up controls here and give more civil liberties there.
You call yourself a Progressive, whatever the
hell that's supposed to mean. To me, you're a
revolutionist, undermining Narval's government,
and trying to cram your politics down our throats."

Scarf moved away from the bar, drink in hand.
Taking a long noisy swallow, he fixed his eyes on
Drummer from above the rim.

Lowering his drink, he belched again and wiped his
mouth with his sleeve. Placing the tumbler on a
nearby table he took another step toward Drummer.

"Being on the Council saves your neck for now,
Drummer," he said with venom. "Soon as Narval
gets wise to you, and kicks your tail off, I'll be
coming after you."

He reached Drummer's table.

"On second thought, why wait that long," his voice
changed to a snarl. "Now's as good a time as any."

He grasped the front of Drummer's cloak and jerked
him to his feet.

"Tell me, old man, what can you do that Narval
can't?"

The onlookers' silence hung heavily. The stale
incense rose in eddies and diffused the shadows
cast by the glowing wall sconces.

"Show's over, Scarf," said Drummer in a low voice,
trying to twist away. "I've got to be on my way."

He placed his hand over Scarf's huge paw to loosen
its grip.

They were of equal height, but Scarf, more than
twice Drummer's mass and build, would have none
of it.

"The hell you do," he growled, tightening his hold.

Scarf began to shake Drummer, at first slowly, then
with growing violence. Drummer, unable to maintain
balance, slipped to his knees. Scarf jerked upward,
raising Drummer on unsteady feet. Ramming his
face close, he cursed in a loud, coarse monotone,
swinging Drummer in one direction, then another.
Unable to disengage, Drummer was confused. His
cloak tore, his hair fluttered about his face, and
specks of spittle flew from his lips.

Brad and Hodak watched the action from where
they sat. Scarf's sudden outburst was of more
than passing interest. He had called his victim
"Drummer," a name familiar to Brad through the
many intelligence briefings he had been given during
indoctrination; also, "Scarf" was a name used in
the immigration clerk's call from the landing site.

Other than military, who and what was Scarf, and
why was he tormenting Drummer? More important,
could this bar-room brawl be exploited to the
Sentinels' advantage? They desperately needed
contacts within Narval's regime. Their mission did
not allow the luxury of time. An opportunity had
just fallen into his lap. Brad leaned toward Hodak.

"The bruiser," he said. "Take him down, but easy."

Hodak shot a quick glance at Brad, rose and
shambled between the tables until he was behind
the sledgehammer.

Tapping Scarf on the shoulder, he said quietly,
"Hey, c'mon, let the old geezer alone. He was just
minding his..."

Scarf reacted with incredible speed for his size.
Shoving Drummer away, he whirled, arm extended.
Powered by the force of his pivot, the edge of his
rigid hand aimed directly at Hodak's throat.

Hodak stepped back and to the side, gripped Scarf's
thick wrist in his muscle-corded hands. Using his
attacker's momentum, Hodak twisted and bent.
The Major's huge body catapulted through the air
and crashed on to a table and its several chairs,
sending the occupants spinning.

A hand appeared from nowhere and pulled Scarf's
pistol from its holster. In seconds, Brad was back
at his table. The bar-room went deathly silent.

Scarf bounded up, spitting saliva, floor dust and
curses. He reached for his weapon and gaped when
he felt emptiness.

Recovering, hunched forward, he charged Hodak,
murder in his eyes.

Freed, Drummer stepped back to the wall, shaken,
not understanding what was happening. He searched
for a safe place.

Focusing on the struggle he recognized Hodak as one
of the escaped prisoners he had been speculating
about. Taking a chance, he moved toward the table
from where Brad watched the action and the crowd.

Hodak, waiting for Scarf's charge, stood balanced
until the last fraction of a second, then stepped
aside. Scarf passed like a juggernaut and smashed
into the bar.

Leaning heavily over the bar, breathing in
convulsive gasps, Scarf turned his head to glare at
Hodak. Running his hand down his thigh he felt again
for his weapon. Eyes narrowed to slits, he searched
along the filth-strewn floor. Scanning, his eyes
passed the table where Brad sat, stopped, and
snapped back.

The weapon, distinctive by its red and black grip,
lay there. He saw Brad watching, and Drummer
nearby, back to the wall.

Scarf lunged at Hodak, arms grappling. Hodak danced
back and away. As Scarf passed, Hodak grasped his
wrist and elbow, twisted, and curved Scarf's arm
back and up between his shoulder blades.

Hodak was gentle. With his free hand he probed
and manipulated nerve centers in Scarf's neck and
shoulders. Scarf dropped to his knees, then slipped
back on to his rump, legs spread, arms slack, face
perplexed. It was enough.

He sat there, shaking his head to clear it. Looking
up, he saw Hodak standing a short distance away,
and beyond, a ring of faces, several grinning, others
frightened and wary. Shifting his eyes to where his
weapon lay, Scarf glared at Brad and Drummer.

The silence was broken by the shuffle of Scarf
groping upright, using a nearby table for support.
He lurched to the bar and leaned over it for
several seconds. Straightening, he grasped his
helmet with one hand, wrapped the other around
the flagon of Firehouse Red, and stalked out of
the Charnel Pit.





 Chapter ELEVEN


The bar-room's heavy vapors seemed to cease
their dreary ballet. An uneasy cackle, strident and
jarring, erupted from a corner, accompanied by
the flat slap of a hard hand against the bar's rough
counter. The tension dissolved into a ripple of
raucous laughter. The hubbub resumed, and quickly
returned to its former level.

Myra, followed by Zolan, Adari and Kumiko, entered
the bar-room, spotted Brad and Hodak, and moved
toward them, snatching empty stools along the way.
Placing the stools, they encircled the table.

Their eyes took in Scarf's heavy-duty red-black
weapon, and then Brad and Hodak, elbows on table,
scanning the crowd. They saw Drummer nearby
and noted his disheveled appearance.

They rose silently, rearranged their seats, and
sat again, backs against the wall. Kumiko fixed her
eyes on the entryway; Adari scanned in the opposite
direction, taking in the bar. Zolan and Myra joined
Brad and Hodak to observe the roisterers resume
their bar-room habits.

Drummer still showed his embarrassment,
apprehension and rage. His eyes darted from
the doorway to Hodak to Brad. Brad turned his
head slightly to take him in, then pointed to an
overturned stool nearby.

"Pull up and sit a while."

"You in charge?" Drummer asked.

"No," Brad said, "we're each on our own. Just
socializing."

He motioned at the stool again.

"C'mon, join us."

Drummer looked closely at Brad, then at the others
who ignored him. Brad's expression was bland,
neutral.

Drummer felt certain that Scarf would return soon
with reinforcements. He had to get out, fast, and
he needed an escort to safety. Beyond that, he
wanted to know why the squat powerhouse, now
sitting calmly at the table, had intervened. He
must have realized that his interference had been
made at great personal risk.

Drummer righted the stool and stared intently at
Hodak as he sat. Hodak, sensing Drummer's scrutiny,
glanced sideways at him, winked straight-faced, and
returned to observe the crowd.

Drummer finally turned to Brad, convinced he was
the leader of this pack.

"We'd better get out of here, now," he said,
his tone urgent. "Scarf'll be back as soon as he
collects a few of his goons."

"What was it about?" Brad asked.

"No time for talk," Drummer replied, gesturing
his impatience. "We've got to get away from here,
and I mean right now."

"Sure, but who is that guy?"

"Major Scarf, Chief of Internal Security for
President Narval. He has his own troops, and I
don't doubt that he's lining them up right now."
Drummer's fingertips tapped the table in nervous
staccato. "Let's get out of here. Now."

Brad stood, and the others rose with him. "Lead
the way," he motioned Drummer toward the
doorway. "We're not familiar with the territory."

"Leave that to me," said Drummer.

Brad hefted Scarf's weapon, slipped it into 'safe'
and, passing the bar, handed it to the bartender
with a nod that was returned with a respectful wave.





 Chapter TWELVE


Mixing with the street people, Drummer in sight up
ahead, they moved swiftly. Adari trailed Drummer;
Brad next followed by Myra and Kumiko. Zolan and
Hodak brought up the rear. Drummer successfully
resisted the temptation to look back.

Zolan tensed, activating the mind-mike in his
armpit. Brad acknowledged by stepping up his pace.
He passed Adari and drew alongside Drummer.

"Your buddy, Scarf, must have had a friend in the
bar," he said. "We're being tailed."

"Another hundred meters. Cut into the alley on the
left."

Drummer responded. "It'll take us through a
maze that still confounds the street people. We'll
have a better chance in there to lose whoever is
following."

A corner loomed. They squeezed into a narrow,
rubble-strewn passageway between high, rough
walls. Stumbling along the barely lighted shaft
they entered an alley, equally shabby, crowded with
street people, refuse, and abandoned machinery.

They sped along the alley, noting its darkened,
fuser-formed doorways, some empty, others
clogged with trash. Inside, they saw the shadowy
outlines of men, huddled women and children.

Drummer twisted from one alley into the next,
and then another.

He ducked through a gap in one wall, squeezed along
a narrow hallway and exited into an open space. They
packed up close, running and stumbling.

Drummer slowed next to a wall of composite blocks.
Several were missing, leaving a space through
which they squirmed. It was tighter than they had
experienced. In near darkness, they had reached
a dead end.

Ahead was loose rubble forming a heap about two
meters high. Drummer clawed his way around the
side. He motioned the others forward and slipped
out of sight.

Following one behind the other, they saw an opening
in the surface. Responding to Drummer's beckoning,
they dropped into its darkness. The fall was less
than a couple of meters. A light glowed from a wall
to just enough to illuminate Drummer.

They were in a small, roughly rounded chamber.
The walls were fused rubble, irregular and jagged.
The floor was a mixture of Plutonian detritus.

Drummer knelt beside a rock that protruded from
the wall. He twisted the rock, pulled, and pushed
it sideways. Reaching into the vacated space, he
placed his palm on a flat, smooth disk.

A low hum from the wall. A fissure formed where
the wall met the trash-laden floor. The breach
lengthened and curved, its ends meeting the wall.
The section dropped away into darkness.

"Move, move," Drummer snarled his impatience.
"Scarf has this entire sector blocked out by now.
He'll throw his gangs into the alleys and cover
every square meter. These subsurface crawl spaces
and links are our only way. Feel for the ladder."

He lowered himself through the opening and vanished.

Brad was committed. His glance ordered the others
to follow Drummer. Hodak passed his light to Brad
and dropped through first, then Zolan followed
Myra, Adari and Kumiko. Brad dropped through
and pushed the cover up until it snapped. Closed.
He felt vibrations above him, then, after several
seconds, silence.

"Must be spreading the dust of our tracks and the
outline of the cover," Zolan murmured, looking up
from immediately below.

The ladder was rickety, and the shaft narrow and
long. When Brad reached bottom, he was in a low
gallery, about two meters square, hacked out of the
rock. They were in the hub of a dozen passageways
that led off in as many directions from low entries.

Drummer bent and disappeared through one of
the entries. One after the other, they followed.

The entry led into a utility service tunnel, the
walls lined with scores of braided cables and banks
of wall switches and junctions. Neutro-lighted
sconces glowed at intervals, providing dim
direction to their flight.

Scuttling in single file and dodging cables slung
between supporting columns, they covered distance
swiftly. Brad moved up behind Drummer, replacing
Hodak who dropped back to rear guard immediately
behind Zolan.

"Scarf knows about these utility passages, and that
we would head for them," Drummer gasped over his
shoulder. "What he doesn't know is which access and
branches we took and where we'll surface. A slight
advantage, if we act quickly."

They scampered and slithered for more than half
an hour. "Looks like we're the only ones down here,"
said Brad.

Drummer halted to recover breath. The line closed
up.

"Normal," Drummer gasped. "These passages were
abandoned years ago, after we switched to local
transmission from control modules suspended
beneath the dome. Too much trouble to collapse
the subsurface tunnels, I suppose. Also, we had
to consider the surface effects of a collapse.
Couldn't afford the chance. As you see, the
network is still useful."

He shot a quick glance at Brad, then ahead along
their route.

"Don't get the impression I've got to run from
Scarf," Drummer said, heaving another deep breath,
"or even to avoid him under ordinary circumstances.
Obviously, he was drunk. My presence in the bar-room
gave him an opportunity to enhance his image.
Your companion's intervention, I admit, relieved
the pressure, but the method he chose may prove
unfortunate."

"Why this melodramatic escape?"

"To avoid a confrontation in which Scarf, backed
up by his troops, would be in complete control; a
confrontation in which you couldn't possibly hold
your own. The encounter has already caused
me embarrassment. I don't relish a repetition."
Drummer paused. "And there's another reason."

"Oh?"

"I know who you are, and the circumstances that
brought you and your associates to Planet Pluto.
I want to know more."

"Why?"

"My answer to that depends on what I learn about
you and your companions."

Drummer slowed to a fast walk, searching spaces
between the bundles of the thick cables.

"So that you know," he said, "we're heading for my
villa-dome about five kay from the city."

Drummer grunted that he'd found what he had
searched for. Clawing under a flap, he uncovered
a depression in the wall alongside a cable junction.
He pressed himself in behind the junction and
into a cranny, motioning to Brad. One by one, they
squeezed through, and found themselves at the foot
of a flex-ladder. Drummer climbed; they followed.

They emerged through a manhole into a kiosk next
to a transit strip. Darting from the kiosk Drummer
boarded the strip and nodded back to Brad to join
him. Within moments they were all gliding toward
an air lock leading to the outside.

Entering the air lock, they hurried into space
suits from the public service rack, checked each
other's seals and oxygen reserves, tested the
communications and pressurization systems and
crowded into the pressure-equalization chamber. Air
lock and suit pressures up, balanced and checked,
Drummer jerked a lever and, a moment later, they
ducked under the rising panel to the outside.

Running along the ramp Drummer flashed his suit
lamps at a parked robo-taxi. The signal activated
the craft and it was in ready status when they
reached it. Boarding first, Drummer keyed in
coordinates. As the last Sentinel scrambled through
the hatch he hit the lift button. The taxi rose and
curved away.





 Chapter THIRTEEN


The black skies and drab mounds of Planet Pluto
were spotted with color. From where he stood on
Drummer's enclosed patio, Brad looked through
the transparent shields at ice-gray Charon low
over scarred ridges to the west. Shifting his
eyes slightly brought into focus the panorama of
Coldfield's dome and its multi-colored lights. The
orange-green cylinder of the Slingshot Logistics
Depot gleamed in the black sky.

The Fandango force field around the depot
shimmered. A wide gap separated the transports
loading and unloading at the portals inside the
force field from those outside waiting in line
or in clustered formations until moorings inside
became available.

The short taxi ride from Coldfield had been
uneventful. The formalities of introductions behind
them, the host and his guests had refreshed
themselves, dined and rested.

Drummer joined Brad and followed his gaze to the
orange-green cylinder and its gaggle of transports
and tugs. The silence was brief.

Drummer said, "I've had your ship searched."

Brad shrugged, eyes scanning the scene outside, and
replied dryly, "Hope it was worth your while. To us,
it was transportation. Any old tub would have done.
As it turned out, we were lucky."

"I'll accept that it's an 'old tub'. I gathered as
much from the reports I received," Drummer said,
"but I understand the primary systems are in good
condition, considering the vessel's history and the
spunnel shocks the ship must have experienced on
the way. How does it all fit together?"

"How does it concern you?" Brad turned to face
Drummer.

"Come, now." Drummer shook his head impatiently.
"Let's not act naive; it doesn't go with the rest
of you. But," he added waving his finger at Brad
as he turned away, "just so you don't make a habit
of responding to my questions with diversions, be
aware that I am a member of President Narval's
Council of Advisors. Despite the incident with
Scarf, I have considerable authority and resources
at my command.

"I've checked through my confidential sources in
the Inner Region," he went on, "and confirmed you
are all convicted criminals that escaped from a
Guardian Station prison. Now, for starters, how
did you manage to get a lift by spunnel and make it
this far without tearing that old wreck apart? Those
vessels don't have navigational gear for trips to
the rim, nor do they carry the required gear and
supplies. Straight answer."

"We're spacers," Brad said. "One of us is an
experienced maintenance engineer. Another is
a space navigator. We've all knocked about the
space-ways a bit on assorted jobs. I was Captain of
a freighter before the Space Guard and the Transport
Board took my ship away from me on trumped up
charges, and then sent me up for five years of
rehab. We teamed up on the Guardian Station, worked
out the details, kept our noses clean and our eyes
open, and, when the chance came, grabbed it. We did
have a few breakdowns, but we kept her moving along
until we could attach the ship to a convoy through
the spunnel. We took our chances and made it."

Drummer shook his head. A muscle twitched in his
jaw.

"The reports I received identified your former
professions and gave me the rest of your personal
histories. Frankly, it has me wondering: a ship's
captain, paramedic-logistics type, a maintenance
engineer, communications specialist, navigator, and
a weapons technician. Wasn't it odd to have these
special skills fall into place?"

"Not really," Brad countered. "I could have made up
any kind of crew I wanted. The station has lots of
spacers under lock and key. These folks happened
to fit in with my plans, and they were as anxious
to get out as I was. It worked. Now, what's the
problem?"

"The problem," Drummer replied, "is that a
half-dozen escaped convicts with exceptional space
skills make it to Planet Pluto; that one of them
defends a high level official in a tavern brawl,
making for himself a mortal enemy of their
sanctuary's chief security officer. To cap it, the
escaped convicts are now guests in the home of the
official that they defended in the bar-room scrape
who, I might add, also happens to be a member of
the President's Council. See the problem?"

"Crank this in," Brad remarked, "the citizen, who
considers himself a high government official,
moves about without a bodyguard thus inviting
confrontations. Also, his attacker's arrival at the
bar-room couldn't possibly have been predicted, let
alone his drunken behavior and my colleague and I
happening to be there. Add who it was that took the
initiative for departure from the tavern, and that
it was the high government official that invited
the escaped convicts to his home. He wasn't
threatened or coerced into extending his
hospitality."

Drummer grinned, nodded. "You ordered Hodak
to intervene. Why?"

"First, tell me more about Scarf."

Drummer shrugged.

"He's been with Narval since the beginning of the
regime. Did, and still does, most of the dirty work
that keeps any government in power, and he's
better at it than most. He has a special hatred
for dissidents to Narval's policies and uses
spies, informers and killers to infiltrate their
organizations and tear them apart. By the way,
he also had your ship searched. Watch out for
him. Now, my question."

"When Scarf began to hassle you, I had no idea of
his identity or position. His words and actions in
the bar-room gave me an impression that, if we
got you out of that mess, you might reciprocate
by helping us to get permission to remain on
the planet, and maybe steer us to jobs. It was
a chance. Now, as to your problem with us:
is it insurmountable?"

Drummer studied Brad's face, trying to read his
thoughts. "Not really, insofar as getting you and
your friends temporary resident status," he said.
"Scarf will not be easy with you and your friends,
especially my rescuer, Hodak. I'll talk to my
associates. The skills you have might be useful
to us. Since you're a former ship's captain, I'll
consider you spokesman for your colleagues."





 Chapter FOURTEEN


President Narval invited all INOR ambassadors to
meet with him in his conference suite; the subject
was not announced in advance. The ambassadors
sought guidance from their home governments. In
response, they were instructed to attend, make no
commitments, and report back immediately on the
proceedings.

As the appointed time neared, the Presidential
Security Guard, augmented by a detachment of
heavily armed police, moved into the conference
area. They took up positions at doors leading
from the President's Suite, along the connecting
corridors, and inside the Conference Room. All
rooms, corridors and exterior approaches leading to
the meeting site were physically and electronically
searched, and the identity disks of all individuals
passing through the area scrutinized and verified.

Shortly before the meeting, the President's Council
entered and took seats along the wall, leaving the
chairs around the table for the guests. A lackey
scampered about, lifted the lids of beakers, peered
in, made minute changes in the alignment of goblets,
and scuttled out.

A view tank rose from a well at the front of the
room, glowed, and cleared to show the Special
Zone. Charon and its background of stars had been
dimmed to reduce the clutter. In the foreground,
the Slingshot Logistics Depot and its maze of ships,
tugs, articulated cranes and flex-conveyers were
portrayed busily engaged in loading and unloading
the moored vessels, and the new arrivals that
waited for their turn.

A flurry rippled through the room as a door panel
slid back into its slot and the Ambassadors strode
in from an anteroom. They were men and women
of varying appearance: tall and short, slender
and rotund, and cadaverous and fleshy. More than
half wore the military uniforms and ranks of their
nation, and the rest were in the colorful robes of
their offices and governments.

Mostly in their middle years, they had the hard,
arrogant look of ruthless power, survivors of craft
and intrigue. Faces suspicious and wary, they took
places around the table. None spoke.

A brusque announcement cut the silence. "The
President of Planet Pluto."

President Narval, haughty in appearance and adorned
in red-black robes of office, entered to the sound
of sliding chairs and rustling garments as all
present rose to their feet. Narval's massive
body, pear-shaped and tapering into short legs and
diminutive feet, shuffled forward in top-heavy gait.

Drummer entered behind Narval and moved to stand
silently beside a lectern adjacent the view tank.

Sunken between ponderous shoulders, Narval's
hairless head was small and neckless, his face
smooth-pale with thin-lipped mouth and a stumpy
nose. Cold, deep-embedded eyes constantly shifted
focus and direction. His small hands, fingers laden
with rings, appeared to drip from his sleeves.

 ##

Lumbering to his raised chair at the head of
the table, Narval laboriously stepped up and
sat, lifted his hand to his mouth and nibbled at
a fingernail. Finally, satisfied, he held the finger
up, examined it and redirected his attention to
his audience.

President Reen Narval had earned the fear and
respect that he enjoyed. A victor of scores
of battles for control of the planet's criminal
syndicates and political machinery, Narval had left
a trail of blood and broken bones behind him as a
warning to challengers. Challengers to his rule did
not survive.

A man of many talents, Narval had migrated to
Planet Pluto from an independent colony orbiting
Callisto. He had accepted expulsion from the
place of his birth as the alternative to the court's
sentence of labor in Callisto's encapsulated
subsurface mines.

Educated and trained to practice law in the Outer
Region's inter-satellite and interplanetary courts
he had, instead, become a serious liability to his
government and to his community.

At his disbarment, the investigating officer of
the Callisto Ethical Practices Board had presented
irrefutable evidence of Narval's numerous conflicts
of interests, extortions, frauds and other crimes
in the performance of his responsibilities as an
officer-of-the-court. Removed from the judicial
arena, he was proven to have also cheated in the
Callisto gambling halls, swindled citizens of sound
repute, and twice convicted of murder.

Callisto and its orbiting colonies were wide open,
but Reen Narval was too much for them. He was
told to quickly depart Callisto's jurisdiction or
take the consequences.

He left gracelessly, found a haven on Planet Pluto,
and applied his many talents with vigor. Organizing
Coldfield's fragmented criminal elements, he ruled
with an iron fist. Solidly entrenched, he imposed
tactics of terror on the population and encountered
little resistance. He rose to the top, balanced on
a mound of cracked skulls and crushed bodies.

Soon after INOR came into being, Narval proclaimed
Planet Pluto's independence, with himself as
President. Despite the UIPS urgent need for Planet
Pluto to support Slingshot, the newly formed,
but weakened government of the Inner Region
was unable to influence a populace under the fist
of a ruthless despot.

"I will govern well, and we shall prosper,"
President Narval glibly promised the Plutonian
citizenry. "I have studied and practiced
interplanetary law for many years. I shall demand
justice for our planet and for all our people. We
will not be slaves to the imperialists of the Inner
Region."

The new President organized a brotherhood with like
morals, and bestowed on them ministries of great
personal influence and profit. A bureaucracy rose
and flourished; the spoils systems and corruption
matched those of ancient Earth.

Reen Narval, President of Planet Pluto, was caught
in a dilemma.

Slingshot construction was approaching completion.
The Terminals and Planet Pluto would come to a
parting of the ways before the end of the century.
Employment and extortionate profits from Slingshot
services and industries would plummet as Planet
Pluto continued outbound along its eccentric orbit
into interstellar space. The economy would wither,
and the inhabitants move elsewhere.

Narval had to provide for himself. For the moment,
he held a good hand, and the stakes made the game
worthwhile, providing it was himself that shuffled
the deck and dealt the cards.

Leaning back in his chair, Narval scanned the faces
at the table.

"I have dispatched a message to the President
of the United Inner Planetary System," he
announced solemnly. "It will open a new and better
relationship between INOR and the UIPS."

The Ambassadors stared at him, aghast. Several
rose partially out of their seats, looked at others
at the table, reconsidered, sat, and glared grimly
straight ahead rather than toward the head of the
table. Narval smirked. A bombshell, indeed.

"Until now we have played children's games with the
UIPS," he continued, raising his voice to the level
and tone of a despot's traditional bellow to repel
an imagined enemy. "That time is past. We must
move on to a strategy that is more aggressive
than petty raids on UIPS shipping or to merely
destroy a few of their insignificant patrols.

"The build-up of INOR's military forces has
reached the level at which, together, we have the
strength to influence the final stages of Slingshot
construction. That includes the launch schedule of
the Extractor station to Alpha Centauri. We must
use this new power to benefit all nations in the
Outer Region. In short, the warships and weapons
in Planet Pluto's military fleet, along with those of
your governments, are a force that the UIPS can
not ignore."

Narval motioned to Drummer.

"The Proclamation."

Bringing his hand close, he inspected its palm and
fingers.

Selecting a fingernail, he commenced nibbling at
it, giving the task his full attention.

Drummer rose to his feet, drew a scrolled
document from the sleeve of his robe and unrolled
it. Holding the scroll low so that his listeners
could see his face, he read from the scroll without
hesitation or inflection.

"The President of Planet Pluto sends greetings to
the President of the United Inner Planetary System
and to all citizens of the Inner Region.

"I, President Reen Narval, hereby declare and
proclaim that Planet Pluto, as an independent and
properly constituted member of the Independent
Nations of the Outer Region (INOR), has the legal
and inalienable right to use and to defend INOR
territory under my jurisdiction consistent with
time-honored custom and interplanetary law.

"The Government of Planet Pluto, now and
henceforth, assumes for itself as lawful all
dominant rights of independent nations to possess
and control all territory, properties, materials,
supplies and all other resources on and beneath
the surface of Planet Pluto. Such rights extend
off-planet to national boundaries established in
conformance with treaties in effect for delineating
planetary and satellite jurisdictions in near and
contiguous space.

"Through this Proclamation, we, the Government
of Planet Pluto, exercise our rights and impose
our legitimate authority.

"On the other hand, we are realists. It is not
possible for us, at this stage of Plutonian
national and industrial development, to assume the
operation and servicing of vital life and community
support systems, nor has the Planet Pluto Government
the technical skills and facilities at this time to
produce and deliver infrastructure and commodities
essential for a self-sustaining economy."

Drummer raised his eyes and quickly scanned the
INOR ambassadors seated along each side of the
conference table. His voice raised slightly for
emphasis.

"We, therefore," he intoned, "conditionally grant
to the Government of the United Inner Planetary
System license to install, operate, and service all
life and general infrastructure support systems
in Coldfield, and in all posts, camps and stations
on the surface of Planet Pluto, its satellite Charon
and throughout its contiguous space.

"We are, furthermore, gracious hosts. We herewith
grant conditional permission for all spaceports,
landing pads and mooring towers, and their
associated technical accoutrements and equipment,
to remain open to UIPS traffic. This conditional
permission is granted providing qualified UIPS
technicians and administrators under the oversight
of Plutonian citizens staff these facilities. The
Plutonian overseers will be afforded training by
the UIPS to qualify them to assume the primary's
operational and management responsibilities in all
functions within two Earth years from the date of
this Proclamation. The Government of Planet Pluto,
as sovereign, will provide for station security and
will exercise oversight and offer guidance through
its appointed administrators.

"The Government of Planet Pluto hereby levies
an inventory tax on all materials and products
arriving in Plutonian territories from the UIPS.
The tax base includes all raw materials, partial
and fully fabricated structures, technical
equipment, and components thereof which are or
yet to be committed to Slingshot. The Slingshot
Logistics Depot, which occupies space within
Plutonian jurisdiction, and all UIPS cargo
transports entering Plutonian space, are subject
to this inventory tax.

"Our inventory tax is merely an extension of
the passage tax on ships intruding on INOR's
jurisdictions and which is currently being
negotiated by the UIPS and INOR governments.
We anticipate the successful completion to
these negotiations.

"This Decree is in effect. Your cooperation is
welcomed."

 ##

Drummer released the lower end of the scroll
and watched it curl up. He finished rolling the
document, bound it with a ribbon, and tucked it
into his sleeve. He stood silent, eyes on Narval.

Narval rose as he spoke slowly, his tone
disdainful. "I suggest that you communicate with
your Governments concerning my message to
President Camari. Add my expression of trust
that they appreciate the advantages of presenting
a common front."

Waddling toward the door, he beckoned Drummer
to follow.





 Chapter FIFTEEN


Narval slouched back into his overstuffed chair.
Drummer faced him from across the enormous
ebony-composite desk.

Bringing his hand close, Narval searched for a
fingernail that demanded his attention.

"President Camari must accept that we have the
military forces to impose our will on Slingshot,"
he said, momentarily shifting his eyes to Drummer.
"If he does not accept my offer I want to ram it
down his throat. Have you come up with an action
to implement our new policy?"

"I have."

"Lay it out."

"With no advance notice, impose the inventory tax
on all Slingshot supplies on board the Depot and
on UIPS vessels on both sides of the Fandango
force field. The first step is to conduct our own
inventory of UIPS property in Plutonian space; to
do that we must have on site access to the Depot's
records, and spot check the records against the
assets. The presence of our military forces in
space close to the Depot will back up our inventory
staff. Businesslike, formal, and highly visible."

"Why don't you use that tactic on the dozens of
Slingshot laboratories and assembly centers here
on Pluto's surface? Seems to me that would be
less risky."

"For good reasons, Mr. President. We need
an exercise that is sufficiently visible, even
spectacular, to make both the UIPS and our
INOR allies respect our will and capabilities to
use organized military forces throughout our
legitimate jurisdiction. A surface operation on
Pluto will be barely noticed and not impress them
with our military strength."

"How do you expect the Depot to react?"

"At first, with confusion. The Depot Commander
will try to bluff. Meanwhile, he'll spunnel an alarm
to Earth and insist on guidance. We must not
accept delay."

"What if you meet resistance?"

"Overcome it. Set an example. After all, we are
exercising our rights as a sovereign nation."

"And after the inventory?"

"If peacefully accomplished, we withdraw. We'll
spunnel formal documentation to the UIPS on the
amount of taxes due, the schedule for payment
and penalties for delinquencies."

"The penalties?"

"I have several in mind. Fines for minor delays,
blockade of the depot and, eventually, military
action should they get nasty."

"How soon can you launch?"

"Three days."

"Do it."

Drummer turned to leave. Narval raised his jeweled
hand. Drummer paused and turned back.

"What's this I've heard from Scarf about you taking
a pack of escaped Inner Region convicts under your
wing?"

"There's more to it than that," replied Drummer.
He filled in the gaps.

Narval scrutinized his fingernails as Drummer
talked.

"I'm surprised to hear you patronize drinking
establishments where such raffish elements gather,"
Narval murmured around the focus of his attention.

"I feel it my duty to get about, to see, and to
listen. There is much to learn by observing our
people going about their daily lives. The Charnel
Pit is one of the few places in Coldfield where
people gather to relax and talk."

Narval peered sideways at Drummer from narrowed
eyes.

"Hm, you see and you listen to the people. What
else, I wonder? Do the people also see and listen
to you? What do you tell them, Drummer?"

"I tell them nothing, President Narval. I don't
know what you mean."

"Well, let it go for now. Back to your little
brood. You say they're experienced spacers, and
you've checked the facts of their escape. You
know we're short-handed in technicians for the
military fleet. Can we use them?"

"I'm not certain that I trust them," Drummer
responded.

"Test them."

"How?"

"Take them along on the inventory operation."

"...and?"

"As I say, test them. Force whoever is leading them
into a difficult situation. Keep him close to you
and watch how he works himself out of it. If he
does well, throw him to another pack of wolves. Get
him and his gang involved, deeper. Make them prove
themselves. When you're satisfied, bring them up
to a level where we're squeezing from them all
they have that's useful to us."

"Scarf is after them."

"Leave Scarf to me, Drummer. That's all."

 ##

Scarf entered and waited for Narval to notice him.
Narval's eyes were fixed on his hands. He spoke
without looking up.

"Drummer has given me his side of the incident
in the bar-room," he said, his voice cutting with
sarcasm. "The hangers-on in that sinkhole have,
by now, spread their version all over Coldfield,
Lamplight, as well as the depot and Slingshot.
You came out of it looking like a fool in a
confrontation that enhances Drummer's image to
the detriment of the President's Chief of Security."

Narval raised his head. His small eyes drilled into
Scarf.

"I don't trust Drummer," he said. "I suspect him
of trying to subvert my rule. He's too popular in
the Council and among the officers and men of
the military fleet. I can't chance direct action
against him at this time. For the moment, I need
his expertise in military strategy and managing
our resources.

"I'm looking to you to find or create enough
evidence so that, when I'm ready, we can undermine
Drummer's reputation. As it is, you've built him up
by embarrassing your high position in my government.
Do your job right, and my problem with Drummer
will fade away. I'm not pleased at all with your
progress so far."

Scarf's face was flushed.

"Yes, sir," he said. "My intent was to accost
Drummer in a public place, draw him out, and make
him look foolish. The circumstances in the Charnel
Pit were fine, or so I thought. Intervention by an
outsider was totally unexpected. When I get my
hands on that convict, I have plans for him."

"Hold off, Scarf. You can have him when I'm done
with the pack, including Drummer. Until then, put
your anger aside."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, listen carefully."

Narval leaned forward, eyes on Scarf. He described
Drummer's upcoming inventory operation. Stubby
fingers smoothed the desk surface.

"I'll tell Drummer that I want you to go along
on the inventory," he said. "Think up a reason;
I don't care what it is so long as it gets you
aboard. The real reason is to keep your eyes on
Drummer, the operation, and these convicts he's
harboring. I want to know everything that happens.
Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I do." Scarf's eyes lit up. He continued
eagerly. "If Drummer goes to the depot or boards
UIPS ships, I should go along to see what he does.
As Chief of Security, my position should compel him
to accompany him. I suggest, sir, that you appoint
me as your counter-intelligence representative
on Drummer's task force. My job, then, would be
to check if the depot or a transport, whichever
we board, is conducting secret surveillance of
our military facilities, field training, and ship
movements. Drummer can be told that my boarding
the depot would be essential to the mission you've
assigned to me."

"Hasn't our man on the depot told us they've been
performing those observations for the UIPS for
quite a while? Wouldn't Drummer see through that
ploy?"

"Not if you tell him this would be the first
opportunity for your Chief of Security to enter
a UIPS domain and report to you directly on his
observations. It would take me out from under
Drummer's command."

"Hm, yes, I see what you mean." Narval returned
to examining his fingernails. He lifted a finger to
his lips and nibbled.

"Very well, Scarf. I'll tell Drummer."





 Chapter SIXTEEN


Drummer paced the command deck of the Plutonian
flagship Dragon, Brad nearby. Scarf, sprawled in
an open accello-net fastened to a nearby bulkhead,
watched and listened.

The ship vibrated as it moved along the launch rail
leading to the mouth of the tunnel hanger. Captain
Hyk, the ship's Commander, hunched over a control
computer on the nearby bridge and snapped orders
to his Operations Officer. Both cast sideways glances
at Scarf, discomfited by his presence.

Brad visualized the scene on the bridges and flight
decks of the more than two dozen warships, ranging
from cruisers to fighters that formed the task
force. All were in final countdown for launch from
tunnels and galleries cut into reinforced chasms
across a hundred kay of Pluto's surface.

At Drummer's invitation, Brad analyzed the launch
schedule and deployment pattern. He had tactfully
suggested substantive alterations to minimize
warning time to the depot and its nearby
transports. After some debate, during which
Brad repeatedly justified his proposals to skeptical
ship commanders, they were computer-tested,
modified and accepted.

Brad knew he was on trial. Ram's words surfaced
as he scanned the bridge: "...you will lie, cheat,
bribe, subvert, sabotage, and kill for us, and
should our greater purpose call for you to do so,
against us."

"This one," he mused, ironically, "is on the
'against us' side of the ledger."

Hodak appeared at the entry to the command deck
and beckoned to Brad. As Brad approached, Scarf rose
and sauntered in their direction, seemingly scrutinizing
instrument dials and panels along the way. His ears
seemed to throb with the effort of eavesdropping.

"I've gone over the maintenance and operations
checklists for all ships and technical support
committed to this mission, as you told me to,"
Hodak said, "and then spot-checked them against
installed equipment. We've only been on this
job a couple of days, so I couldn't probe to any
meaningful depth."

He heaved a deep sigh. "From what I've seen so far,
Brad, the systems are not as well-maintained as they
should be, and much of the data and crew training
are not applicable or out of date.

"My recommendation is that as soon as we get back
we conduct a hard-nosed professional inspection
of the fleet to pinpoint all the cats-and-dogs these
dunderheads have jerry-rigged into the equipment
and the software. We gotta give priority to the
checklists that need to be updated to correspond
with installed equipment. No two ships have the
same configuration, so each checklist will have
to be tailored. That's only the first step, and it'll
be one helluva lotta work."

"Drummer's main concern right now is getting
through this operation without using weapons
or incurring a technical breakdown," Brad said.
"Either one will detract from the image we're
trying to build. He should know ASAP what you
found. I'll pass it along to him. Stand by with
Kumiko in case Drummer needs some technical
advice on weapons or engineering."

"Right."

Hodak turned to leave, and his eyes met Scarf's.
Hodak grinned, and gave Scarf a thumbs up. Scarf
glowered and turned away, moving back to the net.
Hodak disappeared down the passageway.

The ship advanced along a rail into a gallery at
the mouth of the tunnel. Captain Hyk turned
to Drummer.

"The Dragon is at launch station," he said.

Drummer and Brad stepped from the command deck
to a small balcony overlooking a shallow pit covered
by a pale, translucent screen. A network of lines,
representing tunnels and galleries, formed on the
screen, each incorporating a tiny, yellow moving
and blinking light to indicate a warship under
Drummer's command. As each light reached launch
position, it halted and changed from yellow to
green. Drummer and Brad watched the last of
the yellows convert. All green, ready to launch.

Drummer picked up a microphone, Brad beside him.

"This is Drummer," he said. "Operation
authenticator Tornado Six. Execute. First wave.
Launch."

Five green lights flashed to red and disappeared,
on their way to predesignated stations outside
Fandango: one off each blunt end of the Depot
cylinder and the remainder at the entry to the
gateway force field.

Ten seconds later Drummer repeated his codes and
launched the second wave. The corresponding lights
on the screen flashed red and out. New green lights
appeared in their place, this time moving in arcs
converging on the cylinder centered in a sphere:
the depot in its force field cocoon.

The converging lines massed, reformed, and spread
into a pattern resembling the spoke tips of an open
umbrella, with the Gateway, the crowded transports
and the depot centered at what would be the
umbrella's handgrip.

 ##

Drummer turned his head and looked at Brad.

"Went off rather well," he said.

"Seems so. That was the easy part. I don't envy
you the next."

Drummer touched a switch connecting him to the
bridge.

"Captain," he said. "Launch the Dragon. Take your
position at the coordinates I gave to you. Activate
our comm system to the depot."

The ship shuddered as it shot from the gallery and
headed for the concentration of spacecraft above
Pluto. It slowed as it passed through the umbrella
formation and stopped fifty kay from the nearest
transport.

Time lapse from launch was less than two minutes.
Surprise was complete; the effect, paralyzing.

All movement around the depot slowed to a halt.
The intranet filled with "What the hell's going on?",
"Who are these guys?", and "Bring on the dancing
girls." Then, suddenly, the channels blanked,
replaced by silence.

Drummer keyed his microphone open and handed it
to Brad.

Brad took on a harsh tone.

"Attention: Commander of Slingshot Logistics Depot
and Masters of all vessels, inside or outside the
Fandango Force Field. The national interests of the
Government of Planet Pluto demands compliance
with Plutonian laws by all persons and properties
within its jurisdiction. You and your vessels and
the Logistics Depot are in Plutonian territory,
therefore, our laws apply to you.

"The Fleet Commander of this Plutonian Security
Force wishes to speak with the Commander of the
Slingshot Logistics Depot. Depot Commander, please
identify yourself and stand by. Acknowledge."

Silence. Thirty seconds.

"Logistics Depot. This is the Plutonian Security
Force. The message we sent you moments ago was for
the Depot Commander. Did you read? Acknowledge."

The reply came.

"Your message received. Please identify Fleet
Commander."

Brad and Drummer exchanged glances. Drummer
chuckled.

"The formalities must be observed," he chuckled,
his tone dry. "Tell him."

Brad keyed the mike.

"Fleet Commander Deke Drummer." He put a rasp
into his voice. "Now, get on with it."

Another voice came on.

"Colonel Hanno here. I'm the Depot Commander.
What the hell game are you playing, Drummer?"

Brad's tone turned icy.

"Let's get one point straight, Colonel Hanno. You
will be speaking with a Fleet Commander with the
rank of Admiral. Should you need to be reminded,
Planet Pluto is a sovereign and independent nation,
and you are a guest within our borders. Your choice
of words is offensive. Do you read?"

A long pause.

"I read."





 Chapter SEVENTEEN


Drummer reached for the mike.

"Colonel Hanno, this is Admiral Drummer." He winked
at Brad.

"Colonel, my Government requires an inventory
of Slingshot properties, materials and supplies
in your depot and on the transports nearby. The
information we develop from this one-time inventory
will be used to compute UIPS taxes while the
depot and transports are in Plutonian jurisdiction.
My fleet is escorting the inventory specialists.
Please arrange for them to board your Depot and
the transports on both sides of your force field,
so that they can get to their work."

"I have not received instructions from my
Government concerning the inventory or the taxes
to which you refer."

"That is between you and your Government. I am
here at the express order of President Narval to
see that the inventory is conducted. May I count
on your cooperation?"

"If I decline, what then?"

"Blockade, for starters."

"The UIPS will not permit your interference with
our operations."

"Is that the formal response of your Government
to my request?"

A short pause. "No."

"Then I suggest you dispense with posturing and
arrange to receive the inventory crews. Please
instruct all Masters of transports and other ships
doing business with your depot to cooperate with
our agents."

Another voice cut in, heavy with anger.

"No goddamned shakedown artists are coming
aboard my ship."

Brad motioned Drummer to give him the mike,
indicating by his facial expression that the
intruder did not deserve a direct response
from Drummer's level.

"This is Commander Curtin," Brad said with
low-toned authority, "Executive to Admiral
Drummer. Who speaks?"

He winked at Drummer, who leaned back in his
chair, grinning.

"Lieutenant Bura, commanding the transport
Sandbox. I repeat: keep your damn squeeze clerks
away from my ship, regardless how legitimate
you claim your purpose to be."

"You're in no position to refuse," Brad shot back.
"You're in Plutonian territory, and we have every
right to employ police or military powers to
enforce our jurisdiction. You will cooperate in
this inventory, peacefully, if possible; under
force, if necessary."

"You'll have to fight your way on to my ship."
Bura's voice was harsh, angry. "Be advised we are
armed and prepared to repel unauthorized boarders.
I take your demands to be attempted extortion, and
a clear threat to the safety of my ship, crew and
cargo. That, at the least, is piracy in my book,
and I am within my authority to use force to keep
pirates off my ship. Now, chew on that."

"Lieutenant Bura." Brad's voice was space-cold.
"You now insult the Plutonian Government by
accusing it of piracy. Your attitude gives us good
reason to question the purpose of your presence
in our territory. By your words, you command an
armed vessel. Now you dare to threaten legitimate
representatives of a sovereign nation with your
guns. We have no choice but to conclude you are
a danger to our ships and to our people."

"Ridiculous. I am merely protecting the safety
and integrity of my ship."

"So you say. Nevertheless, you have threatened
to use force against our exercise of legitimate
rights. Tell me, Bura, is your ship really a
commercial cargo transporter or is it a UIPS
warship with a military mission inside our legal
jurisdiction?"

"What in hell are you trying to do, whoever you
are? My ship is a transporter of cargo, and you
know that damned well."

"I know no such thing. All I know is that you claim
to be armed and say you will use your weapons
against us. I repeat: are you on a military
mission?"

"No, damn it, I am not."

"I don't believe you."

"That's your problem."

"Not at all, my man, it's yours. You insult and
then threaten harm to us." Brad grinned at Drummer,
who was watching him with an appraising expression.
"Our fire control system has you marked and our
guns are trained on your ship. How does that strike
you?"

Silence.

"I say," Brad roared, "Bura of the Sandbox, how
does that strike you? You have ten seconds to
reply."

Lieutenant Bura's voice came in, low and tight
with suppressed rage.

"I read you, loud and clear. My gun crews are
standing down."

"Unacceptable, Bura," Brad said flatly, "you remain
a serious obstacle to the success of our mission.
Stand by and do not interrupt again. Admiral
Drummer wishes to complete this transaction with
the Depot Commander. Colonel Hanno, we are waiting
for your answer to Admiral Drummer's request,
which, I repeat, is to arrange for our inventory
specialists to perform their duties aboard your
Depot and the transports within your control area."

"I take note of your fleet's deployment, Admiral
Drummer," the voice of Colonel Hanno was
subdued but intense, "and the manner in which your
Executive responded to Lieutenant Bura's protest.
My responsibility for the safety of UIPS supplies,
properties and personnel under my command
and for UIPS vessels in the Planet Pluto Special
Zone leaves me no choice but to accede to your
outrageous demands. I do so under most solemn and
vigorous protest, and only because your guns are
trained at our heads. Be aware these conversations
are being recorded and spunnel-transmitted to my
Government as we speak."

"Your protests are noted, Colonel Hanno," Drummer
said, taking over. "Please convey our respects
to your Government. Now, as to procedure for
the audit, I suggest we set up a small group of
administrators and specialists to prepare schedules
and other details. This must be done immediately,
as we have no wish to delay your support operations
unnecessarily. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

"Good. One of my ships is now approaching the
Gateway. I realize you may have reservations
concerning one of my military craft entering your
restricted zone, and I respect your reservations.
Please have your representatives board the
Plutonian craft outside the Gateway. My specialists
are aboard, and the two groups can work out the
details. Is this satisfactory?"

"I reject your term 'satisfactory', and accede
under the same protest."

"I understand, Colonel Hanno. By the way, one
other matter, concerning the Sandbox. I cannot
accept Bura's assurance that his gun crews are
on 'stand down'."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Colonel Hanno, that I insist on an
inspection of the Sandbox by members of my military
staff so that I am certain the Sandbox's guns are
not a threat to the safety of my fleet. I cannot
continue to dissipate my capabilities by the need
to keep the Sandbox under special surveillance
throughout this operation. The Sandbox guns must
be rendered inoperative and, frankly, I don't trust
Bura to perform that service for me."

"Lieutenant Bura," said Colonel Hanno, "I assume
that you and other ships' Commanders have been
listening in on this delightful exchange."

"I have."

"What do you say?"

"You're the Zone Commander."

"For the safety of your ship and the rest of us,
I recommend you comply with their demand."

"Yes, sir."

"Admiral Drummer?"

"Very good. Have the Sandbox stand by to receive
boarders. This completes our discussion, Colonel
Hanno. I'll get back to you if the situation calls
for it."





 Chapter EIGHTEEN


Brad studied the Sandbox on the utility's view
screen.

"I think you'd better have a look," he said to
Kumiko as he twisted aside on the cramped flight
deck. She peered over his shoulder.

"Got a problem?" Scarf sneered, his bulk cramped
the remaining space behind the flitter's pilot
seat. He hunched forward trying to see around
Kumiko.

Brad ignored the question. He waited for Kumiko's
assessment of the Sandbox, dead ahead.

Drummer had given him the job.

"I want this done," he told Brad, "in a way that
will demonstrate to the UIPS that we're serious,
and can back our words with actions. We've got
to replace their image of us as misfits. They've
got to see us as an organized military force that
can defend its vital interests and, if necessary,
impose its will."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I want to use Kumiko's expertise as a weapons
officer familiar with Inner Region ordnance. I want
both of you to board the Sandbox and check all
installed armament that can be directed against
our fleet. Avoid a scrap, but if you find the guns
have not been deactivated, do it for them."

He pointed at Brad to give emphasis to his words.

"I don't want their weapons slipping back into
operational status as soon as you leave their ship.
Whatever it is you do, fix their armament controls
so that it'll take them at least fifteen hours to
get them back on line. We'll need that much time
to finish our job here and return to base."

Scarf joined them, listening.

"I don't like it." His words were angry; his
features petulant.

Drummer looked at Scarf with open scorn.

"Your likes and dislikes are the least of my
concerns," he snorted and turned back to Brad.

Scarf cut back in.

"I repeat, Drummer, I don't like it, and what I
like or don't like is your concern. I'm here on
counter-intelligence work, and I don't like your
sending this guy," thumbing toward Brad, "and
one of his sidekicks over to a UIPS ship on a highly
sensitive assignment. I'm not that trusting they'll
do the job as thoroughly as you're laying it out."

Drummer frowned.

"What do you suggest?"

"That I go along."

Brad stepped back to let the two work it out.
He didn't relish the assignment. The Sandbox's
commander was not going to accept boarders
graciously.

"You go along? What the hell for?"

"To see how the assignment is carried out, and
frankly, to make sure this guy doesn't, shall
we say, inadvertently pass information to
the enemy." After a brief pause, Scarf added,
"I'm within my authority, Drummer. Part of the
counter-intelligence function," adding, with a
smirk, "Don't you agree?"

 ##

The utility's approach to the cylindrical Sandbox
closed in on the port side. Brad, at the controls,
increased viewer magnification and inspected the
ship closely. Kumiko, looking at the same image,
reached under Brad's arm and adjusted knobs and
levers, zeroing in on one gun turret after another
along the Sandbox's length. She whistled softly.

"They're loaded for bear," she said. "Circle them,
Brad, let's see what's on the other side."

Brad took the utility around to starboard, then
topside and below.

Scarf again. "OK, you've looked her over. Now,
what's the problem?"

"The ship has four laser-quads and a couple of
explosive decompressors. She's a heavily armed
attack transport, that's all."

"So what? Can you do the job?"

Kumiko looked at Scarf, her normally soft features
twisted, passive but icy. "Oh, yes," she said.
"I can do it. May take a little time, though."

Scarf leaned back.

"Well, let's not fool around with these jokers. If
they don't cooperate, I'm for back to the Dragon
and let our guns talk for us."

"Listen, Scarf," Brad said, exasperated, "our job
is to disable the armament, not destroy the ship.
Also, if you recall, Drummer wants to get through
this exercise without using force. That's why we're
here: to fix the Sandbox so they and any other
ship commanders of like mind won't get ideas
about resisting us. It's a psychological play that will
make the rounds of the Outer as well as the Inner
Region. It's to our advantage to show we do our job
with minimum fuss. So, let's get on with it."

Brad opened the inter-ship comm-line.

"Calling Sandbox. This is Curtin on Dragon Utility
One, approaching from your starboard. Are you
prepared to receive us?"

"Ready," came back. "Your air lock is number 4,
starboard. Go there now. We will extend umbilical
and catwalk as soon as you're matched up."

Brad guided his craft around and along the Sandbox
to a portal bearing a large painted "4." Slowing
the utility, he closed with the Sandbox, gently
fingering controls until they were matched
precisely to the heavy transport's bearing and
drift.

"Now," he said.

Kumiko hit a switch, and the utility beam-anchor
connected to a triangular plate above the airlock,
immobilizing and fixing the utility to the huge
transporter's axis.

The number 4 clamshell panels drew back and
slipped aside. A yellow and white-striped catwalk
snaked out and suckled up to the utility's hatch.

Kumiko took in the overhead dials and lights.

"On track," she said, and after a moment,
"connected and secure."

Brad closed a bank of switches, opened another.
"We'll take no unnecessary chances," he said. "I'm
setting the thruster to cut in at twenty percent
as soon as we're back in and slam the hatch. Five
seconds and into forty, another three and we
go max. That's for just in case. So, if we need
to move fast when we board, hit the accello-nets
pronto. Got it?"

"Right," from Kumiko.

"Scarf?"

"Sure, sure. I got it."

"Next. I want 'em to be able to see that the power
settings on our sidearms are low enough so as
not to kill or cause serious injury. Is that clear?"

"If they start anything, I'd just as soon take a
few of them out for good." Scarf postured his
belligerence.

"Nothing doing, Scarf," Brad shot back. "Using
our weapons on this mission is bound to delay
the schedule, if not much worse. It's been fouled
up already by this little sortie. So don't provoke
'em; set your weapon in the lower levels."

Brad set his weapon at the extreme low setting
and noted that Kumiko did the same. Scarf set
his at the highest level in the non-lethal category,
and with a sneer at Brad, returned the weapon
to its sheath.

Kumiko looked thoughtful. "We should wear suits
while we're on board the Sandbox, Brad," she said.
"It may slow us down a bit, but we'll need to look
at gun emplacements that have minimal air or
none at all."

"Sounds reasonable. OK, keep your suits on."

They rigged their sidearms for control from within
their suits and transferred them to outer sheaths.
They donned the suits, checked each other's suit
security, seal pressure, inter-suit communications,
and reported.

"Move out," Brad said.





 Chapter NINETEEN


The Sandbox's receiving officer observed Brad and
his party's approach through a clear pane in the
air lock's pressurized section. The four husky
deckhands and the officer-in-charge hefted
snub-nosed rifles.

A pressure-suited deckhand responded to Brad's
hand signal that his crew was aboard by conducting
a visual safety check of the ship-to-utility
connections. He turned away, and Brad felt the deck
vibrate as the clamshells slammed shut. Kumiko and
Scarf moved up to stand behind Brad as pressure
equalizers hissed. Moments later, the air lock's
inner door slid aside and they passed through.
Opening their helmet faceplates, they returned
the glares of the receiving party.

"Rimov, and gunnery is my business," said the
officer, "what in hell are you gonna do to my guns?"

Brad wished he were beside the grizzled spacefarer
facing their common adversary, rather than
confronting him.

"Curtin, and my business is to make sure your
guns don't get you all killed. I want to check your
weapons control center, and every gun emplacement.
First, central control."

"Hey," chimed in Scarf. "How about a drink with the
ship's commander? Courtesies of the space-ways,
and all that? I'd sure like to sample some Inner Region
booze."

"You guys ain't invited guests, no way," Rimov
flashed back. "The Commander is fussy about
the people he drinks with."

"Well, you tell him..." Scarf raised a fist to add
gesture to his words, but Brad waved him off,
his eyes holding on Rimov.

"To hell with that," he snapped. "We're here to
do a job and get back to our ship. I repeat: first,
the fire control center, then each gun emplacement.
Now."

"Our fire control center has been deactivated. Why
do you have to see each gun?"

"You know damn well, Rimov," Brad said, putting as
much harshness into his tone as he could muster.
"Your pieces can be fired independent of central
control; I'm going to make sure they won't be.
Let's get on with it."

Brad noted that Rimov was staring at the intensity
slide visible on the breechblock of his sheathed
weapon. Rimov then tilted his head to scrutinize
the settings on Kumiko and Scarf's weapons. His
brows tightened, puzzled. It passed.

"OK, follow me," he said, pivoting and taking the
lead.

The passageways were narrow, confining them to two
abreast. Rimov and one of his men walked ahead, the
other three escorts followed close behind Brad and
his party. The corridors they traversed had been
cleared; no encounters.

Brad, familiar with transports of the line,
memorized their route. They had boarded
amidships, lower starboard, and were headed for
an armor-enclosed section near the stern. The
surveillance and tracking gear and the laser-quads'
fire control computers should be there. That
part should be relatively simple. They reached
a closed, heavy door. Rimov turned to Brad, his
face reflecting rage.

"You didn't answer my question," he growled.
"What're you gonna do to my guns?"

"Nothing you couldn't fix in a couple of work
shifts," Brad replied, motioning to the door.
"Let's move."

Grudgingly, Rimov placed his palm on the disk
lock. A click and the heavy door retracted into
the adjacent bulkhead.

As Brad expected, the fire control center consisted
of dozens of consoles, scopes, directional and power
control devices, and clusters of computer terminals.

Kumiko and Brad circled the small room as Scarf
watched from his position inside the entryway.
Rimov stood beside Scarf, his guards along the
bulkhead, tense, weapons directed at the deck.

Kumiko pointed to a console.

"I've got to see behind that panel, Brad," she
said, pointing. "The master firing system controls
should be concentrated there."

Brad turned and waved Rimov closer. Scarf didn't
move; he got it all on his helmet intercom.

"Remove the panel," Brad said, pointing.

"Won't take my word, will you," Rimov growled.

Reaching over, he snapped several quick
disconnects, slid the panel forward, reached into
the recess behind, fiddled a couple of seconds,
and pulled the panel forward again. It came loose,
and he stepped back with it in his hands.

"Cut the power to this console," Kumiko ordered.

Rimov shrugged, moved to another console and
snapped several switches. Kumiko watched closely.
Rimov turned back and observed her check several
lights and dials above the space from where the
panel had been removed.

Satisfied, Kumiko drew off her outer glove. Her
hand remained encased in translucent, skin-tight
insulation. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew
a tiny black chip. Setting it down on a nearby
shelf, she repeated the operation. Shortly,
a dozen chips lay on the shelf.

Rimov flushed with fury as he watched Kumiko
work, but remained silent.

Finally, Kumiko stepped back, pulled a plastic
bag from a pocket in her suit, and dropped in
the assorted parts. Looking around the room,
she went to a wall cabinet, opened the door,
rummaged about and withdrew still more chips.

"Back up supplies," she said, adding them to
the others in the plastic bag.

Kumiko looked at Brad.

"The fire control center is out of action," she
said. "Even if they do have more spares stashed
away, it'll take them at least twenty hours to
install the parts and calibrate the system."

Brad turned to Rimov. "Let's start with the aft gun
turrets, and take them, in order, moving forward."





 Chapter TWENTY


The next two hours were given to rushing along
passageways, climbing companionways and ladders,
and crawling along narrow walkways. Several turrets
could only be reached from the outside; Kumiko's
advice to wear suits proved sound.

At each gun emplacement, Rimov, his guards and
Scarf watched Brad and Kumiko inspect sector
guides, range and directional interlocks and power
drives.

Once satisfied that a gun emplacement was not
booby-trapped, Kumiko inserted random realignment
parameters into laser blocks, twirled tracking
sequencers into disarray, and switched about chips
and connectors. When she was done with a turret,
the gun had a zero firing potential, and would take
hours to repair, calibrate and test.

Brad noted that Rimov, following Kumiko's work
closely, showed grudging admiration in his eyes.
She was disabling the guns with gentle care, not
damaging them, and Rimov knew it.

Finally, they were at the ship's bow. The final
turret had been rendered inoperative.

Brad faced Rimov.

"We'll be on our way. Back to the air lock."

Brad was relieved. They would soon be in the
utility, heading back to the Dragon, the job done.
Even Scarf could not fault them. Scarf's report
might even work to the Sentinel's advantage.

Rimov took the lead. The deckhands seemed less
tense. They sensed that Rimov was impressed
by Kumiko's professionalism, and they, too, had
observed the consideration that Kumiko had shown
for the ship's equipment. She was obviously not
a crowbar techie.

They moved toward the air lock single file, Rimov
in the lead, Brad, Kumiko and Scarf following, and
the four deckhands, two abreast, in the rear.

Rounding a corner, they stopped. Ahead, three
men crouched, laser-rifles at their shoulders
aimed at them.

"Rimov, and you guys in the rear, outta the way.
We're puttin' these bastards down."

The order came from a short, blond-haired buck,
eyes glaring above his gunfight.

"Wait," Rimov screamed. "What's the hell's goin'
on, Cordy? These guys got safe conduct from Bura."

"I don't buy that, Rimov. We got the word down
below that the ship's bein' taken over by Narval's
goons. We're gonna stop 'em. Come for'ard,
I'm tellin' ya. They're goin' down, right now. Get
ready, Joe, Pete."

The two guards behind Scarf and Kumiko dropped
to the deck and snaked back around the corner.
They were not about to shoot at shipmates.

Rimov dashed toward Cordy, his arms waving.

"Don't fire. Back off," he shouted.

The men with the rifles were momentarily confused,
uncertain; one began to lower his weapon. Rimov
was a ship's officer; they would be in deep trouble
if they disobeyed.

Without warning, the decision was taken from them.

Scarf panicked.

Stepping back and behind Kumiko, using her as
his shield, he frantically jerked his heavy hand
weapon loose, at the same time crouching in firing
position. Gripping the weapon with both hands,
he rammed the setting into max and fired around
Kumiko. Brad was out of his momentary line of
fire. Not so Rimov.

The burst hit Rimov between the shoulder blades.
There was a sharp, crackling sound as cloth and
Rimov's flesh carbonized. He fell forward, dead
before he struck the deck.

No one moved. Cordy and his men stared at their
fallen officer.

Brad didn't wait for them to recover.

"Back," he shouted to Kumiko and Scarf. "Around
the bend. Now."

Kumiko whirled and raced around the corner.
Scarf rolled back on to his feet and dashed after
her. Brad followed.

Rimov's guards were nowhere in sight.

There was a roar of rage behind them.

Cordy.

"They shot Rimov. After 'em. Shoot to kill."

The passageway was long; they would be at the
wrong end of a shooting gallery as soon as Cordy
reached the bend. The only break was a narrow
ladder through a hatch in the overhead.

"Up," Brad commanded. "Fast."

Kumiko first, then Scarf. Brad followed.

As Brad drew his legs up through the hatchway
a searing blast struck the frame, missing him
by centimeters. Brad twisted away as another
bolt flashed up through the hatch, scorching
the bulkhead from which he had just moved.

Brad shouted down. "First guy who shoves his head
through the hatch gets it burned off." Turning to
Kumiko and Scarf he whispered, "That won't hold
them for long."

"Listen, about that shooting...", Scarf began.

Brad snapped him short with an impatient gesture.
"Not now. Let's get to the utility."

They looked around. The space was almost dark;
the only light from widely spaced, low-power
neutro-lamps. They were standing on a narrow
platform, little more than a ledge, from which a
catwalk bridged a complex of girders and cables.

Brad mentally reconstructed their route before
Cordy's challenge. The portal through which they
boarded should be within fifty meters of where
they crouched. Their lives depended on the catwalk
passing close to it.

Studying the arrangement of the structures around
them and the coding on cable bundles, Brad peered
along the catwalk, first in one direction, then the
opposite.

He looked at the open hatch and shouted down. "We
demand safe conduct to our ship. Do you hear me?"

Silence.

Scarf shoved his face close to Brad.

"Are you kiddin'?" he said, his tone expressing his
disbelief. "I just killed one of their men. They're
not gonna give us safe conduct anywhere."

"I know that," Brad replied. "Even if they do
promise us safe conduct, it'll be just to get at
us. I want them to think we're going to hole up
here until they give us an answer. Bura must know
by now. We've got to get off before he personally
takes charge of the search."

Brad again scrutinized the ship's stringers and
cable insulation colors. He pointed.

"Stay close."

They crossed stretches where ledges and walkways
narrowed abruptly to barely enough for passage.
Sharp projections along the way snagged and abraded
their protective suits. They realized that they
might face serious seepage from their suits as
soon as they entered the vacuum of space.

A sudden, raking fire erupted behind them. Metal
frames around them darkened from the bolts of
energy.

Scarf jerked his weapon and returned the shots
before Brad could stop him. The flash of his weapon
provided the ideal target, and brought concentrated
fire in return.

Stooping and sliding, Brad and Kumiko stumbled
forward. Scarf scrambled along behind, firing
haphazardly to the rear.

Scarf howled with sudden pain. Brad looked back. In
the dim light, Scarf hung over a girder, motionless.
Brad raced back to his side. A wide strip from
sleeve and shoulder was burned away; blood oozed.

Kumiko bent beside Brad. She yanked her glove
off, reached in through the still smoking sleeve
and felt for a pulse in Scarf's neck.

"Alive."

She stepped back. Brad, in the cramped space,
hauled the unconscious Scarf upright, bent, and
with Kumiko's help, lifted him on to Brad's back.

Scarf's scream of pain had brought a pause to
the firing.

Grasping stanchions and cables for support,
Brad staggered along the catwalk.

"Hatch up ahead."

"Might be it."

Brad gasped. Even in the light pseudo-gravity,
Scarf's bulk was hard to maneuver.

"Take a peek."

Kumiko was gone and back in an instant.

"Looks clear."

"No choice. Down you go. I'll drop him through."

Kumiko dropped out of sight. Brad thrust Scarf
through the hatch and followed. The drop was not
deep.

The number 4 air lock was less than ten meters
ahead. Brad heaved Scarf across his shoulders, and
with Kumiko leading the way, they rushed toward it.

The deck carried the slap of running feet, fast and
closing.

Cordy appeared at the end of the passage. Seeing
them, he crouched on one knee and raised his weapon.

Kumiko beat him; at the sound of running, she had
raised her sidearm. As Cordy took aim, she fired.
Cordy fell back, stunned.

Brad had the door to the outer air lock open, Scarf
on the deck inside. Kumiko rushed past Brad and
he slammed the door and clipped it sealed. She
snatched an emergency space stretcher from
a bulkhead rack and snapped it open. It took the
two of them to roll Scarf's inert body into the
envelope, seal it around him and start an oxygen
flow.

They snapped their faceplates closed. Brad hit
switches. The outer portals slid apart. The catwalk
and other connections to the utility were still in
place. Carrying the stretcher between them, they
crossed over.





 Chapter TWENTY-ONE


Brad poked his head into Drummer's office at Fleet
Headquarters. Drummer, at his desk, bent over
a document, cast frequent glances at electronic
displays on the wall nearby. Racks of data
capsules, no space for them on the busy
desk, crowded the floor nearby. A conical view
tank, recessed in the wall to his left, glowed
with symbols of ships and their military
characteristics, along with tactical and logistical
links.

Scanning the monitors and view tank, Drummer
hefted a hand control and pressed keys. Eyes
half-closed, he silently transformed mental images
into memoranda and messages. Aware of Brad's
presence, he paused and focused on him in the doorway.

"I thought you planned to take a couple of days off
after Tornado Six," Brad said.

"Can't," Drummer replied, his eyes back to his notes.

"What's happening?"

"Until Tornado Six, our forces functioned as
separate units. Tornado Six was our fleet's first
integrated operation. The mission succeeded because
we got away without military opposition. I can't
trust that sort of luck to hold. We need to refine
our tactics, based on our experience with the log
depot and that armed transport, and in anticipation
of an early organized response by the UIPS."

Brad appeared uncertain whether to remain or
move on.

"Stand by a moment, Brad."

Drummer resumed recording. Symbols in the
tank flashed off and on too quickly for the eye to
follow, but Drummer was no longer giving them his
attention. He touched a glowing disk on the arm
of his chair, sighed, and leaned back. The view tank
cleared to continue its work unobserved.

"I need a break. Here's what's happening, Brad."

He motioned Brad to a seat alongside his desk.

"Narval was impressed at our success, especially
how we bluffed our way through it. Just as
well we didn't push too hard and force an
eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. He wants much
more preparation before we get to that point.
I agree, we'll leave that until our next no-notice
inspection."

"Well, we did have a fire fight, of sorts, on the
Sandbox," Brad interjected.

"By itself, much less significant than the raids
we've made on UIPS patrols and shipping. The
Sandbox incident was the ship commander's fault
however one looks at it. By the way," Drummer
grinned. "I suggested to Colonel Hanno that
he chastise the Sandbox's commander about
allowing his people to attack my agents. Lax
discipline, and all that."

Brad laughed, but grimly recalled Rimov's wasted
death. Drummer joined him in the laugh, then
quickly resumed his serious expression. Elbows
on desk, hands clasped, he frowned at Brad.

"In categorizing the Sandbox incident
'insignificant' I do so only in the context of its
effect on objectives and strategy. In another
sense, it was quite important."

"Oh?"

"Narval was pleased with the way you handled
yourself on the Dragon in dealing with Hanno
and Bura."

"How did he find out?"

"Scarf's nature, it seems, made him anxious to
get a verbatim record of everything said in his
presence during Tornado Six. He was wired, and
everything said in his presence was recorded.
Had events gone otherwise, I'm convinced he
would have lifted statements that each of us
made and twisted them to discredit us.

"Putting Scarf in hospital immediately upon return
to base didn't give him the chance to tailor the
transcript. Since he reports directly to Narval,
the recordings were sent to the boss from the
hospital as soon as Scarf was admitted -- routine
security under the circumstances. I heard a short
while ago that Narval spent some time in Scarf's
hospital room. I can only assume he was questioning
Scarf on the unedited recording as well as whatever
he witnessed."

"What happens now?"

"Got a call from Narval's office a short while ago.
Narval wants to meet you. Call his office ASAP
and get a time."

 ##

Narval's stare was long and searching. He ignored
the armed guards standing within effective range
of Brad.

"Sit." Narval pointed to a heavy chair directly in
front of his desk. Straight-backed from flat, hard
seat to shoulder level, extension clamshells from
the upper section of the chair curved forward
sharply to form tapered wings.

Brad sat. The clamshells closed in and stopped
a few centimeters from his temple. Wired pads
extended and touched his skull at several points.
The chair was not comfortable; psychic probes
weren't meant to be.

"Tell me about yourself," Narval leaned back,
inspected his fingers, and then concentrated on
a monitor in the wall behind the chair in which
Brad sat.

"My name is Brad Curtin," Brad began, "and I'm
here with five others to seek sanctuary."

"Tell me about the crimes of which you were
convicted, the Guardian Station prison to which you
were committed, how you organized your escape,
and how it was carried through. You know, of course,
that you're undergoing psychic probe. The probe
compensates for your awareness of its being used
on you; the validity of the findings is not degraded.
I see the monitor from where I sit, so, let's hear
your story."

Brad spoke for fifteen minutes without
interruption. He related the events on his
transport off Luna, the investigation that led
to his trial, his testimony before the Board,
and his arrival at the Guardian Station. Without
hesitation, he swung into the cover scenario that
had been burned deep into his psyche by Ram's
technicians: how he had selected his accomplices,
organized the escape, joined the convoy into the
spunnel, and finally, his arrival on Planet Pluto.

Brad let the embedded scripts flow freely. He
trusted Ram's preparations; his life and the lives
of his companions depended on them. Far more
important, the Sentinels mission demanded it.
Anomalies, he knew, would be sensed immediately,
should he even try to color his recounting of the
personal knowledge and programmed experiences
now deeply embedded in his mind.

Brad stopped talking; the general questions had
been answered. Narval studied the wall monitor
behind Brad, and returned his stare to Brad.

"Let's clear up a few points," he said. "I
understand the ship that you, shall we say,
expropriated for your escape was no more
than a local utility vessel in the Belt. Yet, from
what you say -- and from your ship's log -- your
destination was the rim. Wouldn't you have had a
fuel problem?"

"We thought at first that we would. Our plan,
originally, was to get to a refueling station,
replenish our energy packs, and take it from there.
When we checked our bearings, we discovered that
our coordinates put us within range of a spunnel node
so we headed for that. When we got there, several
convoys were lined up for entry to the Special
Zone. Our ship had UIPS markings and the gateway
was crowded. We managed to get in the lineup and
made it."

Narval glanced at the monitor.

"I see. Now, the Guardian Station prison, I am
informed, keeps tabs on its inmates using a
sophisticated surveillance system. How did you
manage to evade observation long enough to get
away?"

"Zolan, a member of our group is an
expert in electronic countermeasures,
counter-countermeasures, and so on. The system
on the Guardian Station was installed two to three
centuries ago. It serves fine, I suppose, for the
ordinary run of inmates confined on the station.
Zolan devised a screen behind which we did our
planning and preparations. When we were ready to
go, he rammed both a counter and a counter-counter
device into the station's sensors. The double
whammy confused the hell out of the system
long enough for us to make our getaway."

"That's my next question. It seems to me the
Space Guard should have been after you immediately.
How is it they let you get away?"

"I think I owe you the credit for that."

"Me?"

"That's the way I figure it. The Guard needs a
minimum number of ships to do its work in the Inner
Region space lanes. Those lanes are so crowded that
they need every ship they can muster to maintain
order. On that I speak from long and bitter
personal experience. Since the secession, many
more Guard vessels are needed along the Belt
and their overlap into the Jovian Void; at best
they're thinly spread.

"Because of the threat to Slingshot that they
perceive in you, the UIPS has been draining both
groups lately to augment patrols along routes
through the Outer Region that converge on the
Special Zone. The additional ships are from the
Belt patrols. With all that they already have to
cover, expending vital resources to chase a few
escaped convicts just wasn't worth it."

Narval wheezed a chuckle.

"So, you think you are beholden to me for this
indirect assistance. Really feel that way?"

As he asked the question he looked intently at
the monitor. Brad, in turn, watched Narval's eyes.

"I can't see it any other way, Mr. President."

Narval grinned.

"Your answers to my questions present an
interesting scenario," Narval said after studying
the monitor. "The probe, by the way, does not
indicate significant deviations from the facts --
as you understand them, of course."

Narval waved the guards away. Saluting, they left
the room, closing the door softly behind them.
Narval motioned Brad to a chair of much gentler
design alongside his desk. As Brad exchanged seats
Narval swiveled his chair to face him. He leaned
forward and grasped Brad's wrist in a puffy grip.

"The interrogation is over," he said. "This little
session with the probe, along with voice analyses
of you and your associates has, up to now, failed
to disclose a threat to me or about what you all
now know of my plans and military capabilities.
You seem to be what you claim. Nevertheless,
you remain under scrutiny."

Brad shrugged and remained silent; his features
reflected that he expected no less.

Narval's smile was vapid, metallic.

"I commend you for the manner in which you
represented Drummer and, I add, myself. You did
well with the log depot Commander and that upstart
on the transport. I am especially pleased with the
way you conducted yourself in that little squabble
on the transport."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Now, to more important matters, Brad."

Narval leaned back in his deeply cushioned chair
and tented his stubby fingers.

"Your observations on the deployment of UIPS
military forces interests me. It supports my
suspicions. The Inner Region's internal Space Guard
is constabulary in both organization and mission.
Their jurisdiction is confined by the UIPS borders.
Their Military Space Force, on the other hand, has
a charter to roam the Solar System -- comparable
to ancient laws ensuring open seas and oceans.

"Transfer of fighter craft and pilots from the UIPS
Space Guard to the Military Space Force, I suspect,
is now taking place. Many will need to be refitted
for long range operations, and their crews trained
in military concepts and tactics in place of those
employed in local constabulary duties."

Narval twisted the rings on his fingers, and his
tiny eyes seemed to sink deeper into surrounding
flesh.

"The greatest single concern of the UIPS is the
integrity of Slingshot and the Special Zone. I am
convinced that the UIPS military forces, once they
attain optimum strength, will attempt to crush me,
or at the least, dominate the Zone.

"We must prepare to withstand, to resist, and
to triumph over this UIPS aggression in the Outer
Region."

Brad felt Narval's eyes on him.

"You are going to help me to prepare," Narval said.





 Chapter TWENTY-TWO


Drummer expected the call.

"Drummer," Narval said as the door closed behind
the guard and they were alone, "UIPS perception of
me as a threat can be as effective a weapon as my
transforming the threat into the deed itself."

Drummer chose caution. "How so, Mr. President?"

Narval peered sharply at Drummer as he leaned his
heavy body back, and folded ring-encrusted hands
across his paunch. He shifted his gaze to the
ceiling and half-closed his eyes.

"The UIPS now perceives us as having demonstrated
a capability for military actions against their
vital interests. If we follow up with threats and
menacing gestures against Slingshot, the effect may
unnerve them, to say the least. How do you see it?"

"It seems to me we've gone far beyond mere
threats," Drummer's tone, now grim, continued.
"Raiding and harassing their transports, attacking
and destroying UIPS patrollers in the Zone, and
now, the inventory tax. We formally notify them by
Proclamation that we'll lay siege to the Log Depot,
we've boarded one of their armed transports and
disabled its armaments. These are not empty
threats and impetuous gestures."

"Even so, they are prologue, Drummer. Hear me."

Narval twisted his rings, first in one direction
then opposite. Lowering his eyes to his hands, he
paused often between words, choosing them with care.

"Here in the Outer Region, the separate nations
are convulsed by internal struggles for power both
internal to their sovereignty and within the family
of independent satellites that orbit their host
planet. Their political philosophies are diverse,
lack cohesion, and have powerful advocates or
opponents, some openly, others covert. The Heads
of State are insecure and fear political coups.
Rapid changes in leadership cannot be ruled out."

Drummer watched Narval eyes caress his entwined
fingers.

"If new leaders arise and take over the reins of
power from incumbents, so much the better for
me. New governments will need time to become
entrenched, create lines of authority and
accountability, and install bureaucracies
responsive to the wishes of a new elite. I repeat,
confusion in the ranks, within other governments,
is to my advantage."

"Can you count on such events materializing?"

"Of course not."

Narval wagged a finger at Drummer.

"But the uncertainty within regimes that these
disruptions can, and may occur, dissipates and
weakens their energies. If they fear enemies from
within, and suspect enemies from outside, then
they are diseased and warrant being replaced by
a daring and skillful master."

"Who might that be?"

"Me."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Then listen carefully, because you play a vital
role in my plans."

Narval motioned a now openly apprehensive Drummer
to the chair beside his desk. As Drummer sat,
Narval leaned close.

"My strategy has two facets: one involves INOR,
the other, the UIPS. They are interdependent."

Unfolding his clasped hands, Narval's fingers
drummed the desk.

"I repeat, with INOR in turmoil no head of state
can feel secure. New philosophies surface and
attract supporters, occasionally, even strong
leaders. If forces with objectives opposing mine
move into the Outer Region, I will not sit by idly.
I will intervene, even if it means imposing the
most stringent discipline and controls."

"With respect, President Narval, does Planet Pluto
have the right to intervene into the affairs of
other nations?"

Narval scowled, recovered, and snickered.

"Power gives us rights we would not have otherwise.
When the old United Planetary System decided to
use Planet Pluto as the forward base for Slingshot,
they invested the planet with some of their most
advanced technologies. Other communities throughout
the Outer Region are just that: places where people
live, work, play, consume and little else.

"Slingshot has given Planet Pluto a far greater
role in the solar scheme. And now, a role that
was entirely unexpected when Slingshot was
first planned, dissolution of the unified solar
government released us from UIPS domination. We
gained opportunities to fashion and strengthen an
infrastructure, and freedom to confuse our INOR
neighbors with a melange of schemes to satisfy
their greed. Slingshot technology, facilities, and
materiel give to us, more than to any other member
of INOR, the means to attain our aspirations. Power
creates its own logic, Drummer.

"To answer your question: I will intervene into the
affairs of other nations when it is to my benefit
to do so."

Narval's hands clenched into fists. He pounded the
top of his desk in a tattoo as he glared at Drummer
through eye slits embedded in fat.

"Understand me, Drummer," Narval shrilled. "I will
be the dominant force in INOR, and that's only the
beginning."

Narval quieted, each warily observing the other.
Hesitatingly, Drummer tried to respond to Narval's
incredible declaration.

"Is that what's behind your recent Proclamation
to the UIPS on a new foundation for interregional
relationships?"

"Partly."

"What else is there?"

"Unfortunately, we cannot repeat Tornado Six.
When I approved it, I intended it as a one-time
operation to, shall we say, test the waters.
It succeeded through your command, and the
extraordinary initiative of Brad Curtin. We
must now go on to other probing and design new
confrontations from which the UIPS will be forced
to retreat. Our tactics will, at times, include
diversions, as we must keep both INOR governments
and the UIPS off-balance. They must be kept
guessing -- not certain -- where I will move next."

"How do you expect them to react to such
provocation?"

"There is little likelihood the UIPS will gamble
with the future of our solar civilization by
retreating from Slingshot; they cannot risk the
system-wide demoralization and desolation that
would follow. I intend to play on their fears and
on public pressures to attain my ends. That's where
threats come in; we must use them regularly, but
with cunning and consistency. UIPS perception of
danger to Slingshot, compounded by the enormous
distances from their military centers, will
compel them to be reasonable. If our tactics
are convincing the UIPS will have no alternatives.
They will accede to my demands."

"What if they resist?"

Narval's pudgy fists resumed their cadenced
pounding.

"Let them," he snarled, "I will be ready; I will go
further and challenge them. They will be compelled
to come to me, and I command the high ground.
I will defeat them, and move on quickly to my
ultimate objective."

"And what is that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Yes, President Narval, but I must be certain."
Drummer's face was pale. "My ears want to hear
what my mind has been forced to conclude."

"Very well, Drummer, hear this. Planet Pluto
is strategically situated at this time to be the
single, most influential force in human affairs. I
will use that influence to consolidate my military
control over INOR. When I have that I will confront
the UIPS and beat them down. I, Narval, will
dominate the Solar System."

Narval's ultimate objective was clear and set.
Drummer knew better than to dissuade him.

Having confided in Drummer, Narval waxed garrulous.

"I have debts to pay," he said, "and I shall get
much pleasure in making good on them. Many insults
and humiliations need to be returned to former
colleagues on Callisto. And there are others,
in tank towns throughout the Outer Region and
in the UIPS. They will feel my wrath."

"Is vengeance all there is to it?"

Narval caught himself.

"No, no, of course not," he said, hurriedly. "I
shall govern. I shall be wise and magnanimous.
Magnanimous, that is, to those who support
me, and," clenching his fists again, "merciless to
those who oppose me or seek to undermine my will."

"Considering Planet Pluto's distance from the
centers of social and industrial activity," Drummer
interjected, "and our planet's far-ranging orbit,
this could be a difficult location from which to
govern the Solar System."

"I've thought of that, Drummer. I shall move to
Luna and rule from there. In stages, we can adjust
to its gravity. Once Slingshot goes operational,
this planet will revert to an outpost, for most of
its orbit beyond the solar rim. It was never meant
to be more. To me, Planet Pluto has always been
just another stepping stone."

A broad grin rippled across Narval's features.
Drummer, somber-faced, returned Narval's gaze
and saw his eyes shrink into lumpy flesh.

"Drummer, my plans include a position of great
power and prestige for you."

"Indeed?"

"A new elite and a new hierarchy will be created
when I take control. I will want a council of
advisors, commanders and administrators for
internal affairs, constabulary and military forces,
security, intelligence, and a vast bureaucracy to
manage the affairs of government for an entire
system of planets, satellites, and thousands of
artificial colonies. Much will need to be done, and
you will be in the forefront."

"You honor me."

"I expect faithful service, Drummer."

"I shall do my best."

"Good. Now, as to Brad Curtin."

Narval leaned back and entwined his fingers
across his abdomen.

"I had him here a short time ago and questioned
him under a psychic probe. He withstood the inquiry.
The probe did not disclose any inconsistencies to
my questions; therefore, I can only conclude he is
what he claims to be. What is your opinion?"

"My talks with Brad and his companions led me
to that conclusion."

"So be it then."

Narval's attention seemed to wander. He reached
for a document on the desk, and he perused it as
if his mind was elsewhere.

"Drummer," he said, raising his eyes, "I want you
to give Brad a special assignment, and report to
me periodically how it is progressing. Keep Brad's
group together, but watch them, and report to me
immediately of any suspicious activities. I've also
ordered Scarf to keep an eye on Brad and his crew."

"Scarf? To what purpose?"

"I have plans for Brad, if he does well."

"What is the task?"

Narval locked eyes with Drummer.

"Tell Brad to prepare plans and evaluate our
military capabilities to penetrate the protective
shield around the Logistics Depot, to capture it
and use it as hostage."

"Good God! Take the depot as hostage? For what
purpose?"

"The reason you will give Brad is that INOR will
hold it hostage for a greater share in decisions on
the disposition of Slingshot-generated assets."

"That isn't the real reason, is it?"

"No. The objective is diversionary."

"And the real objective?"

"You will be told when it is time."





 Chapter TWENTY-THREE


The Sentinels slouched in chairs, or sat on
the floor, backs against the walls of the small
workroom. Their faces reflected fatigue.

"About fleet capabilities for sustained combat,"
Brad said. "I need a 'how goes it' on the status of
your evaluations. Give me a quick rundown and a
documented report by the end of the day. Myra,
you first."

Myra spoke from where she sat on a chair tilted
against the wall.

"I had training facilities and systems, emergency
medical support, and general administrative backup.
What I saw was guys and gals floundering around,
leaning on each other, and making excuses. The
training programs are antiquated; many aren't even
remotely tied in with the equipment installed on
ships of the line. Equipment operators are learning
by hit-or-miss, and they miss much too often.
Can't blame them for low effectiveness because
the procedures are hazardous to their health. If
we don't improve the situation fast, the crews will
deteriorate to where they won't be worth a damn
when the going gets even a mite rough."

Myra paused, tipped her chair forward, crossed
her arms, and gave Brad a hard look.

"I mean it, Brad. What's more, the medical backup
for combat support is atrocious. If we incur
casualties, the injured won't have much to
depend on, and if the troops have no faith in their
medics, their morale will drop, and I mean fast.
There goes your combat capability. For example,
medical supplies haven't been checked and updated
for years, if they were ever checked at all. They
don't know what they've got or where.

"The system needs a complete overhaul. I
spot-checked the software and links on training,
medical, and administrative systems, and found them
to be full of gaps and obsolete links and citations.
My report, Brad, is that these areas need one hell
of a lot of work to get them up to even minimum
standards."

Myra tipped her chair back until her head and
shoulders touched the wall and she closed her
eyes. Her exhaustion was unmistakable.

"Document your findings, Myra," Brad said. "I
want specific recommendations to deal with each
deficiency that you find, the name of the person
accountable, and a list of the supplies, equipment
and skills to clear the problem."

Turning to the others, he added, "That goes for
everyone; there isn't much to work with, so be
realistic. If you report a problem, tell me how to
fix it. If the shortages can't be filled, we might
have to take from one ship or facility to fix
others. Clear?"

Silence.

"OK, you're next, Zolan. What's the story on
communications?"

"The equipment is generally good. It all came
from the Inner Region, and not very long ago. Part
of what we have was taken in the raids on UIPS
ships; the rest is original equipment installed
here during the Slingshot build-up. Most of the
space-to-space systems are fully operational; there
are some weaknesses in space-to-surface links."

"That part can be handled."

Zolan paused to nod at Myra.

"There's a 'but', though, and here's where I tie in
with Myra's findings on training. We've got a good
supply of comm spares, but not enough skills to do
the work. The comm folks can operate the equipment,
no sweat there. The problem is that although
much of the gear is self-repairing through built-in
robotics, when the robies themselves need fixing,
no one knows how. Chain reaction; it won't take
long for subsystems to break down as the pressure
of sustained ops builds. Barely enough maintenance
robots on each ship and station to keep the
equipment working. The number of out-of-commission
robots is increasing steadily, and no one seems
to know what to do about it. In time, this could
easily lead to wide gaps in communications
capabilities."

"Do you know what to do about it?" Brad asked.

"Yes."

"Lay it out in your report. That's one area where
we can't afford any screw-ups. Adari, let's hear it
on ship's navigation systems and surface nav-aids."

"Well, Brad," Adari grinned, "I had a nice summary
all arranged in my mind, but I won't waste time
by repeating what Zolan and Myra reported. Comm
maintenance also applies to nav, as does training
and data. The equipment is good, but only because
it's fairly new and is robotically self-maintained.
But nav robotics have no backups. Generally, when
maintenance robies need fixing the work's done
by human specialists or other specialized robies.
They're not on board. Eventually, this fleet is
going to be in a sad predicament: nav equipment
will go down with no way to get 'em back on line."

"How are you on fixing nav robots, Adari," Brad
smiled.

"I get by."

"Put that in your report, too." Brad turned to
Kumiko and nodded.

"Guns, power packs, tracking and fire-control
systems in fair shape. Ordnance controllers and
gunners are a breed apart, especially when they're
taking care of their own, and even when working
conditions are tight. They normally do most of
their own maintenance. The guns are modern, and
there's a good supply of ready-to-install chargers.
Ship commanders exercise their gun crews frequently,
and many have been on the raids, so they have ops
experience that the UIPS Space Force lacks. As
far as armaments go, this fleet will be a powerful
adversary in any confrontation."

"Sounds encouraging," Brad said wryly. "When
you prepare your report, just tell it like it is. A bit
of good news would be welcome." Motioning to Hodak,
he added with a tight grin, "Last, but not least,
what's the situation on structures, facilities,
energy sources, and general logistical support."

Hodak, leaning against the wall, rubbed his bald
spot and frowned.

"I ain't happy at all," he said. "As I told you on
the Dragon, maintenance training of ships' crews
is sloppy, and standards are either just not there
or obsolete. We're working on the ops and logistical
support checklists but they're still far from
compatible with facilities and installed systems.
These guys operate by the seat-of-their-pants.
What's more, ship's structural and power plant
robies are down for maintenance half the time
and spare parts are a mess. That also applies
to surface shops and equipment.

"When ships are taken out of the line for repair,
the process is too damn long, mostly because of
the marginal and nonstandard support equipment.
We got a real problem here, Brad. The sooner we
get on it the better."

Brad leveled a finger at Hodak.

"I want you to include in your report a way to
update direct support from surface shops. If we're
going to do ourselves any good on this rim rock
one thing we can't afford is a fleet that can't stand
up to a confrontation with the Inner Region. I'm not
about to be hauled back to that tin can Guardian
Station to face escape charges. I don't think any
of us want that."

Adari and Hodak nodded; the rest sat motionless.
All looked somber.

Brad stood. "That's all for now. I'm going to give
an oral report to Narval as soon as I can arrange
to see him. He needs to issue a heads up with a
whip in his hands. Meanwhile, you all have jobs to
do. Be where I can reach you."

 ##

Narval and Drummer turned away from the view tank
in which they had observed Brad and heard his words
and those of his cohorts.

"Well, what do you think?" Narval bit into a
fingernail.

"They raise valid issues, President Narval. If we
are to challenge the UIPS military we certainly
can't do it with an inferior force. I think we
should listen carefully to what Brad suggests,
and then, considering your objectives, adopt those
ideas that will assist you in attaining them."

"I will listen to Brad, Drummer," Narval said.
"Then, I will tell him to report the details of his
findings to you. I want you both to do what's
necessary to bring our military fleet to a high
level of readiness. Prepare instructions to our
commanders for my signature. We must reach
our maximum combat capability in the shortest
possible time."

Narval's eyes gleamed beady-bright.

"The shortest possible time. Did you hear me,
Drummer?"

"Yes, Mr. President, I heard you."

"I want to be informed, within the next one hundred
hours, when you and Brad expect the fleet will
be ready for sustained operations, and I mean
'combat readiness'. The names of ship and facility
commanders who do not cooperate with you or
Brad will be reported to me immediately. Do you
understand?"

"I do."

"Very well. Now, I have a special assignment for
Brad. As soon as the two of you have the fleet
upgrading program under way, I want Brad to conduct
a joint review with INOR military commanders to
find out what shape they're in for a confrontation
with the UIPS, should it come to that. I've already
communicated with the heads of Outer Region
governments, and they've agreed in principle to
a preliminary meeting. I've approved a meeting
place off Neptune; Scarf has the schedule and the
coordinates. He will accompany Brad as my Security
representative and sit in on all discussions. Tell
Brad to use the Dragon for the mission and to chair
the meeting. Let the INOR people tour our ship; we
must give the impression of power. Any questions?"

"Brad may need to reveal what he knows of plans
to take the Depot."

"I want him to do just that early on in the
meeting. It will give them all a target against
which to plan and integrate deployment schedules,
vectors, tactics and combined operations.
Anything else?"

"No, President Narval."





 Chapter TWENTY-FOUR


Brad stood beside Captain Crisper and surveyed
the scene in the tank on the Dragon's bridge. Scarf
lounged in an accello-net within sight and sound,
as he had for most of the voyage from Pluto.

The Dragon's pilot and communicator, upper bodies
insulated in instrumented cubicles, concentrated
on their tasks. Arms folded across his chest, Zolan
stood along a bulkhead where his eyes could take
in the full compartment without altering stance.

Ahead lay Triton in its retrograde orbit around
Neptune. The moon's expanse was only partially
accommodated by the tank. The Dragon's penetration
instruments revealed Triton's jagged peaks and
chasms through vaporous nitrogen clouds. Steady,
high-intensity beacons marked the location of
domed mine shafts that probed and sucked at the
satellite's core. A cluster of tank towns and their
outriders rode the satellite's horizon.

Gleaming slivers separated from the surface,
converged, assumed an egg-shape and bloomed into
a flight of spacecraft. They formed up abreast
fifty kilometers distant, facing the Dragon's bow.

The speaker above the communicator's enclosure
broke into the bridge's silence.

"Message from Captain Yargoul of the Jovian
Battle Cruiser Windstorm to Captain Crisper of
the Plutonian Battle Cruiser Dragon."

Captain Crisper spoke without moving or taking
his eyes from the tank.

"The message."

"Greetings, Captain Crisper. I have been authorized
by my President and the INOR representatives
I am escorting to inform you that we are here in
response to the invitation of your President. Is
the representative of your Government present?"

The Captain glanced at Brad, who nodded. The
response was released.

"Greetings from Captain Crisper to Captain Yargoul.
My government's representative, Commander Brad
Curtin, is present and prepared to meet with you
and your colleagues. Commander Curtin suggests
the meeting take place in the Command Conference
Room on board the Dragon as soon as the primary
members are aboard. Is that agreeable?"

A short pause, then the reply "Affirmative."
Shortly, utility boats cut away from the ships and
converged on the Dragon. Each utility maneuvered
to synchronize axis and align portals. Precisely
positioned, each vessel locked on in turn and
extended ship-to-ship catwalks.

 ##

The Dragon's conference room hummed with the
murmur of the Dragon's seated guests when Brad
entered and took his seat at the table. Zolan occupied
a seat against the bulkhead behind Brad, adjacent
a glowing view tank.

Scarf was there somewhere along the side, known
and ignored; a security agent to peer over INOR
citizens' shoulders was normal.

Professionals long in their trade, they were battle
cruiser and destroyer flotilla commanders of the
major INOR powers, backed up by their experts
in military intelligence, tactical operations, and
navigation, logistics and internal security. Brad's
measure would be taken quickly, and his influence
and INOR's decisions would depend on their
assessments. He expected no less.

Brad's eyes ranged the table, giving each face
equal time. They returned his scrutiny, casual,
arrogant, challenging. It was his show, and his
reputation.

Brad did not rise to speak.

"I needn't introduce myself," he began. "We've
all done our homework I'm sure, and you know as
much about me as I do about each of you. So, to
business."

Zolan rose, drew an instrumented rod from its niche
at the base of the tank and brought up the quadrant
that depicted the Special Zone. Manipulating keys
along the rod, eyes on the tank, Zolan quickly
brought the Logistics Depot in toward the core
and increased magnification so that it occupied
most of the tank space.

"The objective," Brad said, his voice flat and low.

A long silence, then from the far end of the table,
"What the hell does that mean?"

"Just that. We're going to take it."

A gasp, this time from his left, followed by, "You
guys are out of your minds."

Feet shuffled on the grav-plates. Several among the
seated were arranging themselves to rise and depart.

Brad waited.

The shuffling stopped. They were here to listen,
not to commit.

Brad leaned forward, placed his forearms on the
table, one hand over the other. His steady eyes
moved from one face to the next.

"No," he said, "we're not out of our minds. We can
do it, and our losses can be kept within acceptable
limits if we work together. Furthermore, the Depot
can be taken with minimum damage to its structures
and to its Slingshot stores."

"What's the point?"

Brad looked at the questioner, a big man in a black
and gray uniform and a soft helmet liner perched
on the back of his head. Brad knew him through the
phys-psy profiles he had studied before the meeting.

 ##

"Captain Yargoul," Brad said, "sooner or later the
UIPS must accept that they no longer have mastery
of space beyond the Belt."

Altering his tone to include all, he continued, "I
needn't dwell on the obvious: our collective forces
and Slingshot's distance from the UIPS places
us in a far stronger position than we thought we
would be at this time. I emphasize collective. On
our own, any of us, individually as nations or in an
alliance of satellites, wouldn't stand long against
an organized assault by a UIPS battle fleet. But,
collectively, we will not only resist them, we will
win and take back full control of space throughout
the Outer Region."

Eyes cold, voice gritty as space-sand, Brad tapped
the tabletop.

"Having the power isn't enough. We've got to show
it, and make it credible. Planet Pluto demonstrated
what can be done with real power during Operation
Tornado Six. I'm sure you're all familiar with that
little exercise, and have studied the tactics."

Closed faces. The silence was broken with low but
audible, "So have their tac ops people."

"Right, and we think they've concluded that
INOR is in a strong position to run its territories
and voids without any more interference from
them. Also, that we can devise tactics and take
initiatives that put them off balance and upset
their Slingshot schedule. What we did in our
legally contiguous space can be repeated elsewhere.
The result is the end of UIPS dominance over its
former colonies and space lanes."

Brad paused to preface his next words.

"You can continue to accept invasive UIPS traffic
through your territorial and contiguous zones. You
can do the same for their uninvited presence in
your Exclusive Economic Zones even though the
Laws of the Seas Conventions over the past several
millennia expanded treaties to include or affirm
each independent nation's rights. Or you can align
with Planet Pluto, which is your right as a free
and independent nation. Together -- collectively --
we can demand that the UIPS acknowledge INOR's
jurisdiction in the Outer Region. INOR can back
their demands with military power that the UIPS
can no longer ignore."

There was a long silence, followed by, "What does
the Log Depot have to do with it?"

"First, it's the closest, most politically
vulnerable target within INOR's legitimate
boundaries and jurisdictions. Second, control
of the Depot equates to a strangle hold over
construction progress and launch of the Slingshot
terminals -- which is life-or-death for the UIPS."

"...and not for the rest of us?"

"Not for centuries. If it ever really came to sheer
survival, we'll outlast the UIPS. When they collapse
we can move in and feed off their carcasses for
a thousand years, if we have to. Meanwhile, we'll
take over Slingshot and have it ready for the next
launch window."

A hard-visaged warrior leaned forward in his
chair, and shook his head slowly. "You're a callous
son-of-a-bitch, Commander Curtin," he said,
directing his eyes directly at Brad.

"Maybe so. I'm also a realist. If we play the game
right, and show a united front, this confrontation
won't escalate to major military actions. The UIPS
has got to cross our space, there's no other way.
Take the depot and we can force them to finish
Slingshot, but with INOR playing a major role.
It'll take some negotiating, but it's not likely
that they'll shut down Slingshot."

"How will you take the Depot?"

"You mean, how will we take the Depot?
Unfortunately, we can't repeat Tornado Six. That
was a crisis we manufactured and ran all the way,
a one-shot operation. We've come up with another
strategy to take the Depot, and that's what this
meeting is about. You're all in on the action."

"This is the first I've heard the Depot is to be
taken," said Captain Yargoul, looking around.
"What about the rest of you? Have your
governments cleared this as a joint operation?"

Heads shook in the negative accompanied by
shrugs and grunts. Unanimous.





 Chapter TWENTY-FIVE


Brad leaned back in his chair both hands pressed
against the table's edge, arms straight.

"Your governments have agreed to a united front
against the UIPS, otherwise you wouldn't be here.
Your Heads of State sent you. We're military men,
not politicians or clever diplomats. What does that
tell you?"

Silence.

"Then I'll say it. We're here to plan a military
action. That's what we do. The decision on whether
the plan is implemented is up to INOR politicians
and diplomats. That's how they earn their keep. The
target has been made known to you. Our immediate
task is to assess the forces we will have available
and operational to do the job. For that I need to
know your capabilities, now and for the time they
will be committed to the combined operations.
Let's start with the Jovian System."

Brad fixed his eyes on Captain Yargoul.

Time stretched, no one moved. Finally, at a nod
from Captain Yargoul, a gaunt spacer seated behind
him reached into a pocket, withdrew a capsule and
tossed it toward the front. It floated gracefully
at Zolan in the light gravity. Zolan caught the
capsule, turned, inserted it into a slot at the
base of the tank and pressed a key on the rod.

The tank shimmered, cleared, and in rapid
succession flashed images of battle cruisers,
destroyers and support ships. Data unreeled
across the lower section of the tank, listing
ship's armament and ship's readiness rating.

The recording completed, Zolan withdrew the capsule
and returned it in the same manner as received.
Another floated toward him, preceded by a growl
"Titan." The routine repeated, and within a short
time, the major INOR platforms and weapons for
a combined assault on the Logistics Depot had
been recorded and rated for readiness.

When the last capsule had cleared the tank Zolan's
fingers raced across the console's keypad and the
screen recapped the inputs. The Logistics Depot
reappeared high up in the tank wrapped in its
protective cocoon, and lines of transports loading
and off-loading cargoes or waiting their turns.

The scene contracted, and the vacated space filled
with numbers and codes representing the few UIPS
recon-patrollers in the Plutonian sector followed
by a tabulation of INOR's combined assault fleet.
The computer presented INOR's combined fleet's
Order of Battle, and stabilized.

The assembled commanders, master strategists
and tacticians all, pointed, commented, and proposed
options on the employment of ships, formations
and weapons. Zolan keyed their suggestions into
the computer and the results appeared in the tank.
Finally, there were no further options. Brad nodded.

"Mark it and distribute a copy to each Commander
present," he said, and turned back to survey the
group around the table. He waited.

Captain Yargoul cut the brief silence.

"What we have, so far, is a textbook tactical
disposition of forces around a theoretical
objective. The reality will depend on the strategic
plan for the operation and what we expect will
come out of it. When do we get to that?"

Brad grinned.

"That will be made known to you at the appropriate
time."

 ##

Brad and Zolan walked silently down the ramp from
the Condor and boarded the outbound strip. Skirting
knots of commuters they faced outward in a
momentarily vacant slot for two along the edge of
the fast moving lane. Opportune and random, the
location was as secure as any from eavesdropping.

"I briefed Narval an hour ago," said Brad. "He's
certain that he can get the INOR leaders to join
for a healthy share in the prize. I've been ordered
to plan for a combined operation to take the depot."

"When?"

"He's sitting on that. What he wants from me
now is to portray an integrated assault by INOR
combined forces from a point halfway between
the depot and the Slingshot construction site.
I'm to work out the details and keep each element
on a timeline from launch to full military control
of the objective."

"Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"Talk to me."

"Setting the launch point against the depot
from a couple of million kay outbound from the
Plutonian orbit doesn't make sense. It's especially
suspicious when you consider that the INOR forces
will be coming from sunside of Pluto and therefore
sunside of the depot -- the presumed target less
than a half million kay from here. Why not have
the fleet rendezvous closer to the target?"

"My question, precisely."

"How do you see it?"

"I'm not sure yet. Narval did say to crank in
diversionary tactics that would draw the Terminals'
defensive forces away from their normal ops zone."

"That's weird."

"Agreed. He's setting it up this way to maximize
his options, he says. The final decision, he said,
needn't be made until the final moments. Confuse
the enemy and all that."

"Are you saying the same plan can be used against
the Terminals?"

"Absolutely. Oh, a few formation and tactical
switches but they can be made in the field as
the fleet switches targets."

"Would it work?"

"A bit of delay, but I'm sure it would. But at
whichever target Narval's final order sends the
fleet, the results would be a disaster for the
UIPS. The real target's spunnel lines will crash,
destabilization will disrupt the entire Slingshot
construction schedule. We'll have lost the launch
window."

More commuters swung aboard the strip and
crowded their space. Brad and Zolan eyed them;
time to split.

"What now?", Zolan asked.

"Not much choice." Brad replied in a whisper. "Use
the depot spunnel facility to get word to Ram.
Don't take any nonsense about getting to Hanno.
Once you're through to him, you shouldn't have
an access problem. So get to the depot, shoot the
burst, and get back here without being spotted."

"The message?"

"Narval's instructions to me. Everything we learned
at the meeting off Neptune, especially the Order of
Battle capsule with the options on formations for
the combined fleet. List the types of weapons and
warheads installed on each INOR ship of the line
and the coordinates for rendezvous and launch
at the depot as the target.

"That'll get them as suspicious as we are. Crank
in what the coordinates might be if Narval makes
last minute switches. Point Icarus is the designated
code name for the INOR rendezvous. Include that.
Tell Ram I said to get his fighting folks off their
butts and earn their keep."

Brad shifted, stepped over to a slower lane, and
from there off the strip. He disappeared among
the pedestrians. Zolan remained where he was for
a distance, disembarked and strolled about near
an air lock as he mind-impressed his message on
a comm capsule.

Colonel Hanno will be surprised, Zolan mused
as he pushed his way into the suiting-up room.
Contemplating his mission, it might take a bit of
time for Hanno to respond and track the code,
interpret the instructions, and acknowledge what
they required of him. He would need to push Hanno
hard.

He selected and checked a suit for fit, fresh
fluids, air and communications. Climbing in and
closing up, he stepped under a helmet rack, drew it
down, rotated mating surfaces, closed and locked
the seals. The automatic self-test devices hummed
pressure checks, and indicators glowed as the
life support systems balanced internally. The suit
inflated, held for several seconds, and subsided to
normal. A tiny light above the inside visor glowed
green to show status as ready.

Passing through the outer air lock Zolan turned
toward a line of flitters. A guard watched him
approach, rifle held casually across his chest.

"OK," said the guard when Zolan was within five
meters. "Hold it there. What's on your mind?"

"Name's Zolan. I need a long range flitter for a
hop into the outback."

"Let's see your authorization."

"What authorization?"

The guard's head wagged in his helmet.

"Y'gotta have authorization for a distant
destination, buddy. That's orders. Otherwise,
take a taxi."

"Orders, hell," Zolan growled. "I can't get where I
have to go using a taxi. I can't do my work with you
security types puttin' the chocks to me for 'orders'
each time I need to check a work site." His tone
became scathing. "Get your superior on-line and
tell him my name and what I want. If he has any
questions, tell him to check with Brad Curtin on
President Narval's staff. C'mon now. Move, man,
move."

The guard's manner changed with the name-dropping.

"Yes sir," he said. "Right away, sir."

Zolan's comm contact with the guard went on hold
as the guard switched to another line. Ignoring the
guard, Zolan surveyed several nearby utilities.

Moments later his line with the guard reopened.
The guard's voice was deferential.

"Clearance received, sir," he said. "Got a real
good single-seater here for you. Just came out
of the maintenance shops. All systems have been
checked and she's ready to go. Shall I warm her
up and crank in the coordinates for you, sir?"

"That's OK," Zolan replied, "I'll do the set ups
myself. I've got several places to visit and want
to work out the trip on the box so I don't waste
any more time. Which bird?"

"Follow me, sir."

Moving along the line the guard stopped at a
low-slung framework from which a crude cage hung
suspended, held in position by braces angling in
from connecting structures. Behind the cage,
halfway along a shaft running aft, hung a tiny
nuclear power plant. Nozzles of cone-shaped
propulsion units on gimbals hung in neutral.
That would change as soon as Zolan inserted his
coordinates and activated the thrusters.

"Here she is, sir," the guard exclaimed, proudly,
offering Zolan a checklist. "All yours."

"Right," Zolan grunted. Shifting his eyes
critically from the checklist to flitter and back,
he walked around the tiny flyer inspecting the
spars for alignment and cracks. Moving to the
power plant he examined the reactor's cover
and seals for seepage and the thruster nozzles and
gimbals for cracks and wear. Finally, satisfied after
scrutinizing the instrument panel, he stepped back,
initialed the checklist and handed it to the guard.

"Looks OK on the outside," he said. "I'll check out
the warm up. If it cooks OK, I'm out of your way."

He squeezed into the cage, set and activated the
reactor. Observing the power levels rise on the
gauges, his fingers stroked the flitter's keys
and levers. He tapped his coordinates into the
nav-comp as the plant warmed.

The guard moved closer.

"Know how to set her? Maybe I can help, sir."

He stuck his head into the crowded space and
watched the computer screen flip through the
coordinates that Zolan inserted. The screen
stabilized and reflected a series of vectors.
The guard studied them. Zolan ignored him.

Zolan adjusted the torso belts and rechecked
the reactor and weight-and-balance indicators.
He heaved a heavy sigh.

"Well, time to hit the road," he said. "Stand back,
man, I'm taking her up."

The guard stepped back and saluted. Zolan moved
the power lever and directional controls. The
framework and cage quivered and the flitter lifted
up and away.

Looking down, Zolan saw the guard bending backward,
watching his direction of flight.

"Hope he got them all down right," he thought as he
entered new data into the computer.





 Chapter TWENTY-SIX


Zolan peered ahead. Reaching the depot's perimeter
was less of a problem than he had anticipated.
Following a few short stops to surface stations
to inspect military tunnels and comm links, and
validate the flitter's flight record, he diverted
to a depression between Coldfield and the horizon.
Resetting coordinates had taken seconds. Resuming
flight, he quickly merged for a short distance with
a queue of tugs and taxis along a crowded lane, then
veered sharply up toward the Logistics Depot.

Blending his flitter's comm with the flood of
electronic signals from nearby tugs and transports
at the Gateway, Zolan drew closer to the huge
Depot and took shelter in a knot of lashed vessels.
Taking several deep breaths, he fixed his eyes and
mind on the depot. Concentrating, he constricted
and relaxed his neck and shoulder muscles in an
irregular pattern, and repeated the rhythm until it
invoked a slight pressure high in his left shoulder.
The stresses energized the short-range sending
device implanted in him prior to the Sentinel's
escape.

His words, inaudible beyond his voice box, opened
contact with the depot's command post.

"Calling Ditch-digger," he intoned. "Ditch-digger,
refer to your k-library program file 6756, and
respond on Bootstrap."

He repeated the message and waited. It would take
time for the comm technician on duty to work it
out. The communications staff would scurry about,
searching for the program. Restricted to Sentinel,
this contact would be its initial activation.

The receiver in his ear whispered, "This is
Ditch-digger in Bootstrap. Continue."

"Ditch-digger. Scramble 16."

Zolan hunched and tightened his shoulders to switch
channels.

The voice came through. "Done."

"I want to speak with Colonel Hanno."

"One moment, please."

A short pause.

"Hanno."

"This is a Sentinel call. Break the seal on your
copy of the Sentinel Support Plan and refer to
Annex C, Section 21, line numbers 416 to 422.
Note the encryption structure. I will cite the line
in the structure that authenticates my request
for support. Waiting."

Minutes passed. Breaking the seal on the highest
classification Sentinel Support Plan was a grave
responsibility that Hanno would not take lightly.
He would need to do it in the station's security
vault with no witnesses present. The comm center
would then need to be cleared of personnel other
than Hanno before the exchange could proceed.
Finally, the receiver whispered again.

"I have the lines you refer to. Continue."

"Note how the authenticator is to be stated,"
Zolan said.

He rattled off a sequence of numbers, letters
and symbols. Injecting a short, prescribed silence,
he spun off another set. The authenticator was
in two parts, each requiring its own style for
presentation.

"Authenticator confirmed," Hanno said after a
pause. "State request?"

"I'm in a flitter near the Gateway," Zolan said.
"Request permission to come aboard and have
unattended access to the spunnel transmitter
for about five minutes. I will then depart."

"Permission granted. Do you wish an escort from
your present position to the dock?"

"Yes, please send an unarmed tug to lead me through
the gate, match me up, and point me at the dock. Tug
operator and anyone else that observes my presence
or the flitter must not repeat must not log the
serial number of my flitter or any of its features.
Clear all your people to beyond five meters in all
direction from the passageways I'll be using, and
from the spunnel comm center. I am armed with
a hand weapon set for maximum effect without
collateral damage to non-organics. My mission
requires such precautions. Do you accept these
conditions?"

"I accept."

"Noted. Have an unarmed guide at the air lock to
precede me to the spunnel console. Instruct him to
not speak to me, no questions, and to not interfere
in any manner in what I do. When I've completed
my work in the comm room the guide is to lead me
back to the air lock. The same tug is then to get
me through the Gateway, same conditions, and I'll
be out of your way. When I'm gone conduct your
highest-level UIPS security briefing. This mission
is classified UIPS Black. Understood?"

"Understood. Ready?"

"Ready. I am moving toward the Gateway and will be
there in two minutes. Have your man flash his reds
and greens at one-second intervals. I will respond
with standard flitter yellows at the same spacing.
Over. Out."

Zolan carefully adjusted the controls to slip the
flitter away from the screening vessels. Clear,
he maneuvered his craft close to a space buoy
that marked the route through Fandango.

A yellow-green striped tug appeared in the distance
and grew larger. The Gateway's diameter could expand
to pass the largest freighters or close completely.
It could be straight or as convoluted as a randomly
configured corkscrew. The tug passed through,
flashing the agreed-on signals.

Zolan responded. The tug stopped, reversed heading,
and waited for him to line up. Inside the force
field, the route took them over, under and around
huge freighters and through swarms of shuttles,
tugs, and barges. Five hundred meters from the
depot Zolan pressed a disk on his control column
and a mag beam reached out and locked on to the tug.

The tug's thrusters glowed brighter with the power
to match up both craft. Aligned, Zolan released the
tug, and gentling his thrusters, brought his flitter
to rest on a landing platform that had articulated
from a portal.

Space suit closed and glare screens partially
activated to veil his features, Zolan strode the
Depot's corridors behind his escort. Although he
had docked at the portal nearest his destination,
the spunnel console was still almost a quarter kay
from the air lock.

Reaching the console chamber, Zolan motioned his
guide to wait outside. He entered and inspected
the area for intruders and bugs. It seemed secure.

Approaching the squat spunnel transmitter he noted
that Hanno had activated the system for immediate
use and disengaged all logs and file-for-record
links. Confirming the disconnect, Zolan wasted
no time in preliminaries. Inserting the capsule he
keyed the transmitter to the channels assigned
to Sentinel and set off his burst.

The transmitter was a model that dated back several
centuries to the depot's construction. Zolan knew
from his training for the mission that a spunnel
burst from the depot had to be arranged in parts.
Each segment was to be inserted separately into
the spunnel dispatch slot. The ancient transmitter
could process only so much at a bite.

Zolan held the final segment and reached to insert
it. A couple of seconds and the transmission would
be complete. The console was coded to dissolve
the capsule immediately following the burst; there
would be no residue.

Zolan bent to insert the end of the message.

Sensing movement behind him, he slipped sideways
and hit the deck. Without warning and in the
line-of-fire, the squat console disintegrated as
a rending flash arced across to where he had been
a fraction of second before. Off balance, twisting
to face the door, Zolan drew his weapon.

The flash blinded him. His suit shielded him
against the instant hell-fire that bounced off
the console.

Silence followed the attacker's second shot. Zolan
crouched, weapon extended, vision clearing. No
further shots. Snapping a quick glance around, he
took in the damage. The console was a melted lump
and the room a shambles. He had to get out and away.

Up on his feet, he raced through the open doorway,
gun raised. His escort to the comm room lay
spread-eagled in the corridor, head burned to a
crisp by what must have been a max shot. The
corridor was empty.

"They cleared the area of everyone but the killer,"
he thought bitterly.

Having committed the route to memory as he followed
the escort to the spunnel room, Zolan raced along
the corridors, gun in hand. No one barred his way.

The air lock came in view. He hurried through and
twisted into the flitter driver's cage. He cut the
mag beam to the dock and signaled the waiting tug.

 ##

They met on the transit strip.

Standing close, facing off the strip, observant,
Zolan briefed Brad in quick, terse phrases.

"What's your assessment?" Brad asked when
Zolan finished.

"It was a long, straight corridor. The escort must
have been shot from the bend some distance away.
Damage to the comm room was extensive. Scarf
must have an agent there. My having the area
cleared alerted him. That brought on the attack."

"Did you get word to Hanno?"

"No. It would have raised questions I couldn't
answer without breaking our cover. He'll have
to figure it out for himself. I'm concerned about
what the agent will report to his control."

"Whatever they conclude, the action eliminates
the depot as a comm resource for us. Did you
get the entire message on its way?"

"I don't know. The last fragment included the Point
Icarus coordinates."

Their eyes met.





 Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN


President Camari stonily contemplated the
incomplete communication and turned to Intelligence
Director Dynal. Ram sat immobile, nearby.

"Allen?" Camari's raised brows posed his question.

"We couldn't get through directly to Hanno to find
out why the message was cut short. So we went
spunnel to the Terminals and patched in to the
Depot on coded conventional. Hanno reports his
spunnel transmitter was destroyed. He was certain
he was hoodwinked into permitting a saboteur aboard
and screamed about a security breach on the Sentinel
Support Plan. He said the 'saboteur' escaped before
the alarm could be acted on. A damned lucky delay,
I think."

"Did you enlighten Hanno?"

"No, sir. Too risky for Sentinel, and he has no
need-to-know. I did tell him to run deep background
checks and truth verification tests on all Depot
personnel. He objected, thinking he had already
pinpointed the culprit. I told him to do it anyhow,
slap into the brig anyone who didn't pass,
and report the results to me under highest
classification through the construction site's
spunnel center."

"Good. No question they've been infiltrated. We
must consider the depot compromised for classified
until Hanno assures us he's cleared the problem
from his facility."

The President touched a button on his desk,
running the message through again in its entirety.
He switched the screen dark.

"The Outer Region's target might be the depot,
but I wonder." Ram said. "Perhaps destroying
the depot's spunnel transmitter is prelude to
an attack. If it is, they must realize that the
incident set off alarms throughout our defenses.
They'll also know we can maintain spunnel contact
and relay messages to and from our patrollers
and other craft through the construction site."

"Considering Hanno's report on what happened,
the attack on his spunnel transmitter focused on
keeping this message from getting through, not to
merely destroy the machine. That alone would not
have been worth the effort."

"We're down to one comm spunnel link in the Special
Zone," Dynal added. "The one we built on Planet
Pluto is controlled by Narval's people."

"Does Sentinel have access to the transmitter at
the Terminals?"

"The sender would need to personally key in
the clearances as well as the text," said Ram,
"otherwise the message would be compromised.
Sentinel would be compromised. We do have the
last resort."

"Have you checked it lately?"

"We run random tests from this end to be certain
that it's ready to function. As you know, sir, it
has its uncertainties and imposes a high price."

"Back to the message," Camari sighed and rubbed
his temple gently as he pondered. "Their combined
forces, and the distances involved, place us at an
enormous disadvantage."

"Without question."

"Ram, what's your estimate concerning the missing
piece?" Camari pointed to the message in his hand.

"The missing piece," Ram replied, "the one we need
most is Sentinel's assessment on where and when
we can strike at INOR's fleet with maximum effect."

"Depends entirely on Sentinel? No other sources?"

"At this stage, none, sir."

Camari lowered his head, lost in thought. After
a moment he raised his eyes to Ram and said,
"We've got to get our thinking through to the Outer
Region, to all citizens as well as Heads of State.

"I want you to get out there, Ram. Be my emissary.
Impress on whoever will listen the disaster
that all of us face, and why we must arrive at a
peaceful solution. Concentrate on the leaders of
major nations; whichever way they go, others will
follow."

"I'll need the formal weight of our government,"
Ram said.

"Of course. I'll notify them all that you are my
Ambassador Plenipotentiary, and that you carry
a personal message from me. Use the spunnel
and send me reports as you go along."

"Narval, too?"

"Of course. And while you're in his area, learn all
you can from whatever sources; but watch yourself
with that bastard. He'd as soon cut your throat as
look at you."

 ##

"Category one message, spunnel-comm to Earth via
Guardian Station 4. Personal to President Camari
from Ram Xindral. President Gelliman, Callisto,
unchanged in his conviction that Slingshot
will benefit only the highly industrialized inner
planets. He repeated charges that the UIPS
non-renewables deficits resulted from poor control
and excessive consumption of raw materials, plus
breakdown in recycling and conservation policies.
He concluded that Slingshot is our internal problem
and that it's being forced on INOR. Demands UIPS
halt Slingshot construction, withdraw from the
Special Zone, and resolve UIPS resource crises
internally."

 ##

"Category one message, spunnel to Earth via
Guardian Station 4. Personal to President Camari
from Ram Xindral. Prime Minister Manra, Io, says he
wishes us well in building a bridge to another star.
He makes an issue that transportation, construction
and operations for all phases of Slingshot,
including ultimate storage of incoming raw matter
will be inside INOR jurisdictions; therefore, the
INOR governments have a legitimate right to
participate in apportioning Slingshot's benefits.
Refuses to negotiate this point."

 ##

"Category one message, spunnel to Earth via
Guardian Station 7. Personal to President Camari
from Ram Xindral. Foreign Ministers Roab of
Ganymede and Slega of Europa represented their
governments. At conclusion of meeting they issued
a joint communique. Quote: it is only reasonable and
proper that the governments of the Outer Region not
be excluded from an equitable share of the enormous
financial and material resources being lavished
on the Interstellar Matter Teleport System
(Slingshot). The UIPS can begin to remedy this
injustice by agreeing to pay a transshipment tax
on all materials, manufactured parts, tools and
equipment, and personnel passing through the
separate INOR jurisdictions, space-ways, and
contiguous space generally. Passage fees
for individual vessels in transit also must be
negotiated and included in the agreement. Unquote.

"It is my opinion that the positions taken by
the governments of the Jovian Federation
are orchestrated. I suspect that reports on
my discussions with Heads of State or their
representatives are being passed among them.
I am departing for Titan to meet with Chairman
Stabar. The Chiefs of Staff of the other Saturnian
governments and the governments of the Uranus
and Neptune satellite unions have notified me that
their views are consistent with those of Chairman
Straber. They state nothing is to be gained by
pressing for separate meetings with them."

 ##

"Category one message, spunnel to Earth via
Guardian Station 9. Personal to President Camari
from Ram Xindral. Chairman Staber's position is the
same as those summarized in my previous reports.
Staber openly proclaims that INOR's intent is to
control the terminal that will receive and store
incoming substance and oversee its distribution.
Insists a formal treaty be negotiated now,
otherwise, the entire Slingshot Program will
be viewed as a threat to the integrity of INOR's
legitimate jurisdictions. I am proceeding to the
Planet Pluto Special Zone and will contact Narval
from inside the Logistics Depot's protective
force field. I will insist on President Narval's
guarantee of safe conduct prior to departing
the depot for Coldfield."





 Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT


Ram entered the Log Depot's conventional
communications center and nodded to the young
operator.

"Make the contact," he said, adding, "Relay the
message through one of the transports; delete all
references that show this facility is in the loop."

Switches snapped as the operator nodded. His hands
sped across the keypad. A few moments passed and
his voice issued as an electronic whisper.

"Calling Planet Pluto Comm Center. This is the UIPS
Transport Akiba, Call Sign 943 dash 792. We have a
Priority One message for your government. Stand by
to record. Acknowledge."

A slight crackle.

"This is Planet Pluto Comm Center to Call Sign 943
dash 792. We are ready to record. Go ahead."

Ram drew a small plastic card from the breast
pocket of his tunic and handed it to the operator.
Without glancing at the card the operator slipped
it into a slot in the console. A light on the panel
blinked on and off and the card ejected. The
operator returned it to Ram with a single motion
and a smile.

"Message dispatched, sir."

 ##

Narval pushed the message aside and away. Face
flushed in anger, he stared at Drummer.

"What do you make of it?"

"The message is less than straightforward, Mr.
President," Drummer replied. "Ambassador Xindral
seemingly appeals for an audience with you to
discuss matters of interest to both his government
and ours. The suggested agenda it carries, however,
puts us on the defensive with barely room for
reasoning with his government. He asks for a
guarantee of safe conduct. As a legally constituted
government in a community of nations, and in
the absence of, shall we say, formal military
hostilities, such a request is not only
unnecessary, it is an affront. I suspect, Mr.
President, that the Ambassador's motives are to
place you at a disadvantage."

"I agree."

"His distrust of us is evident in the manner in
which the message was routed. Transmitted from
a cargo transporter off the depot's force field,
no less. His personal vessel must be somewhere in
the pack up there, but he obviously intends to keep
it hidden. Very unseemly for a formal visit by an
Ambassador."

"Your recommendations?"

Drummer paused, and spoke slowly, carefully.

"Consider the facts: his tour of the Outer Region
was preceded by a personal message from Camari
to Chiefs of State. He has had audiences with INOR
Presidents or Ministers. They have informed you of
their replies to his appeals. Those who declined to
meet with him took the course they did because
they had nothing to add to what had already been
stated by the others.

"Because of your initiatives, President Narval, you
are central among the INOR leaders in pressing the
issues between the Regions. Refusing to see him
may be interpreted by our colleagues in INOR as a lack
of conviction in our cause, or even as weakness. My
recommendation is that you see him, but manipulate
the discussions to give our rights dominance.
Insofar as 'safe conduct', I suggest we ignore the
insult, grant him permission to visit our planet,
and wish him a pleasant stay."

Narval drummed on the desk, pushed at the message
again, and shifted about. He was uncomfortable.

"I'll think about it, Drummer," he said.
"Meanwhile, extend the invitation, set up suitable
quarters for him away from our official guest
house, meet him when he arrives, and so on. Have
him stand by. When I decide on the approach to
the discussions, I'll let you know whether I'll meet
with him."

 ##

"Well, Scarf, have you finished reading that
thing?" Narval impatiently bit a fingernail.

"Yessir, Mr. President."

"Well?"

"Sir?"

"What the hell do you mean by 'sir'? I asked for
your opinion, dammit."

"Well, sir, he asks for an audience with you..."

Narval sighed. "Don't just repeat the message,
Scarf. Tell me what you know of this man."

Scarf's face lost its embarrassed flush and he
hastily pulled a reader device from his pocket.
Striking a series of keys, Scarf peered closely
at the screen. He pointed to the reader as
verification for his words.

"Ambassador Xindral is a senior Intelligence
Officer assigned to Slingshot. That's about all
we've got on him. Definitely not a run-of-the-mill
diplomatic type."

"That's what concerns me, Scarf. I'm highly
suspicious of his motives even if Camari did notify
us in advance. Intelligence officer, indeed. If he
becomes aware of our preparations and reports
back, our plans will be jeopardized. Drummer wants
me to see him. I don't want to be in the same room
with this person. Yet I can't refuse without losing
face. Now, get me out of this, Scarf."

"How far can I go, Mr. President?"

"As far as you like, just keep me out of it."

Scarf rubbed his beefy jaw reflectively, then
grinned.

"I have reason to suspect, Mr. President, that
this known UIPS intelligence officer is using an
Ambassadorial cover for purposes harmful to
Planet Pluto's internal security. How's that for
starters, sir?"

Narval's eyes gleamed with sudden craft.

"Go on," he said.

"His ostensible mission to meet with the President
of Planet Pluto is, in actuality, a guise under
which he intends to meet with dissident elements
among our people. His real mission is to subvert
and undermine the foundations of our government.
In other words, his coming here is to disrupt. He
should be dealt with according to the rules of his
own game, and not those of normal interplanetary
or interregional diplomacy."

"Explain."

"Agents that conduct a mission such as his are
expendable, Mr. President. There are no rules."

"Repercussions?"

"Whatever happens to him will be outside accepted
protocols, and will occur prior to his arrival at
the President's Official Residence. The incident
will result from initiatives taken by the UIPS
Ambassador, himself. The Government of Planet
Pluto will not be involved."

"Very well, Scarf. I leave it to you."

 ##

"Hodak," Brad motioned him forward. "I want you to
show me the new power pack for the cruiser being
overhauled in tunnel 3. Where is it?"

Hodak glanced at Brad, then away.

"It's still in the shop near the north side of the
dome. Take us a few minutes to get there."

"OK, let's go."

Leaving the cubicle that served as office they
boarded the strip. Standing close, they spoke
through unmoving lips.

"Ram's here."

"In Coldfield?"

"Not yet, but soon."

"What's up?"

"He's to see Narval. His job is to try to work out
an agreement that'll keep Slingshot construction
moving along."

"How'd you find out?"

"Drummer mentioned it to me in passing. He's
arranging a meeting between Narval and Ram."

"Has the time been set?"

"Not yet. Drummer's waiting for the go ahead from
Narval."

"You mean Narval isn't sure he wants to meet Ram?"

"Suspicious, isn't it?"

"Damn right."

Their eyes met and moved on to the passing scene.

"If there's to be an incident," Brad asked, "who'll
be setting it up?"

"Scarf, who else?"

"Soon as I hear when Ram's due and where he's to
be lodged, I'll get back to you. For as long as he's
on Planet Pluto your job is to keep him out of harm's
way."





 Chapter TWENTY-NINE


Entering the Charnel Pit, Ram scanned the tavern.
An empty table beckoned, and he folded his long
frame onto its stool and delicately leaned an elbow
on the least filthy spot of the scarred surface.
Shifting his body slightly, he observed the milling
crowd with frequent glances toward the entry.

Garbed in earth-toned street clothes, he had just
left his room at the Condor, his mind on Drummer.
Their meeting at the landing pad had been proper
and courteous, with no attempts at prying, either
way. Confining themselves to amenities, they
spoke of tedious space jumps, the quality of
accommodations in various parts of the system,
and generalities on a better life for humankind
from a benevolent Slingshot.

Drummer had taken leave following Ram's inspecting
his lodgings at the Condor and shrugging them
acceptable under the circumstances. Departing,
Drummer informed Ram that he would call for him
or send an escort as soon as a suitable time for his
meeting could be arranged with President Narval.
Ram expressed his trust that the meeting would be
soon and productive.

As his eyes accustomed to the bar-room's
smoke-diffused lighting the harsh faces of
the jostling crowd emerged. A frontier, indeed,
he mused. Satisfied that he drew no untoward
attention, he glanced once more toward the door
and signaled a robo-dispenser.

A face drifted past, paused for the briefest
moment, and moved on. It was enough. Ram gave
no outward sign, but felt less alone. Hodak ambled
to the bar, where the drinkers greeted him and
jovially made room. An hour and several drinks
slipped by. Hodak and Ram ignored each other.

A small man in a nondescript tunic sidled up Ram's
table.

"Xindral?" He wheezed.

Ram glanced at him and away. He remained silent.

"I have a message for Ram Xindral."

"Give it."

"If you're Xindral, the person you're here to see
prefers to meet with you away from his normal
place of business. I am to guide you to the meeting.
Follow me."

"Name the man who sent you?"

"Drummer."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

"He is with his superior at the meeting place."

Ram was suspicious. It could be a trap. On the
other hand, it was not unreasonable that Narval
might want to meet away from the formal seat of
government. His options were limited. If Drummer
had really sent the message, and he refused the
escort, the meeting with Narval would be off to a
bad start, perhaps canceled.

The messenger stood by, subservient, waiting.
Ram brought his hands to his forehead as if
deliberating a decision, and gently rubbed his
temple to cover a flashing glance at Hodak. Hodak
subtly acknowledged the sign.

"Be with you as soon as I finish my drink," Ram
said.

Taking a sip, he placed the goblet on the table and
began to fish about in his tunic pockets, clumsy and
time-consuming. Finally, he rose slowly, towering
over the small man.

"Lead on," he said.

Alarms shrilled in Hodak's mind as he recognized
the person speaking with Ram. What were Scarf's
stooge and Ram discussing? Ram's mission to Planet
Pluto was clearly diplomatic and entirely Drummer's
show. Drummer would not have knowingly accepted
Scarf's involvement in the proceedings.

Ram's surreptitious glance in his direction and
deliberate clumsy hesitation imparted doubts
concerning his predicament. Hodak stretched,
quickly finished his drink, paid his tab, and
slapped drinking partners' shoulders good-bye. He
sauntered toward the door, left the bar-room and,
outside, turned away as Ram and his escort emerged
and moved off. Hodak turned casually to observe.

A man in a dark tunic slipped out from a shadow
along the wall and followed behind Ram. Another
trailed further behind. As Hodak watched, two more
moved out of an alley and took positions ahead of
Ram and his escort. Ram was boxed.

Hodak followed, barely close enough to distinguish
Ram's swaying form in the street crowds.

Ram's guide moved toward a break in the wall and
motioned Ram to follow. Hodak saw Ram hesitate,
speak harshly, and draw back. He was too late.
The others closed in and pushed him forward.
Ram stumbled, tripped, fell, tried to rise. Arms
whipped about and he stayed down. The four lifted
and dragged him through the breach. The fifth
waited until they disappeared and darted away.
It had happened fast.

Direct intervention on his part, Hodak realized,
would be extremely hazardous. Recognition would
instantly compromise the Sentinel mission. He
had to help Ram in a way that would not disclose
his own identity.

He slipped silently into the alley.

From up ahead came rumbled curses and harsh
laughter; they were sure of themselves.

Hodak's eyes searched the shadows without success
except for the grind of boots on stony detritus and
the scrape of a weight being dragged. He closed the
gap, counting on the procession ignoring their rear.

The sounds muted and stopped. Peering from a
recessed slot along the wall he saw Ram's abductors
crowd around the entry to an open utility. One of
them crawled in and Ram's unconscious form passed
to him. The remaining three followed and the cover
drawn into place.

Hodak moved swiftly to the entry and pressed his
ear against its thick cover. Shifting position and
scooping aside loose dirt and pebbles, he pressed
his ear first against the ground then back to the
cover. Scraping noises from the other side were
audible, but diminishing.

The odds were not with him but timing and surprise
might even them a bit. Lifting the cover slowly, he
felt the texture of the surface and slipped into the
dimness beyond. He crouched in the rubble, the faint
sounds giving him direction.

The tunnel lights were low and flickering, their
sconces widely spaced. It was enough.

Working his way forward along the tunnel, short
dashes from one bend to the next, Hodak closed on
the laughing, cursing pack. They were close beyond
the next bend.

Feeling along the waistband of his tunic, Hodak
drew a thin, flat metal strip from the weave.
Holding the strip gingerly, he jerked their ends in
opposite directions and sensed the sharpness of
the blades that instantly snapped outward along
both edges. Twisting and turning formed a half-meter
long scimitar and bending it slightly along its
length added a curve comparable to the ancient
Australian boomerang. It was both silent and deadly.

Hodak eased closer to the bend in the tunnel, and
snaked his way along the ground until he had a view
of the scene ahead.

Ram lay in a heap against one wall, motionless.
His captors, facing the opposite wall, were busily
examining its surface. Words bounced back along
the wall.

"...as good a place as any, huh?"

"Yeah. Let's get this over with and head for the
Blind Pig. I'm thirsty as hell."

"OK, Patch and Swat, you two -- start burning
the hole. Cut it deep enough so all of him can be
shoved in. Leave enough room so we can seal it
over with the same dirt. Flume, you start collecting
rocks to pack around the body once we get it
in place. Then we'll just pack and fuse-seal until
it's all smoothed over. This guy'll be riding this
ice ball when hell freezes over."

"What're you gonna do, Angel?"

His tone was sarcastic. It brought a snarl in
return.

"Scarf put me in charge of this detail, Flume.
Remember? So when I tell you to haul rocks, don't
fight it." The heavy tone eased. "I was ordered to
search the guy. Scarf wants everything from his
pockets, and all his clothes, just in case he's got
something stashed away. I gotta deliver the stuff
as soon as we're done here. My orders are also to
mess up the body so it'll never be identified, even
if it does get found. So let's get with it."

As Hodak watched, Flume, the rock gatherer moved
off down the tunnel. Two of the remaining three
drew soil-fusers from a backpack and concentrated
on their power settings. The fourth, obviously
Angel, turned toward Ram who was beginning to stir.

Seeing Ram's movement, Angel drew his weapon,
hefted it, and aimed it at Ram's head. Angel's
mouth twisted into a savage grin.

His companions turned from their work to watch.

"Wait. I want him to see it coming," Angel said
over his shoulder.

Hodak pressed his fingernail against a pip on the
instrument in his hand and felt it vibrate with
energy. Thrusting his arm further into the tunnel's
bend he hurled the boomerang toward Angel.

The weapon reached its maximum velocity within two
meters of the throw. Moving at a speed that made
it invisible to the naked eye, it flew silently and
true.

The slender implement curved around Angel's neck
and, without stopping, completed its return to
Hodak's hand.

Angel's head was gone from his shoulders.

The sound of Angel's falling body startled the
two staring expectantly at Ram, waiting for the
execution shot. Turning, they gaped at what had
been Angel. They scrambled in panic to press
their backs against the tunnel wall. Dropping the
soil-fusers, they drew and waved their weapons
about.

One of them shouted, "Flume. Can you hear me,
Flume?"

"Yeah, I hear you. Whatta ya want?"

"Get back here, quick."

Flume came running, took in the scene and joined
the other two against the wall. Together, they
stared at Angel, then along the tunnel, one
direction then the other.

"What the hell's goin' on?"

"How do I know? We didn't hear anything, then the
noise of him falling. We looked and there he was
and there was his head. We had our eyes on the
big guy; couldn'a been him did it."

"What do we do now?"

"Search me."

"Let's get outta here."

"Can't. We gotta finish the job, or Scarf'll burn
us alive."

"Then we better stick together from now on,"
Flume said. "You two finish cutting the hole but
now make it deeper. I'll keep watch. Soon as
you're ready we'll load 'em in, seal it up with
stuff from around here, and scram."

As Hodak watched, Patch and Swat recovered
sufficiently to raise their soil-fusers and direct
the nozzles at the tunnel's wall.

An amber glow formed on the fuser's tips and the
tunnel wall's surface bubbled and flowed toward
the floor in the light gravity. Wielding the fusers
expertly they distributed its liquefied substance
in a rough, irregular pattern, blending it in with
the surrounding surfaces. The excess that reached
the floor quickly hardened to match the rubble
strewn about.

Flume, back against the opposite wall, weapon high
and ready, peered tensely about. Finally satisfied,
Patch switched off his fuser and tapped Swat on
the shoulder. Swat glanced at him, switched off,
and they stepped back.

"This'll do it," Patch said. "Load Angel in first.
The back of the hole is too small for the big guy."

He leaned over, grasped the open-eyed head by
a hank of hair and flung it into the hole. The head
disappeared with a soft thud. Swat joined Patch;
each grasped one of the body's arms and legs
and they heaved it in after the head. Patch leaned
into the hole and pushed the solid flesh as far as it
would go. Turning, he motioned Swat toward Ram.

For a moment Flume faced away from Hodak.
He did not see the boomerang before it twisted
around his throat and was gone.

Intent on Ram, Swat and Patch saw neither the
strike nor the weapon. They heard a gurgling sound
and whirled. Flume was on the tunnel floor, blood
pulsing from the neck of his headless torso. The
head, itself, had rolled against the opposite wall,
eyes open.

Panicked, they fired frantically down the tunnel
in both directions.

The boomerang back in his hand, Hodak waited. An
open assault was unacceptable, both for himself and
for Ram. He would be cut down with a single sweep
of the killers' heavy handguns, and with his identity
revealed, Scarf would track down the Sentinels with
a vengeance.

Snapping a quick peek he saw Patch and Swat back
to back in the middle of the tunnel, facing in opposite
directions and whispering to each other in terror.
Guessing the distance between the two he extended
the boomerang slightly and pressed the pip.

Stepping away from the wall Hodak threw the
boomerang around the bend.

One of the targets must have seen it coming.
There was the beginning of a scream.

Boomerang back in hand, Hodak walked around the
bend. Patch lay quietly; Swat's body still quivered.

Hodak took less than five minutes to enlarge the
hole, load the newly dead in with their companions,
and smooth the surface to match the tunnel's wall.

Ram, groggy, sat against the opposite wall and
watched.





 Chapter THIRTY


The space was little more than two meters across,
a vault cut into the side of a tunnel to store
construction supplies. It was enough.

Leaving Ram in the dimly lit space to recover,
Hodak rushed to an exit, surfaced, took his
bearings, and found Brad in his office. Brad
immediately sensed the urgency from Hodak's
expression.

"Let's get our people together," Brad ordered.
Hodak quickly passed the word and, within minutes,
the Sentinels convened in an empty air lock.

Myra left for headquarters to cover; the remainder
strung out behind Hodak to the subsurface vault
where he'd left Ram.

 ##

"And that's it." Ram finished recapping his trip as
he gingerly rubbed the large bruise on his head.

"They're lining up for a confrontation," he said,
"both political and military, and Slingshot is the
club they'll hold over us. They think they smell
the blood of victory, and there isn't a cool head
among them."

He turned to Brad.

"Your message was incomplete," he said. "What
was left out?"

"Narval's planning guidance on the assault launch
point," Brad replied, citing the coordinates,
bringing Ram up to date.

They were silent as Ram mulled over his options.
Sighing, he rose and stretched his frame, bending
slightly to keep his head from scraping against the
vault's roof.

"The attack on me must have been approved by
Narval," he said. "My feeling is he didn't want to
talk to me because his preparations and commitments
are too far along. He feared that, had we met, I
might get enough from our discussions to see his
game plan. I've got to get home -- fast." Grinning
at Brad, he asked, "OK, how are you going to get
me out of this rat's nest and back to my ship?"

 ##

Narval screeched, face twisted, hands pounding
the desk.

"What do you mean, standing there and telling me
you've lost track of your people? Not that I give a
damn about them, but you gave them a simple job
to do, and I want to know, now, where it stands."

"That's just it, Mr. President," Scarf said, his
normally ruddy face gray with fear. "I haven't
received a 'sitrep' from my agent-in-charge. I did
get an interim report from the back-up observer
I assigned to track them from the Charnel Pit.
According to him, the Ambassador was taken into
custody immediately upon leaving the bar. Along the
way he resisted and had to be -- uh -- restrained.
Everything looked to be under control, so the
observer left to report."

"Tell me precisely what you ordered your agent to
do."

"Identify himself as coming from Drummer. Take
the Ambassador into custody under the pretext of
escorting him to a private meeting with you. While
in custody, and without witnesses, Xindral was to
be terminated and his body buried in a tunnel. The
site was to be returned to its original appearance,
and Xindral's possessions brought to me."

"Where is this site located?"

"My agent was to give me the exact location when
he delivered the Ambassador's personal effects."

"You mean you don't even know where to start
looking? Is that what you're saying?"

"I know the location where they took him down.
Well, I got a problem there too; the subsurface
junction branches off in several directions."

"Is it possible Xindral overcame his restraints
and neutralized your team?"

"Not likely, sir. The observer said he saw
sufficient force used against Xindral when he
resisted to render him unconscious."

Narval sank back into his chair, head lowered,
staring into his lap. Raising his head, he fixed
burning eyes on Scarf.

"Despite your assurances, Scarf, I think it not
only possible, but likely, that Xindral got away
from your team. For all you know, your goons
may be in hiding, afraid to face you with the truth.
If Xindral's still alive, he must have concluded by
now that the attempt against him would not have
occurred without my approval. So, we're committed,
and I can't afford to wait."

He pointed a shaking finger at Scarf.

"Xindral can leave Coldfield only through an air
lock. Post extra guards. Deploy patrols to strips
leading to air locks on the perimeter. Mark him
as a newly arrived renegade, a killer and genetic
flake dangerous to Coldfield's safety. Order your
people to take no chances with him; he is to be
destroyed on sight. I want Xindral found, and
I want him dead. Do it. Now! Move!"

 ##

Hodak was back from scouting the tunnel up ahead.
The way was clear with an exit a kilometer distant.
The opposite direction would lead them back to the
center of Coldfield.

Brad cocked an eyebrow at Ram. Ram nodded.

Hodak and Kumiko took point, Brad behind Ram. Zolan
and Adari rear guard. They covered ground swiftly.

The passageway widened, and a ramp led up to
a mezzanine from which other tunnels branched.
Ascending the ramp Hodak disappeared into a low,
narrow entryway in the wall. The others followed.
Ram folded to his knees and went flat to squeeze
through. The cut ended abruptly at a rock face.
A ladder rose to the dim outline of a manhole.

Kumiko climbed and slipped a slender filament
through the tiny gap between the edge of the
utility cover and its frame. Below, Zolan inserted
the free end of the filament into a clip on the
bridge of a pair of goggles, and donned them.

"Up a mite," he called to Kumiko. "OK, hold it,
now scan a 360, slow."

He gave the goggles to Brad who donned them
and scoped the ground level through the filament.

"The manhole is in a cul-de-sac, closed in on three
sides by walls set back about two meters from where
we are. The cul-de-sac accesses a street on which
traffic is passing. The dome's inside wall is on
the far side, and I see some markings on it. Each
of you, look about and get your bearings. Speak up
if you recognize the area or the markings."

The goggles passed from one to the other. Zolan
tossed them up to Kumiko at the top of the ladder
and caught them when they were lowered. He handed
them to Ram who peered at the ground scene as he
listened.

"Strip markings," Adari said. "They're usually
located to orient folks coming in from the outside.
My guess is we're close to a strip or an air lock."

"Any idea which one?" Brad asked.

"Not from appearances," Adari replied, "but I kept
track of our twists and turns to this point, and
the way I figure, we're in the western quadrant of
the city. The sector has more air locks than the
others because it's on the main route to landing
pads for the maintenance shops. We've lucked out
-- maybe."

"What do you mean by 'maybe'? Don't hold back."

"The traffic. More people about."

The silence was heavy.

"If we can make it to an air lock without being
challenged," Brad said, "we'll get Ram to a taxi.
Hodak, can you rig a taxi to manual control and
leave it with enough power for a one-time flight
through the depot's cocoon?"

Hodak, Zolan and Adari put their heads together.
Ram shoved his head in among them, and vigorous
hand motions cut the air. Ram nodded as Hodak
turned back to Brad.

"Can do," he said.

"Next item," Brad said. "Ram, can you get your
long frame into a standard suit?"

"Once we get into the air lock I'll look for the
biggest suit on the rack. Then I'll just have to
push, pull and squeeze. Won't be the first time."

Brad looked up at Kumiko, holding the scope in
place.

"Got it?" He called up.

"Yep."

"Comments?"

"As long as I'm up here, how about me taking point?"

"OK. Now, all of you. Set weapons at max. If
we're seen and tied to Ram, the whole operation
is compromised. So we'll have no witnesses. Act
accordingly."

Kumiko pushed the manhole lid aside, climbed out
and darted forward to where she could see along
the street. She took in the scene quickly.

Several people passed on a nearby strip. They did
not notice Kumiko. She waited until they passed
where they could have seen into the cul-de-sac,
then signaled the others up.

As Zolan came abreast of Kumiko he drew
a pencil-thin tube from a pocket in his tunic.
Holding it in one hand he twisted the knurled knob
that formed one end, and returned it to his pocket.
He winked at Brad who had come up beside him.

Brad saw the question in Ram's eyes.

"One of Zolan's home-grown gadgets," he said.
"Sets up an omni-interference field for a couple
of hundred meters. We'll be moving through
comm-override chatter until he switches it off."

Then to Kumiko, "Which way?"

"Left. Air lock. Hundred meters." She crouched
and darted away.

"Ram, stoop, bend, whatever it takes to shrink.
Stay close to the wall for as long as you can.
Everyone keep a few meters apart. Hodak, you stay
close to Ram and watch the rear. OK, let's do it."

Two burly men came around the end of a nearby
structure, stopped, stared at Ram as he rose
through the manhole, and then at each other. Zolan
caught both in a conical burst as they backed away.
They fell in silence.

Hodak and Zolan dashed forward. Each grasped a
set of ankles, hauled the bodies into the cul-de-sac
and dumped them down the utility hole.

Brad took a quick look in both directions and
nudged Adari.

"Go," he said.

Kumiko was at the air lock. Brad, Hodak and
Ram were well away from the cul-de-sac. Kumiko
stepped into the enclosure containing the suit racks,
her weapon up and level, safety off, finger a tiny
space from the trigger.

Two guards, sitting on a bench, rifles across their
thighs, gaped at her.

"What the hell," one of them yawped, raising his
rifle.

The other guard flipped the switch on a hand-held
transmitter and started to raise it to his lips.
Kumiko cut them down with a single sweep. She
raced up and across the long room, checking
alcoves, corridors and behind suit racks. Empty.

Ram entered, quickly followed by the others. Hodak
remained at the door, alert for intruders. Adari
moved across to the keypad control for the outer
air lock, and peered through the visi-screen. She
thumbed up.

Ram rummaged hastily among the space suits on
the rack. Adari left her position, grabbed a suit and
worked herself into it. Brad, Kumiko and Zolan were
halfway into theirs. Zolan moved to the outer door.
Hodak, suited up, called to Ram, who hurried over.

"Here's one you might squeeze into. C'mere, give it
a try."

Ram looked distastefully at the suit. "Well," he
muttered, "that's what happens to a giant among
pygmies. I couldn't find anything bigger than what
you've come up with. Give a hand here."

Adari joined them. Together, she and Hodak
shoehorned Ram into the suit and closed the seals.
Helmets fitted, they ran quickly through air tank
and suit connections security and pressure checks.
Minutes later they were ready for departure.

Brad motioned Kumiko closer, and they opened their
faceplates.

"Stay here until we return," Brad instructed,
"but keep your suit on. Now that we're all wearing
suits we can't be identified. So, if you get innocent
visitors, just incapacitate them. If anyone comes
looking for a fight, don't wait for an invitation."

Kumiko nodded and closed her faceplate. Weapon
in hand, she took up a position where she would
not be seen from the entryway.

Brad lumbered to the air lock and, a moment
later, the panel to the buffer space slipped aside.
Gesturing Ram, Zolan, Hodak and Adari through, he
stepped after them and closed and dogged the panel
leading back into the dome. He lifted the safety
cover and pressed a wall plate. With a swish of
escaping air, the outer doors slid up. They stepped
out.

 ##

A dozen taxis and space tugs were scattered about
on the ramp. Choosing the taxi most distant from
the others Zolan beckoned Hodak and Adari to follow
him. Moving as quickly as their suits and the light
gravity would allow, they reached the taxi and
climbed aboard. Brad and Ram brought up the rear,
turning often to watch other suited people moving
about. A ramp guard was some distance away,
gesturing among a knot of people. The Sentinels
remained unnoticed.

Reaching the taxi, Zolan and Hodak began to
adjust its controls, vector and power instruments.
Adari's helmet filled in the pilot position. Raising her
glove she beckoned frantically to Ram. He climbed
in beside her. Her hand on his helmet she spoke
rapidly, pointing at the instrument panel.

Brad watched Adari move back and out as Ram moved
into the seat she vacated. Bending forward, her
helmet touched Ram's as her gloved hands pointed to
where the depot was visible. She slapped Ram on the
shoulder and stepped back.

The jerry-rigged taxi rose slowly at first, gained
speed and disappeared into the backdrop of black
velvet and stars.





 Chapter THIRTY-ONE


Camari strode into the Conference Room, took
his seat at the head of the long table, and stared
bleakly at his advisors. The faces of the Ministers
of Diplomatic Protocols and Intelligence were grim;
the Commander of the Space Forces ready to explode.

"I suppose you've all studied Ram's report," Camari
said in a low, angry voice. "What do you think?
Selvin?"

"If they take the depot," Admiral Selvin said,
"we're out of business. Even if we get the depot
back undamaged, we'll be unable to make up the
time lost. The construction and launch schedules
are that tight."

"What do you suggest?"

"Stop them -- now."

"They'll know we're coming when our fleet lines up
to enter the spunnel. The gateway can handle our
military craft, no problem there. What we cannot
count on is INOR's failing to see us on the move."

"How do we get around that?"

"Diversionary tactics; draw their attention to
a major initiative on our part in which all of INOR
has role vital to its interests, if not survival.
Risky, but we have no choice."

The Strategic Concepts Computer recorded, analyzed,
and reported. They listened, then talked.

 ##

The Solar Spunnel Communications Control flashed
a Category One Alert across the system. The Alert
was directed to all planets, satellites, stations,
outposts, and all ships in space from Mercury to
deep within the Oort Cloud far beyond the Slingshot
construction sites.

Rymer Camari, President of the United Inner
Planetary System wished to address the citizens
of all nations on a matter of extreme urgency, one
that affects humankind throughout the entire Solar
System. The INOR Chiefs of State were urged to
convene their Executive and Legislative Councils
and to listen to the UIPS President.

Interplanetary comm-spunnel boosters were raised to
maximum power and range. The added power cleared
Camari's image and speech for override into all
open aud-viz transmitters and receivers throughout
the system.

When Camari's features formed in view tanks or on
screens his manner was grave, and his tone solemn
and deliberate. The message was brief.

"Greetings to all citizens and Governments of our
Solar Community," he began. "We wish you well.
I have chosen this time and this means to speak
to you directly because the threat to all of use is
real and our peril increases by the hour. Unless we
act immediately and in concert, disaster will befall
us all.

"Not long ago two of our manned recon craft were
attacked and destroyed near Planet Pluto. These
ships were part of a small protective force that
the UIPS maintains in the Plutonian Special Zone
for the safety of the Slingshot terminals and its
logistics depot.

"The Government of Planet Pluto has been familiar
with the patrollers' mission to protect Slingshot
assets in the Construction Zone since the Program
was in its early planning stages. In these latest
operations, one of our patrols was known to be
scouting the Plutonian outback for subsurface
tunnels and galleries where unscrupulous
adventurers sneak off to hide after preying on our
outposts and transports. The other UIPS patroller
had identified a cache of contraband weapons in
space that presented a clear threat to Slingshot.

"The attack on the two UIPS ships could not have
occurred without the prior knowledge, approval
and very likely, the direct orders from the highest
authorities in the Plutonian Government."

The President sat forward in his chair and his face
loomed larger across the system. His voice lowered,
and increased its intensity.

"We cannot consider these incidents in isolation.
Our transports to the Slingshot depot and
construction site are being raided and harassed
by terrorists and pirates who are directed by
and provided sanctuary by both official and
non-official entities. We are compelled to conclude
that INOR criminal adventurers and pirates act in
the context of agreements among their Governments.
Doing so constitutes direct military and economic
warfare against the UIPS and is an attempt to
sabotage the Slingshot mission.

"I must tell you now we are outraged by this
conspiracy and these attacks. The UIPS does
have recourse. It can respond in kind.

"What then? Warships carrying weapons of
unprecedented destructive power are at the ready
in both regions. Have we no choice but to keep
escalating provocation, sneak attacks and reprisals
until our full military fleets are unleashed in
their fury against each other? If we get to this,
citizens of INOR, do not rule out reprisals on your
encapsulated communities. Be aware: history clearly
shows us that there are indeed few, if any, real
sanctuaries for civilian populations in times of
war."

He paused to let the words sink in. His voice
became crisp and forceful.

"I am now faced with this decision: Should the UIPS
retaliate against Planet Pluto and all other members
of INOR that interfere with innocent passage of our
transports to and from the Slingshot sites?

"That is one course open to us; it would bring
death and havoc all across this star system we
know as our home. We must look to alternatives. The
creators and wielders of weapons must demonstrate
reason along with valor. War, in any form and at
any level, is a blind evasion of the real problems
that confront humankind.

"When the old United Planetary System was replaced
by the UIPS and INOR, the relationships among
governments and peoples deteriorated. We drifted
apart. The few interregional agreements that did
evolve supported special interests. Once ingrained,
they became acceptable, even generally attractive,
practices. Now we each have our spheres of
influence, and we guard them jealously -- and often
with apprehension.

"There remains, to this day, a deep distrust and
fear that one nation or independent colony, or any
collective, will attempt to secure advantage over
another. Each of us, focused on our own interests,
sees the danger and seeks to avoid being its
victim. This infectious distrust and fear must be
cleansed from our system-wide community of nations
if we are ever to live in peace with each other.

"Misunderstandings have arisen over the centuries
concerning the intentions for Slingshot facilities
and personnel in place throughout what has now
become INOR territories or jurisdictions. We accept
our share of blame for these misconceptions.
Let us dispel them.

"The Collector Terminal, as you all know, will be
disengaged upon completion and take its position
on the system's rim. When the launch window
opens, and it will be open to us for only a very brief
time, the Extractor must depart -- there will be no
second chance for several centuries. The Extractor
must fly as fast and as true as the missile did
from the sling of David to the head of Goliath.
The Extractor is our missile, Alpha Centauri is
our target and, as David's leather sling was the
instrument to save an ancient civilization. The
orbit of Planet Pluto powers the sling that will
save our civilizations for the ages which extend
before us, but only if we act in unity.

"What happens afterward? When the Extractor
has departed, we will no longer need the logistics
depot, and UIPS citizens in the Zone will return
home. All but a small portion of our facilities,
equipment, and supplies will be transferred on site
to the Plutonian Government or INOR generally.
Whatever is not wanted by its new owners we
will remove and help Planet Pluto to convert and
reconstruct Coldfield and the rest of the planet
to fit the needs of its citizens. We will provide
material support and training for transition to
an infrastructure and administration of Pluto's
choice. We invite all of INOR to share in this
task."

Camari leaned back for a short pause. His eyes
looked beseechingly at his unseen audience. His
voice softened.

"That was the past and, admittedly, a poor
foundation upon which to build; let us now look to
a more positive future. I make this proposal to all
Governments of our star system, the common
heritage of humankind.

"We are in disarray. As history has demonstrated
time and again there are no real winners in
contests of military might, to the contrary. Our
response to the incidents off Planet Pluto is that
we reject reprisal merely for vengeance, or for
imposing ourselves on the Plutonian people. In the
same vein, we reject war against any Government
within INOR. Not because we cannot wage war, but
because war would annihilate cities and lives on
both sides. Further, Slingshot would be lost to us,
and ultimately, the entire solar civilization would
wane and disappear.

"I propose we meet in space, along the border
between our Regions at a place of mutual agreement.
Let us convene as equals to examine our differences.
We must give greater credence to each other's needs
and aspirations and arrive at consensus on sharing
in the responsibilities for this, our family of
planets and satellites. Let us search for ways
to combine our diverse interests into a new and
majestic pioneering spirit for the great leap to
the stars yet to come.

"This is the challenge and the opportunity."





 Chapter THIRTY-TWO


Narval's rage spluttered from his lips in a
viperous hiss as he pointed at a baffled Drummer.
Brad, straight-faced behind Drummer, stood easy.
Scarf, off to the side, stiff and erect, stared
blankly at the wall behind Narval, his features
twitching to depress a smirk.

"You were responsible for Camari's emissary,
Drummer. I've had you notified that I am ready to
receive him. Where is he?"

"He's disappeared, Mr. President."

"So I'm told. What does that mean?"

"Your orders were to provide lodgings for the
Ambassador somewhere other than the official
guest house. I had no choice but to put him up at the
Condor. When I was informed of the time that you
agreed to see him, I went to the Condor to extend
the formal invitation. He wasn't there. I inquired
of the Condor's management and also among the
citizens present. Several recalled him because
of his unusual height, but no one, it seems, saw
him leave." Glancing toward Scarf, he added,
"I immediately requested your Chief of Internal
Security to put out search parties. That's where
it stands."

Narval turned to Scarf.

"Well?"

Scarf stiffened.

"We've searched the city, Mr. President," he said,
"and can't find a trace of him under the dome. But
we had several unexplained killings a short while
ago and I'm sure he's involved. Two of my agents
were gunned down on the street near air lock 43,
apparently without reason, and their bodies were
dumped down a utility access. Also, two of my
guards, on special detail inside the air lock were
killed. Add to that a communications blank-out
swamped the same area about that time, and a
space taxi is missing from the 43 ramp.

"We can't get a tracer on the taxi; its automatic
location signal is out, and it doesn't respond to
direct inquiry. All this, taken together, is very
suspicious, and leads me to conclude the Ambassador
skipped rather than meet with you."

Brad's eyes moved gravely from one speaker to the
other.

"Drummer." Narval turned back to him. "When you met
with Camari's Ambassador, what did you discuss?"

Drummer shrugged and stroked his chin.

"Just the routine chit-chat of protocol: small talk
about the inconveniences of long hops and living out
of traveling kits. Oh, yes, we expressed our hopes
for a better future when Slingshot cuts in. That
was about it."

"Then why would he leave so abruptly?"

"I have no idea, Mr. President."

"This incident does not please me, Drummer. A
special envoy arrives from the UIPS, obviously
carrying an important message to me from President
Camari. He leaves before he delivers the message,
with no advance notice. As he leaves he kills
several Plutonian citizens and steals property.
No, I don't like it at all, Drummer."

His fingernails drummed the desk. Suddenly
conscious of what he was doing, he stopped and
brought his hands close and inspected them for
damage.

"Drummer, draft a personal message from me to
Camari, complaining about the manner in which his
Ambassador conducted himself on Planet Pluto.
Accuse the Ambassador of murdering several of
our citizens and stealing our property to escape our
judicial process. Tell Camari his message to me, if
he really sent one, was not delivered. That'll throw
the ball back to him. As far as I'm concerned, the
matter is closed. I have far more important matters
to discuss with you and Brad."

He waved his hand at Scarf.

"Get on about your business."

As Scarf closed the door behind him, Narval shifted
his bulk. Placing both hands flat on the desk he
studied each ring. He glanced momentarily at
Drummer and fixed his eyes on Brad.

"I am not a fool," he hissed as his features
contorted into waves of quivering fat.

"That UIPS envoy had motives for coming to Planet
Pluto far beyond delivering a message to me and
getting a formal response. His timing was to be
here when Camari broadcast his appeal for his
convocation with INOR Heads of State. He was here
to assess my reaction." Looking from one to the
other, he demanded, "Did you hear Camari's speech?"

"Yes," from Drummer.

Brad nodded.

"Well, as my diplomatic affairs advisor, Drummer,
what did you make of it?"

"My feeling is that Camari is willing to meet us
halfway to resolve differences between the Regions."

"You do, eh? What about you, Brad?"

"I'm neither a politician nor a diplomat, Mr.
President. I can't see behind the words. Taken
literally, I suppose, he wants a grand party to
talk things out. That might be fine, providing it
ties in with your plans."

"Aha," Narval said, with a gentle slap at the
desk's top.

"You've hit it a lot closer than Drummer. The
question of the moment is how might this so-called
peace conference affect achieving my ultimate
objective?"

"I have not been made privy to your 'ultimate
objective', Mr. President," Brad said. "I cannot
speak to that point."

Drummer looked straight at Narval, silent.

"My question, Drummer," Narval demanded, his tone
impatient.

"You shared your objectives with me in confidence,
Mr. President. I am not at liberty to speak on them
in the presence of others without your permission."

Narval stared long and hard at Drummer and back
to Brad.

"Not yet," he said. "Meanwhile, and especially in
the light of the forthcoming convocation, I want
you, Brad, to accelerate preparing our military
fleet to take possession of the depot and that
gaggle of transport and other vessels that
constantly hover about. They will be the main
bargaining chip when I give my ultimatum to Camari."

Brad nodded, his features closed.

Drummer looked dubious. He said, "That means we
must have the depot under our control when you
speak to President Camari."

"Sound conclusion," Narval replied caustically.
"Now, Drummer, is the time for you, my chief
diplomat, to engage in a bit of manipulation and
encouragement among our allies -- in my name
and behalf, of course.

"We'll do this one step at a time. Prepare personal
messages from me to the heads of INOR governments.
Remind them of our past agreements to stand
together to resist incursions by the UIPS. Point
out that Camari's invitation presents us with an
excellent opportunity to exert our combined will
on this issue. Then, state my intention to take
temporary control of the Slingshot Logistics
Depot to add weight to our persuasions. Are my
instructions clear?"

"They are, Mr. President."

"Good. Emphasize the need for us to act in concert
to bring peace and prosperity to the Outer Region.
Lay it on thick about how we can demonstrate our
unity of purpose to Camari, and harmony among
ourselves if we join forces. This shouldn't be
a surprise to them; it was the purpose of the
planning at the Neptune meeting. Wasn't it, Brad?"

"It was."

"Here, then, is my first objective, Drummer. I want
the INOR warships that were committed at the Neptune
meeting to be alongside ours to take over the Depot.
The Depot must be ours before the conference
gets under way. That is vital to our purpose. In the
message, say that now is the time to strike. Insist
that they send their ships as quickly as possible
to join in the operation. Also, and be shrewd in
presenting this: INOR ship commanders are to be
subordinate to and carry out the orders of the
Plutonian Fleet Commander for the duration of this
operation. Clear?"

"Clear, Mr. President."





 Chapter THIRTY-THREE


Narval sat hunched over as Drummer and Brad
entered. He did not wait for them to approach.

"Well? Speak up, Drummer," he snapped. "Don't
wait for a special invitation."

"The replies to your message have come in, Mr.
President. They are all in the affirmative. Their
fleets are getting ready."

"Ah hah!"

Narval's head shot up, and he straightened as
much as his deeply cushioned chair would allow. He
patted the top of his desk, and his face creased
into a broad grin, flushed with triumph. Eyes
dancing from Drummer to Brad and back, he patted
the desk once more, obviously enjoying the moment.
The grin quickly transformed into one of deadly
cunning.

"That takes care of my first objective," he
said. "From here they are both independent and
interdependent. You must plan carefully and carry
out my instructions without deviating."

Eyes fixed on Drummer, he raised his jeweled hand
to point at him.

"I have already told you how you fit into my plans
for the future." Turning to Brad, "You have proven
yourself a reliable and resourceful leader, Brad.
When I have attained my goals, you, along with
Drummer, will be amply rewarded with material
wealth and positions of honor. I tell you this
now because in my world loyalty has a price, and
you are entitled to know I will pay it. How do you
stand?"

"I hear and I understand, Mr. President," Brad
replied and, without a flinch, "I stand with you."

"Good."

Leaning as far forward as his paunch would allow,
Narval motioned Drummer and Brad forward. They
took chairs close to the desk.

"Drummer, I appoint you Commander of the Combined
Fleet, and I now order you to take the objective.
Brad, I appoint you Drummer's Chief of Combat
Operations. I will issue the necessary orders to
all Commanders of the Plutonian fleet and to the
Commanders of our allied forces."

Narval watched Drummer and Brad's faces as he
spoke. Both returned his gaze with grim, attentive
expressions.

"When you have taken the objective, only Scarf's
security troops are to be allowed to board and take
stations throughout the facility. You have another
task.

"Once internal security is established, invite the
ship commanders to a celebration on your flagship.
Reject declinations; they must appear. Permit the
celebration to go on for a bit, then, Drummer, the
bolt.

"Announce to the assembled Commanders -- those
of the Plutonian fleet and those of our allies --
that I have instructed you to take their oath of
allegiance to me, Narval of Planet Pluto, and to
none other. Those who refuse are to be eliminated
on the spot in plain view of the others. Those who
agree are to be placed under psychic probes, then
and there, to ensure that their oath of allegiance
to me is without reservation. Any who fail to pass
the test are to join the ones that openly refused.
No second chances. Understood?"

"Understood," Brad said.

Drummer nodded, his face gone pale.

"Transfer contingents of Scarf's troops from
the objective to your flagship, several hundred if
necessary, whatever number you need to cover the
operation. Make certain that you transfer enough
technicians to set up and operate the psychic
probes. If any Commanders or their staffs chose
to be feisty, the troops are your execution squads.

"The ships of those Commanders who refuse to swear
allegiance to me will be boarded by our troops, and
all resistance crushed. Subterfuge may be necessary;
do not hesitate: the end justifies the means.
Replace the original INOR Commanders with officers
next in command; promise them wealth and position,
use the psychic probes to verify their decisions;
at some point in the pressures that we will apply
INOR officers will switch their allegiance to Pluto.

"When your takeover is complete, the combined
INOR fleet will be under my control. I shall then use
this power to challenge the conferees and dictate
my terms to both the UIPS and INOR's rulers."

"Timing is of the utmost importance," Brad
reflected.

"Exactly," Narval said sharply. "All of your plans
and timetables must be synchronized with the
actions I take at the conference."

"Any attacks on the depot will be immediately
spunnel-flashed by Hanno to the UIPS," Drummer said.

"I've thought about that," Narval replied. "Brad,
I want your man, Zolan, to install generators and
controls for an electronic barrier sunside of the
Planet Pluto Special Zone to keep all messages from
the UIPS, conventional or spunnel, from passing
through. Can he do it?"

"Yes."

"Good. I will transmit a coded message to you from
my ship when I have the agenda for the conference.
The message will tell you when to energize
the barrier. I must control the timing on this
operation so precisely that the conferees have
minimal warning before I make my announcement.
Vitally important: the electronic barrier must
go up sufficiently in advance of launching your
operations against the target so that no messages
of the attack passes through from the depot, the
terminals site, or any UIPS ships in the area. The
comm-blackout will itself set off alarms throughout
the UIPS. By then, it will be too late for them to
interfere."

"Sounds reasonable, Mr. President," Brad said.
"Once we get the situation under control, including
lining up the Commanders of the allied warships,
we can punch a hole in the barrier just big enough to
get a flash through to you at the conference site,
giving you the score."

"Excellent, Brad, excellent."

Narval beamed at his new Commander of Combat
Operations and twisted his mouth into a malevolent
grin.

"One change," he said, eyes on Brad. "Up to
now, the objective of your strategic planning and
tactics has been the Depot. Now here this: the
Depot is no longer the target. Your target is
the Slingshot construction site including the
'Terminals'. You are to take control of the entire
complex and hold it as my hostage. Adjust your
plans, tactics and schedules accordingly."





 Chapter THIRTY-FOUR


The air was stale in the alcove adjoining Brad's
office. Hodak and Kumiko hovered over a console,
entering and manipulating data. They compared
computations against hard print charts, entered
notes in manuals and drawings spread across a
worktable, and mumbled at each other solemnly
across the space separating them. Adari studied
a large-scale celestial navigational chart tacked
to the wall, Zolan tapped at a remote keyboard,
and Myra scrutinized a spreadsheet. All were
engrossed in their own piece of the action.

Brad, entered and paused to observe them. Myra
glanced up, waved absently as her eyes returned
to the spreadsheet.

Weaving along the tight aisle to a chair against
the far wall, Brad turned the chair about and sat,
his arms on the upper crossbar. He drew a deep
breath and exhaled slowly.

"Take five," he said. "Let's talk."

Zolan pressed a key to save his data, Kumiko rolled
up her chart, and Hodak put a marker in the manual.
Myra and Adari's charts lay where they were as eyes
focused on Brad. The room was cramped, space for
moving about was tight.

"We have new orders," Brad said.

Zolan grunted, "Ahh, nuts," and frowned at Brad in
disgust. Myra groaned and Hodak spit a sullen blast
of profanities. Adari shrugged, and Kumiko gave Brad
her sweet so-what-else-is-new smile.

Brad recounted his meeting with Narval and Drummer.
So that there would be no misunderstandings
among them, he repeated Narval's strategy and
instructions, finishing with the new target for the
assault. The room was silent.

"Now that we know the construction site is the
target we'll use it for working out the details for
fleet integration, formation and logistics in place
of what we had before," Brad rasped. "Better now
than after we've launched and met up with our
allies. Not much time, though. We'll be working
round-the-clock until it's done, checked out, and
space and surface Commanders briefed."

He gave orders rapidly.

"Break out the tactical and support plans we worked
up for the Combined Fleet's Order of Battle at
the Neptune meeting. Myra, rework your admin and
medical requirements. Install two dozen psychic
probes on the Dragon. We'll need at least that many
to check out the loyalty flip-flops Narval expects
when we lay the new target on the INOR Commanders,
plus accepting Narval as their new Supreme
Commander.

"Draft an order to Scarf for Narval's signature to
transfer three hundred of his shock troops from
our attack transports to the Dragon, and crank
its effects into tactics and logistics. Scrounge up
enough certified technicians to operate the probes.
That'll still leave about eleven hundred troops to
secure the Terminals after we take them, which
should be enough. Juggle the tactics for that
change. If anyone asks, we're using Scarf's troops
on the Dragon as flunkies during the victory party.
I don't think you need me to draw a picture of
the real reason. We've got to reshuffle the entire
logistics deck. Your job, Myra. Got it?"

Myra grunted, raised her middle finger, then
quickly realigned it with the rest of her hand and
snapped off a mechanical salute.

"Got it," she said.

"Kumiko, the targets will cover an area much wider
and deeper than you planned for in your original
computations. Rework the combined fleet's weapons
disposition, analyze our firepower and orient them
to the terminals' weak points. Let's talk after
we finish here and work up formation options and
vectors from rendezvous. Cover surveillance and
interdiction against potential threats from UIPS
assets in the Special Zone; compute tracking
guidance for each type of weapon installed on
Plutonian ships, and update target displays for
our launchers and guns should it get to that.
I especially want you to analyze the combined
fleet's Order of Battle to identify our potential
vulnerabilities and how an enemy force might
exploit them. Provide me with a detailed document
in a capsule so I can use it on the Dragon."

Brad turned to face Hodak.

"Re-examine emergency maintenance in this new
arena. Our ships will be much further from home
base than when the depot was the objective. We
can't afford any ships dropping out of the line for
repairs.

"Adari, got a big one for you. The other INOR ships
will still rendezvous with the Plutonian fleet at
Point Icarus, halfway between the depot and the
Slingshot work site. Work out the nav for our fleet
to the rendezvous; design formations, convergence
and other vectors that'll keep the ships out of
each other's way. Employ Order of Battle options to
lay out the nav for each ship of the combined fleet
from Point Icarus to target. Kumiko and I will be
working on tac-options and we'll get them to you as
soon as they're ready.

"This applies to all: compute, coordinate and
commit resources to implement our new orders. OK.
Get going."

Brad motioned Zolan and Hodak closer.

"I'm putting a fast utility under your command,
Zolan. Your number one job is to build, harmonize,
test and whatever else it takes to create a
communications interference generator. Camouflage
and position it between the Planet Pluto Special
Zone and all sunside comm boosters, both spunnel
and conventional. Set it up to activate by remote.
The screen must have enough spread to block all
messages, incoming and outgoing from Planet Pluto,
the combined fleet, plus the depot area and the
Slingshot terminals. Exception: Narval wants us
to flash him a message as soon as we've taken the
objective and turned the ships' Commanders. Fix
the barricade so that we can shoot a one-time
flash-spunnel message through to him. Clear?"

"Clear. When?"

"Now. I'll go with you to the tunnel where the
generators are stored to make sure we select the
best of the lot. Hodak, you come with us to give
'em a condition check. We can't afford chances with
this equipment."

 ##

Narval removed the tiny ear piece through which
he had listened to Brad give his orders, smiled with
satisfaction, and pressed a button along the edge
of his desk.

"Scarf out there?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"In."

Scarf sidled in and stood deferentially at the
entry.

"Don't just stand there, you idiot," Narval
snapped. "Get up here where I can talk to you."

Scarf hastened forward and halted a couple of
meters from the desk. He held his helmet in one
hand and saluted with the other.

"Here are my orders to you for while I'm gone.
Double the guards on Planet Pluto's spunnel
transmitter. No Plutonian communications are to be
permitted to destinations outside the Special Zone.
One exception: I've given Drummer orders that
when he completes the tasks I've assigned him, he
is to send a flash message to me at the conference
site. Assign reliable technicians to open the spunnel
center for only that one outgoing message."

"Yes, sir."

"Figure out some way to be aboard the Dragon
during the operation. Watch Drummer; I still don't
trust him. If he tries to undermine my authority
while I'm away, shoot him."

"It'll be a pleasure, sir. What about Brad and his
buddies?"

"If they resist my orders, kill them. If it does
get to that, send me a spunnel flash after you've
done it. If you do kill Drummer and Brad, assume
control of the combined fleet and the Terminals.
If that's not possible, blast the terminals out of
the sky."





 Chapter THIRTY-FIVE


Zolan walked into Brad's office and dropped into
a chair, clearly exhausted.

"How'd it go?"

"Couple of dozen screen generators in position
sunside," Zolan hefted a small, flat control in his
hand as he spoke, then tossed it on the desk.

"The energizer," he said quietly.

Brad turned the control in his hands as he examined
each safety lock. He slipped the control into a
pocket.

"Narval leaves for the conference in a few hours,"
he said, almost in a whisper. He could not hide his
deep sadness.

They rose and walked together toward the door.
Without speaking, Zolan left and disappeared around
a bend in the corridor.

The hour of Narval's departure brought a whirl of
excitement to Coldfield. The transit strip from the
official residence to the President's air lock had
been stopped, scrubbed clean, and a padded chair
installed on it for Narval's comfort.

Narval boarded the strip, accompanied by his
personal guards. The guards took protective
positions ahead, behind, and along the strip's
edges, completely surrounding their leader. The
strip began to move and maintained a slow, steady
pace until Narval was abreast the air lock; it came
to a smooth stop.

The air lock had been decorated with flags and
bunting; a red carpet extended from the strip to
the air lock. Narval swept in and passed through
the inner compartment.

The Revenge, Narval's luxurious spunnel yacht was
moored to pylons above the air lock. The yacht's
commander, Captain Ras Hamdia, stood stiffly at
the head of a line of ship's officers inside its portal.

A set of taut, parallel cables rose from the air
lock to the ship. Fastened to the cables at the
surface, Narval's personal red and black lift
capsule was ready to transfer him aloft without
the inconvenience of donning a space suit.

Narval entered the lift with an officer who dogged
the doors and flashed the ready signal.

"Up, easy," the ship's captain ordered.

The lift rose slowly until it reached the Revenge's
portal. An articulated crane grasped the cabin
gently, drew it inboard along slackened cables and
lowered it to a mobile platform. Suited technicians
dashed forward to disengage the cables, and the
capsule was pushed inside.

Narval safely aboard, space tugs encircled
the Revenge and took positions along its hull.
Mag-beams flashed across. The Revenge disengaged
from the mooring tower and drifted off. The tugs
nudged it along to a hundred kay above the dome,
cut their mass-attractors and the ship disappeared
into the node of the Planet Pluto Spunnel.

Narval was off to his destiny.

 ##

Zolan stood among a throng of space-suited citizens
below the Revenge, from where he watched it
ascend and move off. Minutes later, none but Zolan
remained.

Aware of his awesome responsibility, a sense of
serenity in the power of his will suffused Zolan's
being. He had been faithful to the science and art
of his chosen profession, and his devotion to the
Sentinels' mission had enriched his harmony with
all about him. It had come to this.

Tilting his head back in the clear plastic helmet
of his suit, Zolan watched the Revenge enter the
spunnel node. He lost interest and headed for a
space taxi.

Climbing aboard, he punched in his identifier code
and the coordinates for a tunnel warehouse fifty
kay distant where he had a clearance on file. The
taxi digested the data, reported to its master
control inside Coldfield, and received the required
permission. The taxi rose briskly in a tight turn
and accelerated toward a range of low hills.

Out of sight beyond a hillock, Zolan reached
into the circuitry behind the instrument panel,
manipulated connections, and punched in new
coordinates. The taxi paused and aligned to the
new course, Zolan's hands on its manual controls.
The advance notification to control center was
inoperative.

Charon grew in size up ahead as the taxi
approached. Zolan stabilized the flitter to hover
stationary barely a meter above the frozen methane.
As he disembarked, Zolan reached behind the
instrument panel and readjusting the circuits.
Transmissions from the taxi's computer would
soon resume and indicate a routine return from the
previously entered destination. Zolan watched the
taxi out of sight.

The distant tiny sphere that formed the solar Sun
was a wonder to behold against the black velvet sky
and the clusters of distant galaxies. He absorbed
once more the splendor of the planets in their
graceful courses around the giver of life. He
recalled and visualized each planet, natural and
artificial satellite and space station out to the
Guardians. He had roamed among them all; they
were the only home he had known.

A sense of weariness seemed to overpower him; he
could not delay. He searched the heavens for a star
with which to orient himself. Finding it, he faced
the direction wherein lay the secret spunnel
booster through which he would send his message.
Ram would know how it had come, what it meant,
and what it had cost.

Zolan cleansed his mind, except for the message.
He closed his eyes and the strength of his
concentration brought on trance. A tiny glow,
deeply embedded in his subconscious, mushroomed
into a pulsing network of charged filaments. His
arms and legs throbbed, and the pain of furies cut
through his torpor and slowly drained him of life
force. In milliseconds, his face shrunk and seamed,
and his body collapsed in on itself. The filaments
in Zolan's brain crackled and snapped. His brain
exploded inside his skull as the message burst out.
The rigid suit held his body erect, arms extended
toward the Sun.

Standing on the stark and lifeless plain Ram's
state-of-the-art modification to Zolan's brain
and mind had completed its task.





 Chapter THIRTY-SIX


Ram Xindral, representing the UIPS, met with
INOR's advance team on Guardian Station 16
to plan protocols and logistics for the upcoming
convocation. Planet Pluto had not sent an emissary.

Agreements were quickly concluded and the
diplomatic cadre took over to prepare an agenda
for the meeting's substance.

Spunnel channels flashed coded messages to home
governments in the Outer Region, reported on
problems encountered and the options available.
Instructions flashed back, rarely agreeing with
offered solutions, more often insisting on new
approaches that in turn became the subjects of
lengthy discourse. When an issue was considered
sufficiently clarified for the convocation and
reported to the seats of UIPS and INOR Governments,
it was almost invariably reopened as an extension
of still another issue. This went on and on.

Eventually, an agenda of sorts was fashioned
to guide the discussions. It limited itself to
an agreement, in principle, which identified the
paramount issues of urgent and general concern.
The preliminaries over, the advance teams departed
for home.

A fleet of UIPS transports escorted by Space Guard
entered the Great Space that separated the Guardian
and Jovian orbits. Hauled along by a network of
mag-beams converging from a score of space tugs
came the Conference Disk, two hectometers in
diameter and a decameter thick at its hub.

At the agreed upon coordinates the Disk slowed
and stabilized. The escorts drew back, clustered
and waited.

Docking slips scalloped the Disk's rim, each with
its own hoists, articulated and flex-umbilicals,
power junctions, and docking, launch and
maintenance support facilities. Emergency,
fire-fighting, rescue, and med-evac craft dotted
the upper and lower surfaces. Anchored, they were
ready to service spacecraft or launch instantly
to where they might be needed.

Ram and his UIPS technicians, administrators
and security specialists boarded the Disk from
a utility transport. A INOR team entered through
another portal. Members of each team serving a
Chief of State inspected the suites assigned to
their nation's conferees, made changes to meet
personal or cultural needs and, when satisfied,
installed the scheduled occupant's accouterments
and trappings of Office.

Engineers and technicians swarmed throughout the
berths and mooring docks, inspecting and testing
equipment and procedures to accommodate
their Leader's vessel, and for routine support and
emergencies should such arise. They conducted
or observed ship handling tests and space rescue
capabilities. Finally, the administrators and
technicians agreed the facility was ready. The
Joint UIPS-INOR Security Team sealed the Disk's
portals and posted their guards in armed capsules
around the rim and on the Disk's gently curved
surfaces.

They waited.





 Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN


Drummer and Brad walked the corridor leading to
the Dragon's bridge. The battle cruiser, aligned with
its sisters in countdown on catapults in galleries
and tunnels across Planet Pluto, was minutes from
launch to Point Icarus.

Accompanied by a party of officers, Brad had
completed the final formal inspection and sign-off
of the Plutonian warships committed to the
operation. Myra, Hodak, Adari and Kumiko
had trailed along as specialists, respectfully
responding to technical questions tossed at them
by the official inspection party.

The Sentinels took Zolan's death hard, aware but
unable to share their grief with words that might
be overheard by their enemy. They were in a somber
mood difficult to hide, and Kumiko's eyes were
red-rimmed. She spoke little.

Moving from one tunnel and gallery hangar to
another, the inspection team had checked the
readiness of command and control, function systems,
weapons readiness, logistic support and all that
bore on their mission. Openly enthusiastic and
congratulatory to ships' crews on what he observed,
Brad was inwardly appalled at the strength of
Narval's fleet. Combined with the INOR forces
coming to join them at Point Icarus, the slim
forces that the UIPS maintained in the Plutonian
Special Zone faced an overwhelming adversary.

At the companionway to the command deck, Brad
deferred to Drummer. Drummer acknowledged
the courtesy with a slight smile and nod. They
ascended, and Brad closed the door.

Drummer strode to the forward bulkhead, paused,
and drew a small device from his pocket. He
moved casually about the compartment, meanwhile
reading the device's indicators. Brad watched him
in silence. After two full turns Drummer pocketed
the device and faced Brad.

"Routine precautions," Drummer said with a shrug.
"This deck compartment is free of both sight and
sound bugs. How did the inspection go? Are we
prepared and on schedule?"

"A few glitches here and there, but nothing
serious. I've instituted corrective actions, and
we'll be ready."

Drummer nodded uneasily. Brad waited. Drummer's
next words came with awkward hesitation.

"Ah -- when Narval gave us his final orders, I
-- ah -- sensed, correct me if I'm wrong, some
misgivings on your part."

"Misgivings? What do you mean?"

"Before we proceed, I must have your word that
whatever we discuss here will be held by you in the
strictest confidence. Have I your word?"

Brad stared long and hard at Drummer. He thought
back to Scarf's accusations and threats preceding
the fight in the Charnel Pit. Did Drummer really
support Narval? What was Drummer's real objective?
Time was short; yet Brad had to be certain.

"You have my word."

"Now respond to my first statement."

"Affirmative."

Drummer gave a heavy sigh and motioned Brad to a
bench along a bulkhead. They sat and stared at the
bulkhead opposite.

"How far will you go to take the Terminals?"
Drummer asked.

"Destructively?"

"Yes."

"You're in command of the combined fleet, Drummer.
You tell me."

A deep silence settled between them. Drummer
brought his eyes around to where he could observe
Brad's profile. His breath became shallow.

"What I now say to you, Brad, puts my life in
your hands, but say it I must." He paused, as if to
gather strength and conviction, and to organize
his thoughts. "I believe that Narval is deranged. He
would rather see the Solar System's civilization's
grovel in the dust than have them advance, even
survive, without him as their ruler."

"Are you suggesting he be stopped?"

"He must be."

"How?"

"I hoped you would know."

"Me? Why me?"

"You've become the authority on the capabilities
and tactics of this operation. The Plutonian
military Commanders respect you as a leader
and as a professional, as do the Commanders
of the ships soon to join us. Need I say more?"

Brad turned to face Drummer.

"How far do you commit yourself?"

"My life."

"It will take that, and more."

"What do you mean?"

"Betrayal strips men of -- I believe the word is --
honor. Would you accept being a traitor to President
Narval?"

"If it will bring an end to this madness."

"Are you willing to follow my orders -- without
question?"

"To what purpose?"

"Your words: the end of this madness."

"Define your terms, man. Tell me in your words, not
mine, to what end I commit my life, and as you put
it, my honor."

"Confusion and disruption throughout the combined
fleet, destruction of Plutonian warships and,
possibly, those of all INOR; no assault on the
Terminals and, ultimately, removal of Narval from
any position of authority in the Outer Region."

Drummer nodded slowly.

"I commit myself to that purpose. And yourself?"

"Committed."

A knock on the door. The crewman peered in.

"Comm-center has a classified Category One spunnel
message for you, Admiral Drummer," he said.
"It's in the President's personal code, sir, to which
only you have the keys. Have I your permission to
pick up the message and bring it to you?"

"Never mind," Drummer replied. "We're heading back
under the dome. I'll get it."

 ##

Drummer read again the message he had decoded
and handed it to Brad who quickly scanned and silently
returned it. Drummer glanced at the message again
and placed it slowly in the middle of his desk. The
communication bore the dispatch symbols of the
Revenge within the past hour. The text was brief:

"Narval to Drummer. We have left the spunnel node
nearest the conference site, now two hours distant.
Your launch at target must be consistent with the
conference schedule just provided to me by the
Conference Controller.

"Based on conference agenda and schedule
I order you to energize the communications
barrier immediately upon receipt of this message.
Further, I order you to have allegiance sworn to
me by Commanders of all INOR ships' officers and
the Director of the Slingshot Construction Site
not more than four hours following receipt this
message. Spunnel flash to me through the barrier
'mind only' immediately upon taking the objective.
Spunnel flash immediately to me your understanding
of this order."





 Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT


The soft clicks of switches opening and closing and
the soft thunks of levers rammed home were the only
sounds on the Dragon's command deck as Drummer
and Brad climbed the companionway.

Captain Hyk, standing on the bridge platform above
the command deck, took them in with a quick glance,
nodded, and continued about his business directing
and observing the Dragon entering launch.

Brad followed Drummer to a computer in a tiny
alcove on a balcony above the plotting table. They
swung seats out from under the table on which the
console rested, sat, and Brad entered his DNA ID
and password. He followed with instructions that
brought a series of real-time graphics across the
monitor.

Selecting first one, then another, the two men
studied the displays, as they pointed and commented
on their observations. Drummer straightened.

"Recap, Brad," he ordered.

Brad tapped keys and the screen listed each
Plutonian ship in the Assault Force and its
Commander in one column and the readiness level
for launch in the other.

Brad pointed at the highlighted "Fleet readiness 92
percent."

"Allies?"

"Made the trip from home stations along diverse
routes and under detection wraps. They're inside
the comm-barrier an hour from Point Icarus.
It'll take us that long to launch, form up, do the
distance, and position ourselves to receive them."

A crewman's head appeared at the head of the
companionway, looked about and fixed on Drummer.

"Call from security up at the tunnel entrance, sir.
Visitor to see you."

"Who is it?"

"Major Scarf, sir. Says he has urgent business to
discuss with you."

Drummer and Brad exchanged glances. Hyk immediately
gave his full attention to his monitor's screen.
Drummer knew that neither he nor Hyk could refuse
Scarf's request to come aboard. He addressed Hyk.

"Any objections, Har?"

"None, Admiral."

"Very well," Drummer glanced toward the messenger.
"Escort Major Scarf to my quarters."

 ##

The compartment was small, not built for comfort.
Scarf's massive frame crowded the space.

"I'm coming along." Scarf's tone was brusque.

"The hell you are." Drummer's was equally blunt.

Brad eyed Scarf. "Your job is on the surface," he
said. "What purpose can you serve by tagging along?"

Scarf looked from Drummer to Brad and back, not
sure whom he should address. He chose Drummer.

"Coldfield and the surrounding areas are under full
control of my security forces. I've left my deputy
in charge, and he can contact me within seconds
should that be necessary. With Narval away and
us here, there's not much going on in the Command
Section."

Scarf tapped Drummer's chest with his forefinger,
"you've got more'n a thousand of my best troops for
occupation duty on the Terminals. They're mine and
I'm gonna lead them when they go into action. I'm
moving in over my on-site troop commander, that's
all. What's more, I understand you've reassigned
some of my troops to this wagon. That's fine with
me. I'll just move in with them, and assume direct
command until they're back with the main group.
Entirely proper for me to do this as chief of their
Service."

Brad thrust his hands into his pockets to hide the
fists they had formed. His mind worked furiously
on the new threat.

"Our plans are complete, Scarf," he said. "If you
remain, we expect you to follow orders from the
Fleet Commander."

Scarf, sure of his victory, showed his pleasure.

"Sure, sure," he said, a grin creasing his face,
waving the proviso away with the back of his
hand. "Anything the boss says. It's your show. I
understand."

Taking Drummer's silence as acquiescence, Scarf
pivoted in the small space and squeezed out of the
compartment. He barked at the guard to escort him
to the officer-in-charge of the troop detachment.

Drummer issued the launch order. One following the
other, the warships catapulted off of their launch
tracks, rose swiftly into space, and formed up
behind mine sweepers Scamp, Varlet and Scalawag.
The battle cruisers Dragon and Tiger, guarded by
destroyer screens and support ships, turned toward
Point Icarus.

Three million kay ahead, the Slingshot terminals
appeared as just another unblinking light in a
runnel of multicolored jewels.

Slingshot had always been real to Brad; in the
deepening crisis for humankind's survival its
purpose was profound. It had been so to him
as far back as he could remember.

Brad keyed the Slingshot complex closer on a
nearby computer screen. Generally familiar with
the schematics of the Slingshot stations, he
was overwhelmed by the two enormous cones and
their peripherals, which configured the Terminals'
hoppers. Each terminal, almost three kay across
its base, formed an intricate maze of interlocked
spars, beams, panels, conduit and modules.

The Slingshot stations were centers of activity.
Inside and out, the work areas were crowded. In
all directions were massive and intricate fusion
generators, transformers and power distribution
systems; dozens of spherical, rectangular and
cylindrical workshops and clusters of habitat,
first aid stations, transports and tugs and barges
pushing, pulling, warping and traversing. It was a
picture of enormous structures and modules spread
across the visible space ahead. The scene was
geometric, multidimensional, and seemingly chaotic.

Separated from each other by more than a hundred
kay of open space, the Terminal schematic expanded
rapidly on the Dragon's screens as the fleet
narrowed the gap. At Point Icarus the Slingshot
construction site filled more than half the view
tanks space.

Brad and Drummer watched as changes occurred
hastily throughout the Terminals' space. Lights
dimmed or blacked out entirely; others increased
intensity. Three destroyers darted through the
protective force field's gates, deployed, and took
defensive positions. A mine-layer advanced, came
about and laid a pattern of tac-nuclear eggs.

The Plutonian Assault Force had been quickly
detected. Their intentions obvious, Slingshot's
managers prepared as best they could to defend
themselves. Scores of transports were lined up to
escape through the gateway; those that had reached
the outside lumbered away toward deep space.





 Chapter THIRTY-NINE


 SOLAR LEADERS ARRIVE FOR CONFERENCE
 TRANS-SOLAR NEWS SERVICE
 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
 FLASH: SYSTEM-WIDE
 Filed at Solar Conference Site

The Leaders of the United Inner Planetary System
(UIPS) and the Independent Nations of the Outer
Region (INOR) are at the place they selected to
resolve urgent Solar System problems of mutual
concern. Here's how the arrangements worked out.

Consistent with the schedule, the INOR guests
flashed their international identification and ship
numbers to the Conference Control Center to
report that they had formally arrived in response
to President Camari's invitation.

Concurrently, at a signal from the UIPS President's
ship Eagle, the station flashed an array of
multicolored beacons. Docking berths along the
Conference Site's rim opened and controllers
transmitted "Ready" signals to the visiting
flagships. Tugs, utilities, and emergency craft
took their stations.

The UIPS Eagle nosed forward and matched its
headings and moments to the Disk. Mass attractors
took over, fine-tuned the alignment and drift, and
gently drew the Eagle a third its length into the
dock. Mooring beams grasped the vessel and it was
transfixed. A red and white candy-striped umbilical
snaked out from the dock and sealed against the
Eagle's main portal.

Eagle, the host, had docked.

Turning to the guests, the "Ready" signals flashed
again. Taking the lead, Planet Pluto's Revenge
matched up and was drawn into its docking space.
The others followed. The disk was transformed
into a multi-spoke wheel spinning slowly against
the backdrop of sun, planets, satellites, space
colonies and stars.

The umbilicals' seals tested and secure, the Heads
of State disembarked, each followed by an entourage
of advisors, diplomats, strategists, economists,
interplanetary law specialists, sociologists,
philosophers, and others expert in the disciplines
appropriate to the agenda.

The parties walked along separate corridors from
their docking berth to an arched entry into the
conference theater at the hub. The pseudo-gravity
plates had been eased to a comfortable level
for the inhabitants of the Outer Region. The
representatives of Earth wore soft enhancer
boots to compensate.

The central hall was huge, and the round table at
its center wide enough to accommodate them all.
Massive chairs were at the table, and behind each a
row of smaller chairs to accommodate the lessors.
A holoview tank, suspended halfway to the overhead,
glowed softly. The walls were festooned with the
emblems and insignia of all Nations in attendance.

Arriving under the arch, the Leaders paused.
President Camari stepped away from his chair,
his open arms an invitation to all to enter and
join him at the table.

Entering and approaching the table, the Leaders
turned to right and left to greet each other.
Formality aside for the moment, they expressed
their pleasure at seeing one another again, or in
meeting for the first time. They came together
at the table and formed small groups.

Camari and Narval took each other's measure as they
worked their way forward. Camari, as host, paused
at each knot or singular meeting to shake hands
and express his pleasure to each Head of State
for accepting his invitation. Politicians all, supreme
diplomats of the Solar Community, they accommodated
to the occasion and replied in kind.

Camari and Narval came face to face. Silence
gripped the room.

"Greetings, President Narval," Camari said, "your
presence at this conference will contribute much
to its success."

"Greeting to you, President Camari. I feel certain
that it will."

"I remind you, President Narval, these are indeed
desperate times. Extraordinary measures are
essential if we are to preserve our civilizations,
perhaps our species. Separately or collectively,
we must be prepared to take risks for our survival.
Do you agree?"

"Not only do I agree, Mr. President, but I shall
remind you of your words as we proceed through
these deliberations."

"So be it."

Camari nodded and turned away. With everyone's
eyes on him, he strode to his place at the table,
spread his arms again wide in welcome, and sat.

Greetings over, the Solar System's leaders took
their places at the great table. Their advisors
entered and took seats behind them.

The first convocation for the survival of the
entire Solar Community was under way.





 Chapter FORTY


Captain Hyk strode the bridge impatiently.

"Point Icarus in ten minutes," he reported to
Drummer and Brad as they entered the tight
compartment. "The Jovians and Saturnians are
coming up fast, and the Neptune-Uranus team
is close behind. Orders?"

"You'll get yours with the rest, Har," Drummer's
tone reflected his tension. He turned to Brad.

"Brad, I wish to address the Commanders of all
Plutonian ships. Set up closed communications,
please."

"Yes, sir."

Brad strode to the console he and Drummer had used
to assess the fleet's status a short while before.
He detached a microphone from the bulkhead nearby,
keyed the computer, and spoke.

"Attention, all ship Commanders of the Plutonian
Assault Force. Rig for secure 'Commanders Only'
communications with Admiral Drummer. The Admiral
will speak in one minute. Countdown -- start now."

He handed the mike to Drummer. The first of many
uncertain steps would now be taken.

Drummer glanced at the ship's chronometer, then
at Captain Hyk.

Time.

"Ship commanders, Admiral Drummer here. Our
allies are approaching in formation and they will
link up with us in seven minutes at Point Icarus.
We must greet them properly. I order the Plutonian
formation to come about immediately from its
head-on orientation to the Terminals and cluster
to face our allies. Do it now. At Point Icarus I will
address the combined fleet."

Drummer paused, then added, "I am turning over the
details of this change in formation to my Chief of
Combat Operations. Follow his instructions without
hesitation."

Drummer handed the microphone to Brad and stepped
back. Brad rattled off the revised orientations
and positions, ship by ship listed in the Order of
Battle. Both he and Drummer watched the effects
in the observation pit's view tank.

As Brad spoke the close order of the original
formation dissolved and opened. The maneuver
was extremely complex, but within minutes the
ships had come about in a ragged formation to
face their oncoming allies.

Out of the corners of his eyes Brad observed Hyk
input orders to the Dragon's guidance control and
navigation centers. Hyk glared at Drummer as if
the man was out of his mind. Brad expected the
other Commanders to be equally perplexed and
angered by the unexpected reorientation.

Drummer, by his order without prior notice and
planning, had completely disrupted the Plutonian
tactical formation. Valuable time would be spent to
sort out the confusion and array for the assault.

 ##

Captain Yargoul, Commander of the Jovian Combined
Strike Team, stood on the bridge of the Battle
Cruiser Windstorm and scowled into his view tank.
The unconventional redeployment of the Plutonian
Assault Force amazed and appalled him.

"What in hell are they doing?" Yargoul pointed at
the tank as his Executive stared aghast over his
shoulder.

"Damned if I can tell, Captain Yargoul,"
replied his deputy. "This isn't called for in the
rendezvous plan."

"I don't like it. Get nav on this right now and
pass the word to our ships' Commanders. Assume
a waiting formation ten thousand kay from the
rendezvous. Get the Commanders of the Saturnian
and Neptune-Uranus teams into a closed conference
call with me. I'm going to suggest they do the same
until we find out what this is all about."

"They smell the rat," Brad thought as he watched
the oncoming fleets slowly alter their formations.
He hastily left the command deck.

Walking swiftly along a passageway he passed Hodak
at a workbench calibrating instruments as cover.
Their eyes met and Brad moved on. Hodak switched
off his test panels and headed toward a side
passageway.

Myra, checking medical supplies in a wall cabinet,
glanced at Hodak's features as he brushed by. His
grunt caused her to close the cabinet and walk off.
Kumiko and Adari would soon have the message.

 ##

The storage compartment was tiny, barely enough
to hold them.

"Drummer will be talking to all ships' Commanders
in the combined fleet in less than a minute," Brad
told them. "I want to be there when he does so
that I can deal with their reactions. Also, Hyk is
a problem. I expect they'll all line up against us,
including the Plutonian crews. The best we can
hope for is a short delay while they argue among
themselves. It's up to the five of us; six, really,
if I can count on Drummer."

Brad looked from one tense face to the other.

"Hodak, your first job is Scarf. As soon as he
hears Drummer he'll come charging up with his
goons to take over the ship. Stop him."

"Kumiko, to the ship's fire controls. Do as much
damage there as you can without being detected.
I want as many as possible of the Dragon's
long-range guns inoperative."

He turned to Myra.

"Suit up and head for the hangar deck where
the two-place fighter-bombers are in position for
launch. Tell the officer-in-charge I sent you to
check combat readiness. I want three two-place
jobs up front on catapults, fully charged and armed,
hot and ready for launch. The officer on duty is
sure to ask why it's you that's giving the orders.
Just say that the fighters are going after the
Terminals' minelayers and destroyers that just
popped out through the force field's gate. Tell him
I'm briefing the pilots personally and will send you
along as my observer. He won't like it, but I doubt
that he'll interfere."

"Got it."

"Remain on the flight deck, Myra. Move around and
spot where each guard is stationed. When you see
us coming, start to take them down. Pinpoint their
positions to us as we come in so we can clean them
all out fast. Confusion in the ranks works to our
advantage."

Turning to Adari, he asked, "Did you put it
together?"

"Yes."

"Come with me back to the bridge. I'll brief you on
the way."

His look took them all in.

"Gather round -- close."

Speaking rapidly, not wasting words, Brad shared
information that Ram passed to him before his
departure.

"A UIPS battle fleet should be loading about now
into an expanded spunnel gateway off Luna. They'll
be here shortly. If Drummer doesn't neutralize
the INOR fleet, the job will be taken on by the UIPS.
But they'll need time to re-group as they enter
this arena. Our job is to keep the INOR fleet off
balance until ours is ready.

"Everyone is to be suited-up and checked out for
extended combat. Except for Myra, spread along
the corridor as close to the Flight Deck hatch as
you can without drawing attention. Keep a low profile
and wait for my signal. I expect Drummer will be
with me and we'll all go in together. Go now."

 ##

Drummer's voice was heard throughout the combined
fleet. His tone was grave.

"This is Admiral Drummer. My words are, first, for
Commanders of this combined fleet. Beyond that,
I speak to all ships' crews and troops who make up
this task force, and for all men and women within
reach of my voice, whatever your nationality or
whomever your leader.

"We are confronted with a dilemma. The mission
assigned to this fleet is to capture the Slingshot
Terminals. Slingshot and all that it represents
will then become hostage to the negotiations now
taking place between INOR and the United Inner
Planetary System.

"If denying the UIPS access to their Terminals for
a brief period was the real objective, I would have
no qualms in moving forward. But the orders given to
me by President Narval go much further, and I must
share them with you so that you will understand
what we face."

Captain Hyk's eyes narrowed and he took steps
toward Drummer. Brad, standing silently behind Hyk,
covered the distance to the door he had closed when
he returned to the command deck. He shoved the
locking dog closed. Turning back his hand brushed
his sidearm, releasing the safety. Hyk halted
several paces from Drummer, who ignored him.

"With heavy heart, I must now inform you that
President Narval has a deeper strategy," Drummer
continued, "one that presents a clear and present
danger to all nations and peoples of INOR, and
perhaps to the entire Solar Community. I state it
as simply as I can: Narval's strategy is betrayal."

The way back had closed; Drummer plunged ahead.

"Here are the orders given to me by our President.
Judge their purpose and their honor for yourselves.
First, to capture and hold the Terminals. As soon
as the Terminals are taken and secured, I am
under orders to subvert all ships' Commanders
of our allies so that they swear allegiance only
to Narval. Those who refuse, under psychic probe
verification, are to be killed on the spot.

"If this is done, Narval will have consolidated
enough military power to dominate the entire Outer
Region. When his position is firm, his strategy is
to use Slingshot to force the UIPS to its knees,
and establish himself as ruler over the entire
Solar System. These are the real objectives of
President Narval of Planet Pluto. If we follow
his orders, have no doubt that he will attain his
diabolic objectives.

"I refuse to comply with those orders. I urge all
Commanders of INOR ships and forces to return
to their home stations and report to their Heads of
State who are now attending the Solar Convocation.
Establish boards of inquiry, or conduct such
investigations as you feel appropriate. But do not
proceed with this adventure concocted in the mind
of a madman. It means disaster for us all.

"I am now opening this channel for replies from
the Senior Commanders of the combined fleet."





 Chapter FORTY-ONE


Captain Yargoul's face, inflamed with rage, flashed
on the screen.

"By what right do you take this on yourself,
Drummer?" he exploded.

"I choose to be a free man, Captain Yargoul, and
have spoken as one."

"I don't believe President Narval gave you orders
to turn us against our own Governments." Yargoul's
eyes glittered his suspicion. "What's your game,
Drummer?"

"Those were indeed the orders given to me by
Narval. As for my 'game', as you put it, it is,
first, to take Planet Pluto out from under tyranny;
and second, to bring reason to the negotiations now
taking place between INOR and the UIPS. You cannot
help me with the first, but you and all honorable
citizens of the INOR federation share in the
obligation to help with the second. With whom do
you stand, Captain Yargoul?"

"I stand against you, Drummer, and I charge you
with treason against your Government and disloyalty
to our cause. You are not fit to lead this fleet.
As ranking officer next in line I now challenge your
right to act as Supreme Commander of this Combined
Fleet. I hereby replace you in that capacity and
assume command." His voice rang with the power of
his new authority.

"Captain Hyk, take Admiral Drummer into custody.
If he resists, shoot him."

Drummer switched off the communications console
and turned to face Hyk.

"And you, Har, you're a Plutonian and should
understand, better than most where the real
treachery lies. You've seen Narval's psychic probes
placed on board and must have suspected what they
and Scarf's troops aboard must mean. Think, man.
Tell me I can count on you."

"I'm an officer in the service of President
Narval," Hyk growled, "and I remain loyal to him.
I accept that Captain Yargoul has replaced you as
Supreme Commander of the Combined Fleet. The
Plutonian forces in this combined fleet now come
under my command. Drummer; I place you under
arrest. If you resist I won't hesitate to shoot you
down where you are."

Hyk drew his weapon and aimed it at Drummer.

"Easy does it, Har."

Brad spoke from where he stood off to the side.
Hyk shifted his focus and saw the weapon raised
in Brad's grip. Reacting instinctively, he crouched
and swung toward Brad, the nozzle of his gun
flaring. A tight beam laced across Hyk's chest,
and he crumpled to the deck. Brad slipped his gun
back into its sheath.

Captain Yargoul's commanding voice blasted from
the ship's loudspeakers, addressing the fleet.

"All ships' Commanders. You've heard and witnessed
Admiral Drummer's treasonous statements. I am
compelled, by circumstances, to assume command
of the Combined Fleet. You will follow my orders;
I order that any commander or crew-member who
refuses to recognize my authority is to be disarmed,
and imprisoned. Those who resist will be shot
immediately.

"The target stands: we will move on the Slingshot
Terminals and take them. I order the fleet to array
itself for the assault. Unfortunately, Drummer has
sabotaged our rendezvous, and we must reconstitute
the assault formation. My chief navigator will
issue sector orientation and vectors to each ship
in the fleet so that we can form up for combat
operations. Follow his orders without question."

As Yargoul spoke Brad released the clip securing
the door and yanked it open. Adari rushed in and
darted to the communications console, drawing
a comm capsule from her tunic. She slipped the
capsule into the computer slot, slapped switches
and pressed keys. She looked at Brad. He nodded.
Adari pressed the final key. A light flashed red;
the message on the capsule went out to the fleet.

A deep voice issued from the ship's speakers:
"This is Captain Yargoul's chief navigator," it began.
"Here are the formation positions for each ship
in our Order of Battle. Use as your reference
Annex X-ray to the Slingshot Assault Plan. Comply
immediately upon receipt of your ship's new
coordinates. Jovian Battle Cruiser Boulder and
destroyer screen to Sector Alpha, coordinates
R784-212-426; Saturnian Battle Cruiser Encounter
and destroyer screen to Sector Gamma, coordinates
R784-856-275; Plutonian Battle Cruisers Dragon
and Tiger and screen to Sector Beta, coordinates..."

Adari grinned at Drummer who was staring at her.

"Lucked out," she said. "Yargoul brought his chief
navigator along to Brad's planning meeting off
Neptune. His voice was on our tapes, and easy to
synthesize. Even Yargoul himself won't know the
difference. The capsule is transmitting orders to
each ship of the fleet to move to new coordinates
in a three-dimensional tract. This redeployment
will get them so screwed up it'll take 'em a while
to even figure out which way is sunside."

"But how did you know events would develop just
this way?"

Adari winked; tapped her temple with her forefinger.

"Just put myself in their place, and figured the
options," she said and turned to Brad.

"Do you have all the data on where you've sent
them?" Brad asked.

Adari patted her pocket and nodded.

"Figured we'd need the information. Run a copy for
each fighter. Meet us on the flight deck."

Drummer snatched up Hyk's weapon as he followed
Adari who raced out of the bridge compartment.
Brad motioned Drummer to join Adari.

Brad followed and pulled the door closed behind
him. He drew his sidearm, narrowed the beam to its
minimum and its power to maximum. He directed the
beam into the space between the door and the frame.
Within seconds the door had fused shut. The Dragon's
bridge, at least for the moment, was isolated.

 ##

Hodak crouched behind a massive generator at the
bend of an L-shaped corridor. The rapid-fire beam
rifle in his hands was energized and safety off.
The passageway had a single entry to the bay in
which Scarf and his troops were quartered. Hodak
had a free field of fire. He did not expect a long
wait.

Drummer's appeal to the fleet commanders cut
into the talk and laughter rolling down the corridor.
Drummer's opening words brought complete silence.
Long before it ended Hodak heard shouts and curses
from the bay. Scarf's heavy voice rose above the
clamor, giving orders. Hodak drew breath, raised
and leveled the weapon. He hoped Scarf would come
out first; that would simplify his job.

Scarf did not. Instead, armed troops spilled from
the bay, crowding the passageway. Scarf followed,
his coarse features congested.

"There's five of 'em, plus Drummer," he shouted.
"Search the ship. You know who they are. Shoot
'em on sight. I want them dead."

Hodak tried to draw a bead on Scarf but troopers
blocked the line of fire. Several started in his
direction. He cut a swath through them, searching
for Scarf.

The first streaks of concentrated energy wrought
havoc in the forward ranks. The stench of burning
flesh came at him with a rush, and the corridor
reverberated with howls and screeches of agony.
Unaware of what they were up against, the troops
milled about in confusion. They clawed at each
other in panic to get back into the bay and out
of the line of fire. Scarf was somewhere in the
struggle.

The tiny receiver in Hodak's ear came alive.

"Sentinels. Flight deck. Now."

Hodak directed a final lengthy barrage of rifle
bursts at the entry. Molten metal and sparks
bounced off the frames in all directions, followed
by screams and shrieks from inside the compartment.

"Unfinished business," Hodak muttered as he turned
and raced off.





 Chapter FORTY-TWO


The watch was changing on the flight deck. Up ahead
Brad saw three guards and two technicians entering
to take their posts; moments later an equal number
came out and disappeared down a companionway.
Ship's crew strolled the passageways and on
business in and out of maintenance shops, or
engrossed in discussions with companions about
Drummer's appeal.

Few noticed Brad or his companions; those who
did gave them a passing glance and moved on.
The ship was preparing for action, and armed,
suited-up crews were to be expected.

Brad signaled a pause. Adari, in flight gear as the
others were, joined them and stood with Kumiko
laughing and talking through open visi-plates.
Hodak, against a bulkhead, held a maintenance
manual, slowly flipping pages, apparently reading.
Brad and Drummer moved short distances along
the corridor, seemingly in thoughtful conversation.
The scene reflected routine.

The traffic thinned momentarily. Brad looked
quickly along the corridor and motioned. They
converged toward the companionway leading to
the flight deck.

Brad entered first, followed by Hodak, Adari,
Drummer and Kumiko. Inside, Kumiko swung the
hatch shut and dogged it.

Myra, pressed into a corner against the far
bulkhead by the Chief of the Flight Deck, smiled
up at him, eyes wide. Big and chunky, he talked
fast, trying to convince her of something that
he obviously believed was good for both of them.

Seeing Brad appear at the head of the companionway,
Myra pushed the hulk away with one hand and drew
her weapon with the other. Before he knew what was
happening, the fleshy man with the high hopes was
flat on the deck, out of it.

Stooping and pointing, Myra circled toward Brad.

"Two, there, rifles." In another direction. "One,
on the catwalk, rifle." Over her shoulder. "Two in
the control room, sidearms, but they may have
rifles stashed close by. Fighters on the cats,
ready to go but still on control room switches."

Brad snapped out orders.

"Hodak and Kumiko, control room. Switch the
fighters to self-launch. Adari, the guy on the
catwalk. Myra and Drummer, suit up and into
the first ship."

Hodak and Kumiko charged into the control room
before Brad finished speaking. Red and orange
flashes and a clatter erupted through the doorway,
followed by silence. Hodak and Kumiko tore out,
bent low, splitting to right and left. They carried
rifles raised into firing position.

Adari, eyes and gun elevated, skirted the fighters.

"What the hell's goin' on down there?" The shout
came from a guard on a balcony above. "Who're
you guys?"

That's all it took. Shots followed each other
closely. The guard fell slowly in the ship's light
pseudo-gravity.

Hodak ran to join Brad. Kumiko headed for the
fighters to switch the catapults' activators to
internal controls, arm and charge the guns, and
insert into each ship's computer the capsules
Adari had passed to her.

A guard darted by Brad and took cover behind
a line of massive consoles. A succession of rifle
blasts cracked through the air close above Brad.
Crouching, he raised his weapon and fired. The
guards would be difficult to get at.

"Down, Brad, flat."

Hodak's hoarse whisper carried from two meters
behind Brad. As he ducked a soft swishing sound
sliced above his head. Glints of light sparkled
from a curved, shiny object. Seconds later, the
boomerang returned, wetly red.

"Go, Brad."

Hodak wiped and collapsed the boomerang and slipped
it into a sheath along the thigh of his space suit.

Motioning Hodak forward to climb into the nearest
fighter, Brad followed. The others, already in
place, were racing through their checklists.

Brad began his preflight as he switched his comm
to 'on'.

"Myra, Drummer, do you read?"

"Loud and clear."

"Adari-Kumiko?"

"Right."

"Kumiko, did you fix our inter-ship comm the way
Zolan told you to?"

"Fixed. They'll have to search and analyze dozens
of scramble channels to find and fix on ours. We
have a private and moving channel."

"OK. Check suits. Batten down and seal up. Now
hear this."

Brad stroked control panel keys, switches and
levers as he talked.

"Call signs: Hodak and I are One; Adari and Kumiko,
you're Two, and Myra and Drummer, Three. The job is
to keep 'em confused and stumbling over each other
for as long as we can, and hope for the best. The
capsule Adari slipped into your computer has the
coordinates and formation we hope they've assumed.
By now they're well into the faked redeployment.
We're dealing in seconds, minutes if we're lucky.

"The deployment we triggered concentrates them in
three sectors: Alpha, Beta, Gamma. Hodak and I will
take Alpha, Adari and Kumiko, you've got Beta; Myra
and Drummer to Gamma. Your sector coordinates are
in the capsule; use standard locks to interface the
coordinates with your ship's flight controls. Go for
command decks, weapons control centers, thrusters
or other vitals where disabling is money. Try for
battle cruisers, but don't ignore other targets of
opportunity. Keep your explosive decompressors
and laser-quads at max. Talk as you work so we all
know what's happening. Go."

The signals from Brad's control panel had their
effect. The rushing sound of escaping air told them
the huge portal was opening. Within seconds the
battlefield stretched before them.

Brad hit the catapult release. The ship lunged
forward. As it cleared the flight deck, Brad maxed
the thrusters. Hodak glanced back over his shoulder.

"Two and Three are clear," he announced.

The three fighters skewed sharply toward their
assigned sectors.

"Two talking. Battle Cruiser Intruder coming up.
Range: 2500 K. Destroyer screen not tight enough.
Ex-decomp at max. Range: 2000 -- 1000 -- 400. Three
second burst. On target, but about 50 meters aft the
bridge. Gotta go around for another try, dammit.

"Back at 900 -- 500. Incoming laser-quads. 300.
Two second burst and breaking port. What do you
see, Adari?"

"Made it this time, kiddo. Bridge collapsed. But
move this baby's tail. I can almost feel their
heat."

"Three to One. Skip to Channel C for a sec and
you'll hear Scarf. They must have cleared the
Dragon's bridge. He's giving orders to the P-fleet
to line up for a hit at the Terminals. Looks like
he wants a kind word from his boss. I'm heading
back to the Dragon.

"Dragon coming up. Range: 1700 K. Spotted us.
Have incoming. You didn't down all their guns, Kumiko.
Lousy shooters, though. At 1400 -- 700 -- 300.
Decomp on sustained -- Five second burst. Passing
over. What's the word, Myra?"

"Their stern sucked a lemon. Totaled. Hold
it. Fighter catapulted off the flight deck. It's
closing with a Dragon screen destroyer. Get back
to 'Channel C', it may be Scarf talking."

He was.

"Major Scarf to Destroyer Viper. I'm coming aboard
and taking command of the Planet Pluto Assault
Force. Notify all Plutonian units to be ready to
attack the Terminals and inflict maximum damage.
Those orders come directly from President Narval.
I'll lay out the attack formation as soon as I'm
aboard."

"Two to One. Hear that? The fighter has matched
up and I see Scarf in transfer."

A momentary silence.

"Comin' round the bend and linin' up. They see
us and know we ain't their lovers. Destroyer had
to stabilize to bring Scarf aboard; now they're
hustlin'. I'll give 'em the nose decomps, as we
slip under. 500 kay -- 350 -- decomps on -- goin'
under."

"Blowout -- they're gone. Hey, Hodak, takes care
of your buddy."

"He was no buddy of mine. OK, Two. Move it, Brad."

Brad searched for the Windstorm, Yargoul's battle
cruiser, now the combined fleet's flagship. Two
and Three had scored hits in the tight field,
significantly diminishing the fleet's capabilities.
If the Windstorm could be taken out, or even
damaged, the enemy fleet's command-and-control
would be seriously degraded.

Two destroyers converged on Brad from 11 and 1
o'clock. Brad switched to their channel.

Brad reacted instinctively. His feet slammed
footpads as his arms and hands yanked and
twisted the other controls. The sensitive fighter
corkscrewed and hurtled away just as laser-quad
beams from both destroyers crossed where he
had been a fraction of a second before. Jiggling
reversers and thrusters, he space-skidded into a
tight half circle and dived under the closest ship.
Killer beams tracked him but the arc couldn't
catch up.

Passing under, Hodak cut loose with his
laser-quads, raking laterally across the
destroyer's underside. At the close range the
damage was devastating. The destroyer split
apart along the shock line with a silent, flaming
explosion.

Brad spun the ship about and fired the bow
explosive decompressor at the other destroyer. The
destroyer crumpled into a twisted mass of metal.

Veering off, Brad searched his instruments for
signs of battle cruisers. Hoping for a lead, he
flipped the switch to Channel C and caught the tail
end of a transmission: "...enemy formation is now
changing course to close with us. They are centered
on coordinates H010 and V210. Distance: 5 point
2 million kilometers, closing fast. Tracking, and
will report. This is Lieutenant Asto, Commander
of Titan Patroller Group. Out."

Brad felt a surge of elation. Drummer reached
across the intervening space and pounded his
shoulder. Was it possible? The next voice on
Channel C dispelled his doubts.

"This is Fleet Commander Yargoul to all Commanders
of the INOR Combined Fleet. UIPS battle fleet has
just emerged from behind a comm screen sunside
of Planet Pluto. The screen was erected to keep
the Logistics Depot and the Slingshot work site from
communicating with their government during this
operation. Unfortunately, it also kept us from
messages dispatched by our own headquarters.
The UIPS fleet is still out of range, but closing
fast. All INOR ships accelerate transition into battle
formations and stations. Point for convergence is
coordinate H010-V210. Attention: Commander of
Plutonian Destroyer Group Two. Have one of your
squadrons remain in this sector and to take out the
interceptors that have been harassing our fleet and
then catch up with us. Out."





 Chapter FORTY-THREE


"One to Two and Three."

Brad quickly briefed the Sentinels on the
transmissions. It brought a grunt from Hodak, a
sigh of relief from Myra, a squeal of delight from
Kumiko, and a sarcastic "Well, it's about time,"
from Adari.

"Brad." It was Drummer's voice.

"Yes?"

"This conversation confirms feelings I've had since
we joined forces against Narval, but I'd like to ask
the question nevertheless."

"No need to, Drummer. I was going to tell you at
the first opportunity after you made your appeal
to the ships' Commanders. Your feelings were right:
we're all members of a UIPS team sent to Planet
Pluto to keep Narval, and anyone else, from
interfering with Slingshot. Our job is far from
finished."

Drummer lapsed into silence.

"Shouldn't we give our side a rundown on what's
happening?" Myra asked.

"To do that we'd have to use unsecured channels,"
Brad replied.

"As soon as we do that we're in the open. Yargoul
will get a fix on us, and pick us off with their
long-range particle beamers. Right now we're
specks in a crowded and still disorganized field,
and that's our only protection. These fighters are
Plutonian, and that's part of our cover."

"Well, look," Adari sounded frustrated. "We've been
carrying the ball for quite a spell. Our folks are
here and ready to take over. We know where
they're at; let's give 'em our report in person.
Then, maybe, I can wash my hair. I feel a mess."

"This fleet still has a helluva lot of firepower
left." Hodak's voice was grim and brusque. "We're
right among 'em. We're 'point' for our side."

"You're right," Brad said. "Our job has changed:
we're eyes and ears for our people, even while
we're running interference. It's not over for us
until the fleets are within range of each other,
and then we'd damn well better be out of the way."

He paused to scan the arena, and added: "I'll break
into 'clear' in two minutes to give our people a
sitrep. Don't waste time on the INOR squadron
they're leaving behind to get us off their back.
Head for the UIPS fleet in two minutes. Hold
outside of their perimeter until I find out what
they need from us. If you run into Yargoul's fleet
along the way, shoot first."

"Three to One. Comin' up on a cruiser. The
protective screen on this one is tightenin' up
and it'll be a hard nut to crack. Got me a tail-end
charlie minesweeper. I'll give it a try. At 1300
kay -- 800 -- 400. Two seconds burst right up
the thrusters. Gone. They've marked us. We got
laser-quads incoming. Into e-e-e-v-a-a-sive. Man,
this baby's got speed. Out of it. OK, One and
Three. They're organized again and sure as hell
know we're jabbin' at 'em. Ain't gonna be easy to
get outta here."

"Two here. I hear you, Three. Got a couple of
destroyers off my starboard bow. Coming around
for a nose job. We're marked. Got incoming, lots
of it. At 1200 -- 800 -- 300. Two sec..."

Silence.

"One to Two. Come in."

Silence.

A guttural howl of anguish tore through Brad's
earphone. Myra.

"I'm heading over, Brad," she screamed, her voice
hoarse and breaking.

Brad didn't stop her, nor did he want to.

The battle cruiser Windstorm, surrounded by its
destroyer screen, was in sight. Brad weighed his
chances on getting close enough for an effective
shot.

Studying the scene, Brad did not, at first, see the
gray sphere separate from the Windstorm and plunge
ahead. Hodak did, paled, and pointed wordlessly.
Brad stared at the sphere. His heart pounded.

The Windstorm had launched a guided fusion warhead.
The target was obvious.

Brad knew the warhead's capabilities from the
Neptune briefings. The Windstorm carried a K12,
a fifteen meter-diameter warhead capable of
destroying a natural minor satellite or a large
populated colony. The bomb's mass was such that
a heavy cruiser could carry no more than one. One
was all that would be needed to decide the battle.
The fireball had a two thousand-kay radius, and the
piggybacked neutronic dispenser, once the cloud was
released by the detonation, would inflict radiation
death throughout tens of thousands of kay in all
directions.

The UIPS fleet faced annihilation, as did Slingshot.

Brad reacted instinctively. He jerked his ship
around and pumped max thrust after the speeding
warhead.

A second later his mind snapped back from its
momentary panic.

"One to Three." He recounted the facts. "If Two has
survivors get them on board, or lash them to the
sides, or whatever makes sense. Then catch up with
us at max and give us a hand.

"These warheads are coated against detection in the
old stealth style. I've got to warn our fleet what's
coming so they can go evasive as much as they
can. Our fleet's break from course or formation will
mess up any tactics they have in mind. They won't
have time to form up even if they do escape the
blast and radiation zones. Firing at the warhead
won't help, even at close range. It's wrapped in
so many layers of armor even particle-beamers
can't penetrate, so I don't know what our explosive
decompressors and laser-quads can do. But we've
got to try."

 ##

Two was a twisted, gray mass in a slow tumble when
Three drew close. Myra reduced power in her ship's
magnetic beams and directed them at the wreck
until it stabilized. She maneuvered until the ships
touched. The beams held.

Myra pushed the canopy clear, climbed out, and
crawled forward. She grasped a jagged projection on
the wreck, swung aboard, and stared into what had
been the control pit. She turned away and returned
to her ship without looking at Drummer. Laser quads
left little organic residue.

 ##

Brad switched to standard communications channels
and keyed in his identity. In a moment they were
switched to a channel closed to outsiders.

"Sentinel One to UIPS Fleet Comm Center.
Acknowledge."

The reply was swift.

"UIPS Comm to Sentinel One. We read."

"Sentinel One. Flash Immediate. Must talk to Fleet
Commander. Fleet in extreme and immediate danger.
Now, partner, now."

"Selvin here."

"Sentinel One. Enemy Battle Cruiser Windstorm has
launched a K12 fusion warhead. I do not question
the warhead's vector; expect that its mass
attractors and proximity fuses are set to your
fleet's coordinates.

"I am overtaking the warhead and will try to
neutralize. Forcing a change in warhead direction
with my ship is not possible; the warhead's mass
and guidance system exceeds by far any pressure
my fighter can exert. Suggest you consider
evasive action; will advise further if neutralization
accomplished."

The warning had been given. There was no time for
talk. The warhead was less than a hundred meters
ahead, and closing.

Drummer tapped Brad on the shoulder and pointed.
Two was coming up.

Cold sweat drenched Brad's forehead and drained
into his eyes. He blinked, shook his head to clear
his vision, and increased airflow in his suit.

"Brad," Myra's voice, fast. "Can we detonate it
with our guns from here? At this extremely close
range the concentrations of laser-quads and
explosive decompress energy by both of us at
a single point might disable some part of the
warhead or set it off."

"It would take too much time to cut through. I've
got another idea. If it doesn't work, we won't have
enough time to try anything else. Hodak, take the
controls and get the ship as close to the bomb
as you can, go for less than a meter from the
warhead's surface. Hold and orbit slowly, nose
close to the warhead so that I can scope the
surface. I'll tell you when to stop. Myra, keep
close above in my line-of-sight. Hodak, strap
on your tool kit."

Hodak maneuvered the ship close and set a pattern
that covered the sphere methodically. Brad opened
the canopy, and directed the ship's beacon at the
bland, gray surface. Seconds passed; the bomb's
gray coating was unbroken. Or was it?

"Stop," Brad ordered.

He pointed to a barely visible circular crack half
a meter across.

"Myra. Get closer. Use your attractors to stabilize
and hold position. Give me a hand, Hodak."

Brad climbed over the side. The light
gravity-enhancer soles of his space boots provided
barely enough adherence to the warhead's surface.
Sliding, he made his way to the finely marked
circle, Hodak close behind.

"Access to the calibration cavity," Brad said as
he stooped, shed his outer glove, and felt around
the mating edge. "The bomb has to have a place to
insert fuse and trajectory data and fine tune the
initial settings. The well is closed with a plug as
thick as the armor, and it's rotated into place. The
plug's outer coating is the same composition as on
the rest of the casing. Cut a radial slot along the
edge of the cover. We'll push to rotate the cover
counter-clockwise; it'll take both of us to work it
loose."

"Why not cut out the entire plug?"

"Too much time. The shell is too thick."

Hodak grunted, withdrew a cutting tool from his
kit and after much effort formed a shallow, slanted
groove in the well cover. A heavy metal pry bar
came next. Squatting, he forced the flat end into
the notch and pushed. The energy to push forced
his body in the opposite direction.

"Closer, Myra."

At arm's length, and the ship immobilized by its
mags, Hodak braced his back against the fuselage
and tried again. He felt the bar bottom in the
notch.

Brad squatted beside Hodak and, using the fighter's
mass to steady themselves, they pushed. The pressure
scraped the plug's surface, but remain fast. They
made a fresh cut, braced themselves, and pushed,
sweat pouring from their faces. Very slowly, the
plug gave way, eventually the surface rose slightly
above the warhead's surface. More cuts, and a finger
hold. The plug rose a bit more. It seemed minutes
before their hands could grasp it firmly.

They unscrewed the plug. It drifted away.

"When Ram had our skulls crammed with all that
raw data I thought this was garbage we'd never
have to use," Brad said. "I think a lot differently
now. Myra, hold the mags tight and be ready to
break away as soon as I give you the word."

Lying on his side directly above the opening he
inserted his arm and shoulder into the well as far
as he could. Inside the cavity he located knobs
and keypads by touch. At random, Brad twirled the
knobs, pressed the keys, and opened and closed
switches. After a brief wait, he tore several wire
connections loose.

"Working in the dark like this has disadvantages,"
he grunted.

Withdrawing his arm he slipped his outer glove back
on. Hastily they climbed back aboard their fighter.

"Go! Myra. Go!"

Both craft whirled away.

"The warhead's computer assessed and integrated
my random inputs," Brad said. "The solution should
change its flight path or, for all we know, reset
the switches for the proximity fuses so that
our ships' mass and proximity sets the bomb off.
Let's get as far away as we can before it all comes
together and whatever's going to happen happens."

The two fighters headed toward the UIPS fleet.
Barely beyond the fatal radiation zone the now
distant warhead detonated. The fireball looked
as huge as the Sun from Venus.

Brad opened the communications channel.

"Sentinel One to UIPS Fleet Comm Center. We're
approaching in two Plutonian fighters from the
direction of the blast. Be ready to receive; we're
coming in. Acknowledge."





 Chapter FORTY-FOUR


The opposing fleets maneuvered warily. It was
too late for either side to safely fire long-range
thermonuclear warheads. The battlefield would
be a tight arena.

Brad and Hodak matched up to Admiral Selvin's
flagship Ruthless. Without altering formation the
Ruthless extended a mag-beam and drew the fighters
quickly to the flight deck one following the other.

Wasting no time on boarding formalities, Brad
motioned his colleagues to follow as an escort led
them at a run to the command deck. Selvin was
waiting impatiently. A debriefing officer took
Hodak in tow, and an another escorted Drummer
to the VIP lounge.

At a sign from Brad, Myra trailed after him.

The fleet command center was fifteen meters across
and ten deep. View tanks, consoles and displays
along the bulkheads glowed and portrayed the
multidimensional battle zone, updates on readiness
of the fleet and whatever had been considered
relevant in defeating the enemy. Specialists and
back-up technicians studied displays, recapped real
time data, checked results and sent them on in an
ongoing process. The place hummed with muted voices
and the almost silent clicks of an organized combat
ops center.

Selvin waved Brad to join him at a plotting table.
A globe-shaped view tank, suspended close overhead
displayed the three-dimensional battle zone. The
command center's communicator hovered close
to Selvin, his head encased in a helmet linked
to all ships in the UIPS fleet, fleet headquarters
on Earth, and the conference site. A hard-copy
dispatch remote on a shoulder harness extended
forward waist-high.

Selvin hastily exchanged handshakes with Brad
and Myra. Brad talked fast pointing to the capsule
Myra held in her hand. Listening, Selvin's Executive
signaled the communicator to open the secure link
to Commanders on all ships in the fleet. A nod from
the grizzled Fleet Commander and Myra inserted
the capsule into a slot on the view tank's base.
The Exec motioned the battle staff to observe
and listen. Taking turns, Brad and Myra reeled off
details on the enemy fleet's new Order of Battle.

Brad pointed to locations in the view tank,
suggesting potential UIPS tactical options to
exploit the enemy's vulnerabilities. He added how
Captain Yargoul might respond, and how the UIPS
fleet might use them to advantage.

As Brad spoke, a microphone picked up his words
and fed them into the computer to bring current
the fleet's, now by-passed database. Selvin and his
staff, even as they listened to Brad, observed the
effects on the plotting screen. A superseding fleet
tactical formation spread before them.

There was no time for discussion; the opposing
fleets were too close. Selvin, eyes on the tank and
plot, took over and spun out orders to his ships'
Commanders.

"Your view tank has a copy of what I have
here," he said. "The enemy fleet is down to
four battle cruisers, sixteen destroyers, three
fighter-bombers, seventeen fighters, four gunboats,
and three attack transports with troops aboard,
plus a tagalong pack of armed support ships.

"Consider the destroyers are in their best
screening positions. We are totally committed.
Launch fighters as soon as the INOR fleet is in
optimum range. Target priorities are cruisers,
destroyers and gunships. Take the offense
immediately against all enemy ships that
penetrate our outer defenses.

"Avoid contact with transports or support ships.
If an enemy vessel is disabled, engage in rescue
if your situation permits; especially should they
retire from the arena and present no hazard to the
Slingshot construction site. In such circumstances,
do not pursue. If they do begin to approach the
Terminals, pursue at max and take them out. Keep
the construction site command center informed
so that they can take defensive actions.

"Engage the enemy. Attack. Attack. Attack."

 ##

The INOR Commanders facing Captain Yargoul on his
view screen appeared apprehensive. They had not
closed with the enemy fleet yet lost two cruisers,
three destroyers and a dozen fighters. The
thermonuclear warhead launched at the enemy
fleet had been faulty or sabotaged into premature
detonation. They had taken savage blows.

Captain Yargoul rallied his forces.

"The battle has just begun," he exhorted his
listeners. "Our surveillance of the enemy fleet
shows we are in a strong position. Form up for
penetrating the enemy fleet. Destroyers tighten
screens. As soon as the enemy gets within range
launch fighter-bombers and fighters. Gunships and
attack patrollers take the point. Attack. Now."

Optimum range was closing for particle beamers.
Fighter-bombers, gunships and patroller-fighters
from each side sped and dodged toward firing points.

A Jovian fighter-bomber plunged through a gap in
the UIPS shield and came at the bridge of the UIPS
cruiser Implacable. Arrayed to fire for effect the
Implacable cut loose with successive volleys of
its forward laser-quads. From a turret above the
cruiser's upper structures a molecular disrupter
flashed a cascade of energy that coalesced
into twisting, jagged bolts. The fighter-bomber
dissolved as its guns fired a short burst.
Fragments caroomed off its target's hull.

Two thousands kilometers distant, a Titanian
gunboat evaded the UIPS defensive screen and
slashed in at Selvin's Ruthless. The flagship's
guns set up a withering fire, but couldn't match
the lightning speed of the closing gunboat. A
raking laser-doubles knifed through the Ruthless
amidships, opening ten meters of hull. The vacuum
of space sucked at storage bays, shops and
wardrooms; dozens of bodies floated through the
rupture. The gunboat, caught in a crossfire of
laser-quads, exploded silently.

The Ruthless' internal safety doors had slammed
shut immediately, isolating the damaged bays and
compartments.

Suddenly, the main bodies of the two fleets were
within range of each other's heavy weapons. A
tangled circus of cruisers, destroyers, gunships
and fighters careened through space, sweeping
the battle arena with their guns. Battle craft, from
both sides, blossomed into clouds of wreckage,
shards and debris in the first minutes of combat.

More heavily armed, the INOR forces were
nevertheless at a disadvantage. The fleet had not
completely recovered from the disruptive effects of
the haphazard redeployment that Adari had contrived.
Drummer and Brad had deserted them; Hyk and the
Dragon were gone. The INOR forces lacked cohesion.
Captain Yargoul had barely assumed command of the
combined fleet and needed to assess the situation.
There was no time for that. They were face to face
with a powerful adversary who had appeared without
warning. An easy victory had become a struggle for
survival.

Two UIPS destroyers made a run at the Jovian
cruiser Boulder. Four explosive-decompressors cut
loose simultaneously at the cruiser, striking her
amidships. A succession of explosions wracked
the ship, hurling debris and bodies in all directions.
The ship rolled and yawed wildly out of control.
The UIPS destroyers cut away.

The Ruthless' damage assessments flashed to the
bridge and the ship's Commander informed the fleet
command deck.

"We've still got full power and most of our guns
are operative," Selvin announced to his staff after
a brief study of the report. "With another of their
cruisers gone the big ships have evened out, but
they've still got the edge in destroyers. We've..."

"Fighter-bomber locked on to enemy cruiser
Encounter." The communicator's voice cut in over
the loudspeaker.

"Put him on," Selvin ordered.

The pilot's voice filled the room, low and tense.

"...3000 kay starboard. Destroyer screen at 2000,
kinda loose. Going in. Have incoming, lots of it.
In evasive. I'm hit, but I'm through. 700. More
incoming. Bridge in sights. Three seconds burst --
a hit. I'm out of control. Encounter dead ahead...
gonna..."

Silence.

Selvin turned away to hide the pain in his eyes
at still another death.

"Cruisers three to two, in our favor." An officer
called out from his position at the battle monitor.
"New ball game."

Brad pointed, drawing Selvin's eyes to the
constantly changing plotting table and view tank.

The displays showed the struggle had become a
series of separate skirmishes spread across a
million kay in all directions. Fighter-bombers and
fighters without a mother ship, and destroyers
that had lost their cruisers ranged the battlefield
singly and in pairs, searching out and attacking
the enemy.

Not visible to the naked eye through the swarm of
space debris around them, the view tank's sensors
discriminated against displaying the lacework
of crossing beams from laser-quads, explosive
decompressors, molecular disrupters, and here
and there, a cruiser's particle beamer.

Admiral Selvin stared at the tank.

"Does he realize what he's doing?" He whispered.

The Jovian heavy cruiser Windstorm and its
screen of destroyers had changed direction about
twenty-five thousand kay distant and headed
straight at the UIPS fleet; the Jovian light
cruiser Assault and its escorts lined up behind.
The UIPS cruisers Ruthless, Avenger and Implacable
were broadside to the oncoming enemy line. Most of
the gun ports for the Windstorm's and the Assault's
most powerful long range weapons were along
their broadsides and out of position for returning
fire at the UIPS battle fleet. Jovian vessels of all
types that came within range of UIPS weapons would
be overwhelmed by UIPS concentrated broadsides.
The Windstorm's escorts would not have the range
until the two fleets were closer.

"They've inadvertently maneuvered themselves
into an ancient sea battle formation," Selvin said.
"It was once known as 'crossing the T'. They intended
to cut straight through our defenses to optimize
their broadsides but instead they opened themselves
to ours. That's how the game is played. I have no
choice, but I have to act quickly."

Selvin's battle computer counted down the enemy's
distance and flashed estimates on when the enemy
line would be optimally exposed to particle beam
volleys.

"Cruisers: ready your particle beamers," Selvin
commanded, "sustained fire as soon as you have
the range."

Moments after he spoke, the Admiral's order
transformed into action. Abruptly, the gun circuits
snapped shut. Lights dimmed and the Ruthless
throbbed as the beamers sucked up massive amounts
of energy. The Avenger and the Implacable joined in.

Indicators swung wildly. The technicians watched
the dials and verified that a stream of highly
charged, invisible particles had erupted from the
beamer tubes. The lights returned to normal, and
the throbbing tapered off.

The bolts struck the leading INOR warship full
length from bow to stern, and moved on the second
in line as soon as it came into range. The INOR
battle cruisers shuddered, smitten as by a
giant hammer. Their hulls collapsed and the
ships exploded into enormous, silent fireballs.
Destroyers and support ships in close screens
were caught in the blasts and shattered.

The INOR fleet's will to continue the battle was
gone; they had disintegrated as a fighting force.

The battle ground to a halt. What was left of the
INOR armada withdrew beyond the reach of the UIPS
fleet's long-range weapons, careful to demonstrate
that their retreat was in a direction away from
the Slingshot Terminals. It was just as well, lines
of UIPS destroyers and gunships had formed up as
a shield between the work sites and any potential
attacker from the residue of the INOR Combined
Fleet.

The arena quieted. UIPS search, rescue and medical
craft searched the area, marking wrecks of both
sides with electronic signals, collecting the dead
and treating the wounded.

Communications lines opened between the fleets.
Admiral Selvin requested the INOR commanders to
order a stand down from all weapons. All Plutonian
Assault Force vessels were ordered to form up and
prepare for boarders.

Brad and Selvin stood in a corner of the command
deck, heads close. Brad drew an object from
a pocket as he spoke: the control for the
communications barrier Zolan had erected.
Selvin, hand to chin, stared at the device,
listening. He pointed to it, and then in the
direction of the companionway.

"Notify Camari," he said. "Now."

Brad nodded and raced away.





 Chapter FORTY-FIVE


Camari's impassive gaze roamed the faces of the
Solar System's leaders at the conference table. The
discussions had quickly degenerated into an open
clash of wills between Camari and Narval. The other
INOR Chiefs of State sat back to enjoy the contest,
posing occasional questions to Camari or Narval,
or to both. All knew they were in a waiting game.

Camari went along, drawing Narval out. Each was
eager for a message from the Planet Pluto Special
Zone that would present a new reality and the
defining course for the conference.

Narval realized that he was being goaded by his
INOR allies to exacerbate the confrontation between
the Regions. Noting the time, he decided to drop
the first bombshell.

"We have been called together to prepare a course
for the future," he rumbled, looking about with
scorn. "Yet we of INOR sit here and quibble among
ourselves, lacking a unified will to confront the
UIPS directly and compel them to respect our
demands. The circumstances of the times call for
the raw strength of an iron fist, not for a press
of beggars with outstretched, pleading palms."

"I take exception," President Straber of Titan
leaned forward and waggled his finger at Narval.
"We are a confederation of nation-states. Are you
suggesting that we abdicate our sovereignty to a
single authority? If we were to do that we face the
same chaos that preceded the separation of the
Regions. We of Titan would find that intolerable."

Narval seized the moment to pave the way for
the supreme power he felt would soon be his.
The message from Drummer would surely come
within minutes.

"The old United Planetary System from which we
broke away," he countered, "was based on so-called
democratic principles and due process. The United
Planetary System fell apart. The fragmented,
international order that replaced it, this
grotesque arrangement of nation-states, is equally
ineffective and therefore obsolete. Our system
of authority and governance must be raised above
the antiquated, interminable rules of the desperate
bickering we now witness here at play among us.
I will personally impose such changes."

"Through tyranny?" Camari's words were dry as the
desert winds of Mars.

Narval's eyes narrowed to slits of hatred as he glared
at Camari. Damn, where was Drummer's message?

Camari continued in the same tone, confronting
Narval directly, "I voice the profound hopes of the
peoples of our diverse cultures, and yet, of our
common species, that your threat is nothing but
idle chatter."

He turned his head to right and left, taking in the
others at the table.

"What say you, leaders of INOR, to this threat from
a criminal let loose among us from Callisto? Will
you yield to Narval your constitutional rights and
authority so that he personally assumes the power
to dictate to your nation and to your people?

"I, for one, reject his proposal with contempt and
declare, here and now, that the UIPS will fight to
the death any attempt by Narval to impose his will
on the United Inner Planetary System or, for that
matter, on any nation in the Solar System."

Around the table, and in the seats beyond, a
shocked silence fell. They were indeed cynical and
self-seeking politicians, and devious ploys were
their stock in trade for getting and holding power.
Narval's past was well known to them all. His words
were a direct challenge to their positions, their
regimes, and their lives. Faces clouded, they
appeared overcome by the realization that Narval's
capture of the Terminals was merely one part of a
far greater conspiracy to destroy their sovereignty.

Advisors leaned forward to whisper to their
Masters. Suspicious glances were cast at Narval
who responded with a look of mocking amusement.

"This is all without significance," he thought, "by
now INOR military forces are committed to me."

Camari sat quietly, letting it all happen. The dice
had been cast elsewhere.

 ##

Ram entered and strode swiftly around the
conference table toward Camari. Something in the
way Ram's elongated frame stooped and flexed
as he walked created an impression of suppressed
excitement. Camari tensed with apprehension. Ram
caught Camari's eye as the UIPS leader leaned back
in his chair.

Ram bent and whispered into Camari's ear. His
urgent manner and Camari's close attention stirred
the conferees. Several at the table and in the
seats beyond glanced at each other, eyebrows
raised; others eyed Narval. This was to have been
his show.

Narval sat motionless, eyes hooded, his normally
ruddy face visibly graying.

Camari held up his hand for attention. It was an
unnecessary gesture; all eyes had been on him and
Ram from the moment Ram entered.

"I understand an unusual spunnel communication has
arrived from the Planet Pluto Special Zone." Camari
announced. "It is addressed to all Heads of State
attending this convocation. The message calls for
an audio-visual presentation in the view tank. Any
objections?"

Without waiting for a response, he nodded over his
shoulder. Ram murmured into the tiny transmitter
in his hand.

The view tank, centered above the conference
table, lost its soft neutral glow, blinked, and the
Planet Pluto sector appeared. The tank displayed
the debris of a space battle: ruptured ships,
unrecognizable masses and fragments, and bloated
human bodies. In the background were the Slingshot
Terminals, intact.

From around the table came sounds of breath
drawn sharply, gasps and muttered curses.

The view narrowed and zoomed in on a broad sheet
of drifting metal. It bore the emblem of the Jovian
Combined Strike Team. Large letters emblazoned
above the emblem spelled out the partial word
"Windst..."

All eyes in the room were spellbound, fixed on the
tank. All, except for President Pazzim of Callisto.
At the sight of a drifting scrap that had once been
the pride of his fleet, he groaned loudly, hunched
his shoulders and lowered his head. He did not look
up again.

The hull of a battle cruiser formed along the
tank's outer edge and tumbled slowly end over end
toward center. Bow collapsed, the ship drifted into
and out of view. Experts from the back seats leaned
forward and whispered. The lifeless hulk had been
the Plutonian Battle Cruiser Dragon.

Camari shifted his eyes to Narval, half up from
his seat, face putty-white, lips quivering, eyes
transfixed on the view tank. Tearing his eyes
away, he pointed at Camari and screeched.

"It's a trap." His voice trembled in panic and
became a wail. "This is another stratagem
concocted by Camari to frighten us."

He gestured wildly and his mouth dribbled. "I know
your ways, Camari. You're trying to divide and pit
us against each other so that you can move in and
take over. It won't work. Since you cannot shake
our unity and resolve with empty appeals for
Slingshot, you now invent battles that never took
place. They just couldn't have happened. We're
on to you. You're a fraud and a cheat. I move this
convocation be terminated immediately. I, for one,
have no intention to remain and be subjected to
further lies."

Even as Narval squealed and pounded the table, the
scene in the tank faded into a broader view of a
phalanx of disabled warships, several bow-to-stern,
and others in a disorganized cluster. Again, the
secure Terminals were the backdrop.

The scene cut to the command deck of a warship.
A face, contorted in anger and despair, appeared
and addressed them.

"I am Captain Klars Abou, Commander of the
Saturnian Combined Strike Team, now acting
as Commander of the INOR Combined Fleet, or
what's left of it. I make this statement of my own
free will. The original mission given to me by my
President was to join with other military forces
of INOR to take and hold the Slingshot Terminals
hostage as insurance for an outcome in negotiations
that would be favorable to INOR.

"The mission to take the Terminals has failed. We
were attacked and defeated by the military forces
of the United Inner Planetary System. We were
betrayed by the Plutonians. The Commander of
the UIPS Military Space Force has ordered all our
warships, except those of Planet Pluto, to return
to their home stations. The INOR military forces,
at the outset, had neither strategic nor tactical
plans for the confrontation that we have
experienced. Our forces are in utter disarray; we
have no choice but to comply with the orders of the
UIPS Fleet Commander. I have therefore directed
the dissolution of the INOR Combined Fleet and
ordered the vessels to return home. The UIPS fleet
commander has granted us leave to use the spunnel
system for this purpose."

Captain Abou's features faded. An ominous quiet
descended on the conference room. Narval, stricken
and silent, remained half-standing, looking from
the tank to Camari, and at the faces of his
co-conspirators. Camari returned Narval's gape
impassively.

There was more. Drummer's features replaced
those of Captain Abou. His features were stern
and his head shook slightly with tension and anger.
However, his voice was grave and measured in tone,
deep and vibrant.

"Leaders of Solar Governments. To those who do
not recognize me, I am Deke Drummer, formerly
an advisor to Reen Narval and, also formerly the
Commander of the INOR Combined Fleet. I confirm
Captain Abou's words. The mission against Slingshot
failed. The reasons are many, but failure is the
fact. You now have the task, at your convocation,
to seek solutions to our common problems through
other means.

"All military forces and government administrators
of Planet Pluto are under my command. I proclaim
the Government of Reen Narval is fallen. I have
established myself as Regent over Planet Pluto
until a lawful President is chosen by the will of
our people. I hereby declare Reen Narval persona
non grata on Planet Pluto, and have instructed my
warships to attack and destroy his vessel should
he enter Plutonian jurisdiction. I remind you all that
Narval came to Planet Pluto as a criminal outcast
from Callisto. I suggest to the President of
Callisto that he take custody of Narval and deal
with him on the basis of the crimes he committed
within Callistonian jurisdictions.

"To President Camari, I herewith declare that
the original understandings on cooperation and
collaboration with the Government of Planet
Pluto until Slingshot is launched remain in
effect. Planet Pluto is an independent nation,
nevertheless, I request that, in this singular
situation, that you personally represent our
interests at the Conference. I look forward to an
early exchange of Ambassadors and consultations
to review our mutual interests and objectives.
I have in mind three people whom I hope you will
consider for high position in your representation
to my Government. I shall communicate with you
separately on that matter."





 Chapter FORTY-SIX


 SOLAR LEADERS REACH ACCORD
 TRANS-SOLAR NEWS SERVICE
 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
 FLASH: SYSTEM-WIDE
 Filed at Solar Conference Site

The meeting of the Solar System's Heads of State
is a success. President Camari of the UIPS opened
the proceedings with a brief speech. Ignoring past
differences, he emphasized common interests,
interdependence of peoples and nations, and
benefits through collective efforts to meet the
needs of the dispersed communities of humankind.

"The singular authority of the old United Planetary
System," Camari said, "had no need for means
to resolve issues among separate nation-states.
That is no longer true. We must provide for
interregional and international deliberations and
decision-making. Furthermore, our diminished
reserves of metals, minerals and other essential
substances, on the one hand, and the benefits of
an operational Slingshot, on the other, creates new
challenges of common concern and more options in
the search for solutions. Unless we accelerate our
collaboration to resolve the resources crisis our
civilizations may well erupt once more toward
potential disasters such as the one we are here
trying to escape."

Following President Camari's opening remarks, the
conference was addressed by INOR Chiefs of State.
Each expressed the aspirations of his or her people
and their capabilities toward attainment. All agreed
that their meeting was timely, that the problems
were mutual, and that the agenda be addressed
without delay.

The exchanges were intense as the conferees sought
a balance between inalienable rights and solemn
obligations. Many issues were extremely complex:
What are an inhabited planet's or satellite's
jurisdictional limits within territorial and
contiguous space? What are the rights and
obligations of one Region's military and commercial
vessels and citizens when inside the lawful
boundaries of another? What is the definition
of "innocent passage" in the context of a
multi-national Solar Community? How are our
dynamic and constantly changing interplanetary
and interregional space lanes to be maintained? Who
will pay for such services? Questions posed in one
context were injected into others or phrased to
highlight a wide range of diverse interests and
nuances.

Discussions among the primary conferees were, at
times, suspended for caucuses of Heads of States
orbiting a central planet with their advisors. Ad
hoc committees were set up to explore options
in depth, or at minimum, to provide clarity and
context to the issue. The meeting rooms along
the periphery of the assembly hall filled with
specialists who argued loudly, in whispers, and at
length.

Often, additional data was needed from Seats of
Government. The spunnel communications channels
were loaded with traffic, and archives throughout
the system opened, many for the first time in
millennia. The Conference Disk's computers absorbed
facts and expert opinions and spewed distillations
of new conclusions.

Slowly, positions clarified and consensus took form.

A draft Declaration of Principles emerged from
the back rooms. It dealt with only a few of many
problems that needed immediate attention, leaving
a broad array of issues open for further review.

After hours of debate the Draft Declaration of
Principles was approved by the Leaders of the Solar
Community. (See Appendix.)

All agreed that the First UIPS-INOR Conference
augured well for the future of humankind.





 Epilogue


The networks of mass attractors that tethered
the Extractor to Planet Pluto disengaged nine
Earth centuries after construction began. Pluto
contributed its orbital momentum to the launch.
In time the integrated drives of the most advanced
propulsion thrusters took on the full load, and the
dream of humankind was on its way to the Alpha
Centauri star system, on schedule.

Scientists and technicians on The Solar System's
Slingshot Control Center maintained constant
real-time oversight of the Extractor's subsystems
and structures through spunnel monitors. A
convoy of robot deflectors and screens cleared
the Extractor fleet's path of meteoroids, sand and
rock swarms and space debris. Hundreds of logistics
robots crammed the station's cavernous bays,
self-sustaining and programmed to activate
sub-systems on schedule, deploy robotic specialists
and service the machine during its voyage, and in
perpetuity thereafter.

Maximum acceleration for almost two Earth decades
increased the fleet's velocity to five percent
speed-of-light, which it maintained for more than
a Solar System Standard Century. Deceleration and
vector adjustments took another three decades.
Alignment to major concentrations of potential
sources, selection of a 'first phase' work site,
calibration of instrumentation and activating its
spunnel channels and monitors required still more.

Back along the Solar rim, the Collector remained
linked to Planet Pluto for two decades following
the Extractor's departure. Its schedule along
Pluto's orbit provided sufficient time for the
Collector's transit to its permanent station
along the rim, to track the Extractor's position
via spunnel to refine details for integrated
operations, and for positioning and calibrating the
thousands of networks that coordinate the solar
and interstellar arrays.

The citizens of the Solar community tuned in to
witness the release of the Interstellar Spunnel
Signal from the hand of the President of the newly
formed United Nations of the Solar System. It would
be the final signal to synchronize and activate the
collective controls of the Extractor and Collector.

The President keyed the Signal.

 ##

Remote spunnel nodes and boosters along the route
from the Solar System to Alpha Centauri monitored
the Signal and the response. Rings of laser arrays
along the edge of the Extractor's hopper flashed
alive and focused their beams on a large, slowly
tumbling planetoid hundreds of kilometers across
its minor dimension.

Sensors, analyzers, siphons and beam-guides
paralleled the lasers' signals along an
incandescent column of plasma from the dissolving
planetoid into the Extractor's processes and, when
ready, into the hopper. The truncated apex of the
Extractor's teleport gate cone glowed red, then
violet, and thirty meters of its length disappeared
into its new hyperspace home.

The invisible nozzle hurled a concentration of
elemental substance across hyperspace to its
sister station four and a half light-years distant.

The first sign of incoming was a churning,
expanding mass of violet bubbles around the apex
of the Collector. Shifting colors as it cooled and
solidified, the mass transformed into a huge brown
globe. The globe separated from the nozzle and
drifted off, replaced by another mushrooming
bubbling mass at the nozzle's tip.

A fleet of robot tugs clamped mag-beams on the
free-floating globes and hauled them off. Another
fleet of giant space tugs moved into position for
the next gift of crude but treasured substance
teleported across interstellar space from a
distant star.

The cornucopia was in flow and humankind's first
outbound and inbound highways to the greater
universe were complete and working.





 Afterwords


An overview of the times prepared by Level 2
students, Luna Middle School, based on records
and commentaries in the official archives of
The Interstellar Mining and Teleport System.
(Reference: Index, Capsule V67 The Interstellar
Historian, Third Millennium, Interstellar Era.)

In the centuries that followed humankind's giant
leap to Luna, scientists, engineers and scholars in
almost all of Planet Earth's disciplines probed ever
deeper into space. Explorers studied and charted the
surfaces, depths and atmospheres of each of the
Solar System's bodies, and scrutinized the dynamics
and constituents of space matter out to the Kuiper
Belt and Oort Cloud. They ventured into the void
beyond Pluto's aphelion for hundreds of millions
of kilometers -- although not yet the stars.

The first landing on Luna in Year 1969 of the then
Common Era was judged to be among humankind's
grandest achievements. At the Luna landing's
Tercentenary a universal calendar was ordained to
commemorate the Event as New Year's Day, Year 0,
formally beginning humankind's Interplanetary Era.

By then, populated Moon and Mars bases were well
established. Construction cadres had ventured
into and beyond the Asteroids. Their experiences,
surface and strata tests and studies influenced
the selection of sites for mining operations and
strategic outposts along the space frontiers.
Advance construction battalions built basic habitat
and, having attained 'shirt sleeve' environments,
conceptualized, planned, gathered local materials,
and designed and built infrastructure and
industries that, in time, blossomed into enormous
encapsulated cities, social orders, cultural
adjustments and civilizations.

Explorers became teachers and mentors. Initially
in Earth orbit, later in lunar space and on Luna
itself, they guided settlers in developing new
lifestyles and colonizing skills, and showed them
how to wrest and refine usable elements and
minerals from nearby sources. They devised and
tested methodologies to convert crude space
matter into forms with which to create and
integrate structures, and manufacture and operate
machines and networks that would sustain surface
and contiguous space and inter-satellite and
interplanetary navigation and logistics systems.

The emigrants procreated and populated their
cities in the void. Their disparate ancestries blended
through a natural vitality that accelerated human
evolution so as to survive in a radically new
environment. In so doing, they turned away from
traditional conventions still deeply ingrained in
their common species. Adjusting over time to the
novel experience of space, they conceived new ways
or adapted their ancient qualities and prospered
in wholly enclosed artificial worlds. Organ
modifications, genetic engineering and cloning
gave impetus to human transformation.

Instinctively, humankind-in-space prepared for an
eventual voyage to the stars.

At the close of the first interplanetary millennium
that shaped and launched The Great Migration to
Space the original emigrants' progeny had become
an indigenous population. Five centuries into the
Interplanetary Era's second millennium the Solar
System included more than five hundred populated
colonies and outposts, and twice that number
of robot stations for interplanetary and
inter-satellite navigation, communication relay,
and space rescue. Populated by humans and their
robots, colonies extended from the voids above
Mercury and Venus through the Asteroids, the
satellites of the gas planets, to Planet Pluto.

As colonies multiplied and spread across the
vast interplanetary realm the solar community
became impatient with time consumed in normal
point-to-point space communications and transport.
The excessive transmission and portage time was
especially irritating in communications, shipment
of priority cargo, and human travel across
distances from bodies orbiting along on opposite
sides of the Sun. Hyperspace technology solved
the problem.

"Spunnels" in the public's jargon, came into being,
the term compressed from the phrase "hyperspace
tunnels," a universal phenomenon once suspected
and eventually confirmed. In the centuries preceding
The Great Migration the phenomenon had been
generally referred to as a wormhole, an archaic and
irrelevant expression, even in those ancient times.

Spunnel networks reduced transmission time between
the most widely separated points in the system from
hours to real-time. Successful in communications,
scientists and engineers concentrated on the
technological leap from spunnel communications
to spunnel teleportation, a capability urgently and
clearly essential to move humans, machines, and
raw materials across interplanetary distances.

The flood of emigrants to space colonies and
outposts exceeded tens of thousands each
year over several centuries, leaving behind a
still over-crowded Earth that had long since
cried 'enough'. Among the migrants were artisans
and technicians, minimally to highly-skilled
administrators, sociologists, teachers, scientists
and engineers and, scattered among them,
contemporary philosophers who preached the
metaphysical. Together, they represented all
of Earth's peoples and a cross-section of their
cultures.

Technology, however, imposed constraints. The
insatiable appetite for metals, minerals, rare
earths and other nonrenewable substances increased
inexorably. They remained the foundation for the
Solar System's industries, driven by the constant
clamor of indulgent lifestyles. Fully aware that
vital minerals and other substances were beyond
replenishment from within the Solar System, the
solar community nevertheless squandered its
rapidly diminishing resources.

In time, reserves of nonrenewable resources
dropped from residue to gleanings. Recycling, salvage,
ever-deeper mine shafts and tunnels, repeated
sweeps of the Earth's sea beds and planetary
and satellites' crusts, trenches, beds and craters
offered insufficient returns. Scouring the Asteroid
Belt, sifting the Kuiper-Oort regions, and intense
competitions for substitutes provided inadequate
and merely temporary relief. The solar community's
population, on Earth and in space, had exploded to
more than fourteen billion people. The search for
substances to support humankind's needs ranged
throughout; there were no more sources, nor were
there sanctuaries.

Certainly, there would not be enough for voyages
to the stars.

 ##

At long last, humankind confronted its reality. Net
yields from nonrenewable reserves, residues and
substitutes had dwindled until exhaustion was
certain and a timeline predictable. The choice
among grim options could no longer be postponed.
In the end, there were two:

-- Remain in place, ration, recycle and
redistribute minerals, metals, ores and other
usable substances and substitutes with Draconian
discipline, and take the consequences, or

-- Chance the most awesome venture in humankind's
long history: reach out to a distant star and tear
from it the raw matter that would preserve and
perpetuate the grandeur of the human experience.

The second option would be the ultimate gamble:
winning would bring the cornucopia sought
throughout the ages. Failure, even at an early
stage, would dissipate what little reserves
remained. Vitality drained, humankind would slip
back into the pits and the mud from which it had
so laboriously climbed.

The decision was to reach for the stars.

 ##

 The Interstellar Mining and Teleport Program

The Objective: To draw from Alpha Centauri, the
nearest star system, 4.35 light-years distant, its
minerals, metals, elements and whatever useful
substances could be moved across space, and store
them nearby in the Solar System, accessible to all
humankind.

The Task: Increase the Solar System's spunnel
range, capability and capacity to teleport matter
across interstellar space in a continuous flow and
in sufficient quantities to satisfy the purpose of
the Objective;

Construct and dispatch an advance fleet of drone
scouts to the Alpha Centauri star system at
the earliest possible time to survey, analyze and
report via spunnel on the availability, locations
and accessibility of resources specified generally
in the Objective;

Concurrently, design, construct and position an
interstellar spunnel portage system consisting
of two terminals, each of which would include
an integral, fully self-sufficient facility for
command-and-control, self-service and repair,
logistical and other operations essential to its
unique mission. Designate the terminal at 'star'
destination the Extractor and the terminal that
remains on the solar rim, the Collector.

-- The Extractor selects and draws usable
non-organics from the Alpha Centauri star
system, and collects, converts and channels
the product into its teleport shipping facility for
point-to-point spunnel transfer to the Collector.

-- The Collector receives the product, converts
it to its original form, and classifies, identifies
and ejects the substance for storage along the
solar rim or at a point Authority determines to
be more appropriate.

Construct the terminals four million kilometers
beyond Pluto. During construction, secure the
terminals to each other and separately, to Pluto,
employing mass attractors and position stabilizers,
as required.

Disengage the Extractor from Pluto at launch
employing Pluto's outbound orbital momentum
in a manner that the combined fleet retains its
integrity in perpetuity.

Deploy the Extractor to Alpha Centauri and position
it in orbit above a point commensurate with data
provided by the drone scouts. Maintain constant
surveillance and exercise control over operations
and maintenance via spunnel analyses of the
Extractor's functions, structures and equipment.

Position the Collector along the solar rim and
orient it consistent with the Extractor's position
and operations in the Alpha Centauri system.


 Stages

The Extractor, in position at destination,
analyzes, selects and draws substance from
proximate asteroids, comets, satellites,
planetoids, swarms, star surface and other
accessible bodies and strata, reduces the substance
to spunnel-teleportable constituents, loads the mass
into the spunnel facility and dispatches the product.

The Collector, positioned in the Solar System
oriented to the Extractor, receives and converts
the Extractor's transmissions, processes substance
into its original or a refined state, classifies
and ejects the mass for positioning in the storage
zone.


 Resources and Schedule

The Task requires six Earth centuries to design,
construct, equip, test, deploy and activate. The
millennia of delay in initiating the Task imposes
inescapable hardships on the Solar Community.

Accordingly, when justified as essential to the
Objective, solar governments divert work forces,
systems, and material resources from throughout
their jurisdiction to the Task. The consequences
of these diversions are expected to significantly
curtail construction, activities, lifestyles
of Earth and space colony populations, the
distribution of the solar system's residual
resources and, possibly, the independence of
governments, organizations, and individuals
throughout the solar realm.

Critical to the program's success is timing the
Extractor's launch. Piggy-backed to Pluto during
construction, the Extractor exploits the planet's
orbital momentum for launch. The window is
precise and short-lived along Pluto's outbound orbit;
there will be only one launch opportunity for the
Extractor. Disengaged from Pluto, the Extractor
fleet will accelerate along its course to optimum
velocity through integrated thrust of multiple
thermonuclear burst-propulsion systems or other,
more advanced propulsion systems, that are or
become available for the Task.

 ##

The Interplanetary Era's second millennium was
tumultuous. The harsh austerity imposed by the
increased deficits in metals, minerals and other
industrial materials and their substitutes created
one set of problems; human cloning augmented with
genetic engineering and their societal and cultural
effects, especially beyond the Asteroids, created
others. Human survival in scores of widely
scattered and unaffiliated space colonies,
loosely called "tank towns," encouraged scientific
and social experiments that altered traditional
cultures as well as human physiological and
psychological characteristics.

Cumulative genetic and accelerated evolutionary
alterations to the human body along with the
effects of unique, often hostile, environments
plus sheer distance from the familiar transformed
humans-in-space into something else. The unifying
forces that had survived the Great Migration
withered. In time, the once shared interests of
peoples, and allegiances to a home planet, sundered.

Varied and increased rates of change opened
doors to pretenders among a colony's populace.
Opportunists promoted a multitude of causes,
usually self-serving. Anticipating advantages to
themselves, they combined forces and became
influential advocates for disengagement from
political, cultural and judicial dominance by the
totally foreign open sky government of Earth,
billions of kilometers distant.

Disengagement, the opportunists agitated, was
long overdue; Earth inhabitants would never really
understand what life in deep space was about.

The crisis came in the middle centuries.
Bureaucrats representing the central government
on Earth were isolated from the affairs of the
colonies they administered. The indigenous populace
ignored their authority, their credentials were
challenged, and they were invited to return to
their home planet -- with no options.

The central government on Earth, weakened by
shortages and distracted by agitators at home
and in space, was neither vigilant nor prepared.

Early in the second millennium of the
Interplanetary Era, several colonies in the Outer
Region declared their independence of the original
United Planetary System and of each other. Other
colonies and outposts joined and within a decade,
all had proclaimed themselves as newly constituted
nation-states. Each reserved exclusive rights to
negotiate with other nation-states of the Region.
New agreements were implemented on matters
of common interest, such as credits, industry, a
judicial system, trade and commerce, science and
technology, space traffic control, education and
cultural exchange, and creation and management
of infrastructure and management of life-support
resources within their territories and jurisdictions.

The Outer Region's proclamations panicked the
central government.

On the one hand, Earth ethicists argued, were the
rights of the inhabitants of the space colonies. As
members of distant societies they had modified
their bodies, their environment and their cultures,
therefore, they had a right to seek their own
destiny unfettered by well-intentioned, but
obviously impotent laws that originated on Earth.
The advocates of this philosophy emphasized
the Outer Region's right to their own physical,
technological and cultural development. As unique
civilizations, evolving at an unprecedented rapid
pace, they were already radically different from
the humankind that had remained on distant Earth.

On the other hand, claimed others, the system-wide
scarcity of natural sources vital to the survival
of the species was a shared crisis. The crisis
could be solved, if at all, only through the most
concerted application of humankind's intellectual
and collective genius. In one context, they were
indeed unique civilizations: robust, sophisticated
and divergent, nevertheless, instinctively taking
nourishment from a common fealty to humankind's
ultimate destiny among the stars. Humankind
would be far stronger and effective together,
they argued, than it would be, divided within a
common species.

The debate raged across the System. The separatists
won.

Earth's General Assembly acceded to the demands
for self-determination. The new status of the outer
and inner regions was confirmed in The Treaties on
the Separation of Jurisdictions for the Planets and
Satellites of the Inner Region and the Independent
Nations of the Outer Region.

The outer periphery of the Asteroid Belt became the
boundary. The United Planetary System was dissolved
and reconstituted as the United Inner Planetary
System (UIPS). The natural and artificial colonies
that orbited the planets and satellites of the
Outer Region, or the central sun, retained their
original identities (Ganymede, Titan, Callisto,
etc.), and Pluto added "Planet" to its name to
distinguish itself from planetary satellites. The
former colonies beyond the Belt formed a loose
federation: Independent Nations of the Outer Region
(INOR).

The United Inner Planetary System insisted that
Planet Pluto and its contiguous space remain within
the UIPS Slingshot Special Zone of Operations until
the Extractor and the Collector were both safely
away from Pluto's jurisdiction, as judged by the
UIPS. The Plutonian government refused. The other
INOR nations, immersed in their own problems,
were indifferent. The issue was left to the UIPS
and Planet Pluto to resolve.

The UIPS continued, without prior consultation with
INOR and Planet Pluto, to construct and operate
Slingshot logistics sites and facilities on Pluto's
surface, in contiguous space, and within and along
the Planet Pluto orbit. The UIPS, interpreting
traditions and treaties that had evolved from
Earth's ancient Laws of the Seas and Space,
exercised and defended free and unencumbered
travel and passage by its citizens and vessels in
deep space and throughout the INOR jurisdictions.

The UIPS took steps to ensure the security of
Slingshot construction and logistics support sites
and space-ways.

 ##

The Slingshot Advance Cadre arrived in the
Neptune-Pluto orbit-crossing sectors toward the end
of the Interplanetary Era, before the breakup of the
old United Planetary System. Colonizing Pluto and
constructing space kits that would be transformed
into surface habitat and supply depots began
centuries earlier when Planet Pluto was barely past
aphelion but within economical range of deep space
transports. The cadre's vessels carried and towed
communications gear, specialized construction rigs,
platforms and infrastructure kits which had been
fabricated or assembled in the industrial tank
towns above Luna, Venus and Mars, and by
cooperating governments of satellites in the
outer region.

The Cadre's primary mission was to establish a
base of operations on Pluto. The program called
for the planet to support a colony of fifty thousand
specialists and construction workers -- and their
families -- for the assembly, construction and
testing phases, plus ten thousand transients and
temporary residents. The latter would comprise
'rest and relaxation' visitors, liaison and special
missions staff from a nearby logistics depot and
the construction sites, and agricultural and food
processing workers from Planet Pluto's moon
Charon. Also expected were cargo handlers and ship's
personnel from transports entering and departing
Pluto from-and-to points throughout the system.

About eighty percent of Pluto's permanent adult
population would work on the two terminals.
The specialized professions for the initial phase
ranged from scientists and engineers to artisans,
skilled and semi-skilled workers in all of the
disciplines and industrial skills required to
construct and operate a complex station in space
and service and maintain a permanent habitat and
population on Pluto's surface.

Children would be born on Pluto, natural or cloned.
They, as well as the general population, would
be cared for and supported by a host of
administrative, health care, educational,
recreational, life support and community services.

The Cadre's mission was in phases. The first
task of the initial phase was to land on Pluto's
surface, seek out stable surfaces or create them
by fusing subsurface strata to sufficient depth
for support of massive structures.

Gravity enhancement surface panels and their
energy sources would be installed wherever enclosed
communities or special purpose structures were to
be constructed. A detachment of the Cadre would
land on Charon, Planet Pluto's moonlet, and fuse
and seal sections of the moonlet's surface and
subsurface same as on Pluto.

On the solidified, stabilized surfaces of Pluto and
Charon the Cadre would erect a tank town dome. The
dome would have a ten-kilometer radius on Planet
Pluto and a one-kilometer radius on Charon.

Construction would proceed concurrently on surface
and subsurface utility and life support facilities
essential to human habitation. When enclosed areas
were shirtsleeve ready for occupancy, the Cadre
would erect essential life support, residential and
recreational facilities. These would be followed by
technical, communications and transport networks
for Slingshot scientists, industrial technicians,
and staff, followed by enclosed living areas for
the remainder of the general populace that would
train and do the work during the subsequent phases.

The tanktown on Planet Pluto would be named
Coldfield; its counterpart on Charon would be
Lamplight.

An On-site Project Management Team (OPMT) directed
the Advance Cadre. The OPMT formed the nucleus of
upper level managers, scientists and engineers, and
other experts charged with organizing and guiding
the functional task groups. The functional staffs
would bring into being the on-site technical and
administrative support facilities, install and
operate its equipment, and govern the communities
within which the populace worked and resided.

The OPMT was organized into three groups: Group
One: Planet Pluto; Group Two: Charon, and Group
Three: Logistics Depot. Each Group had its mission:


 Group One (Planet Pluto) Mission

Five kilometers from Coldfield, construct and
operate a simplified fusion-based energy generating
and power transmission system to provide sufficient
output to support all anticipated power and network
requirements of the planet;

Beneath and adjacent the Coldfield dome, construct,
organize and operate encapsulated surface and
subsurface laboratories, manufacturing and overhaul
plants, space and surface transport and traffic
routes and controls, surface roadways, utility
and communications systems, landing and mooring
facilities, energy hubs for gravity enhancement
grids, and other essential utilities and facilities;

Establish and administer institutions for law
enforcement, public health, education and other
community affairs.


 Group Two (Charon) Mission

Convert Lamplight into a food-growing and
processing plant capable of feeding the entire
Plutonian permanent and transit populations, and
on-site personnel at the Logistics Depot and the
Terminals Construction Site. Encapsulate Lamplight
in an impermeable radiation-resistant plastic
membrane and introduce and maintain constant
temperature and air-moisture and other
agriculture-supportive atmosphere and environment
that meets prevailing deep space colony or equal
standards;

Constructively use Charon's and Pluto's water ice
and substances generated as waste and by-products
of human habitation throughout the Pluto and near
space sectors. Conduct research and develop drip,
hydroponics and other agricultural systems, protein
synthesis and manufacture, and ship to Coldfield,
the Slingshot work site and the Logistics Depot
high-quality foodstuffs suitable for storage and
consumption. Charon operations are to be fully
automated and robotically maintained.

In support of the Charon agricultural mission,
Planet Pluto, the Slingshot Logistics Depot, the
Terminals' construction site, and ships moored
or in transit within the Special Zone constitute
an integrated ecological entity. All organics and all
mineral and chemical plant growth stimulants, such
as discarded or excess food and fluids, bio-waste,
usable industrial and community waste, and cadavers
are committed to processing as fertilizers or
for specialized application to the creation of
foodstuffs. Organic waste and cadaver parts
unsuitable for constructive purposes (fertilizer)
on Charon will be fully sterilized and reduced as
close as practicable to zero residue.


 Group Three (Logistics Depot) Mission

Construct a space station to specification above
Coldfield and designate it 'Slingshot Logistics
Depot'. Arrange for the depot to serve for central
receiving, warehousing and shipping center for
materiel committed to the Slingshot Terminals,
and for processing materiel through all active
Planet Pluto surface and sub-surface technical
and servicing facilities;

Provide the Depot with facilities and train its
personnel for emergency backup in manufacturing
and servicing capabilities redundant to those on
the planet;

Create a highest level technical capability to
synthesize materials, and manufacture, fabricate,
test and calibrate those precision parts, tools and
accessories which are best made in the micro-gravity
and pollution-free conditions of deep space and/or
safely distant from Pluto's and Charon's surfaces
and their gravitational influences;

Augment the Depot's security with a gated force
field that fully encapsulates and protects the
Depot and all vessels engaged in loading and
off-loading personnel and materiel; patrols
contiguous space and keeps the Logistics Depot
and UIPS citizens and property self-sufficient and
safe from disease, harassment and harm;

Install on the Logistics Depot and at the Terminals
Construction Sites independent communications,
cargo, living organism teleport centers, each
capable of receiving and dispatching authorized
cargoes, passengers, dispatches and communications
via conventional, spunnel, and specified
non-conventional channels.

 ##

The Terminals Construction Site is the focal point
of UIPS operations. The Construction Site's mission
is to research, design, fabricate, test, assemble
and, ultimately, launch, position at destinations
and operate, monitor and maintain the Slingshot
Extractor and Collector terminals en route and
at their destinations.

 ##

The planning did not anticipate the dissolution
of the United Planetary System, the creation of
independent and estranged Regions in their place,
and a hostile government on Pluto.

Military forces had been non-existent for more than
fifteen hundred years when the colonies of the Outer
Region seceded from the United Planetary System.
Weapons of mass destruction had had no purpose
since the birth of the first World Federation in
the fourth century of the Interplanetary Era.

In place of an organized military, the succeeding
World Federation had created an Interplanetary
Constabulary to protect lives and property,
investigate crimes, control traffic, and maintain
general order. Their charter extended to all
planets, satellites, colonies, outposts, stations,
and all places throughout the void into which
humankind had ventured.

The mission of the Constabulary remained unchanged
during political reorganizations within the first
World Federation and its successors. Its agents
ranged the Solar System, and performed their duties
quietly and efficiently. Few dared challenge their
authority. When challenges did occur, they were
not for long.

War, and the effects of war on people and things
were forgotten.

It was inconceivable, in those times, that the
region beyond the Asteroids would become
politically and culturally alienated from the
unified community that humankind had created to
guide them into the future. History, the citizens
of the world concluded, had demonstrated the
impotence of the ancient, long-discarded array
of adversarial nation-states and come-by-chance
leaders to govern an intellectually advanced
species.

No one expected a return to the old, long-discarded
ways.

When separation of the Inner and Outer Regions
became inevitable, scholars in both Regions
explored the possible and the probable
relationships that might develop under the new
order. The studies predicted that politically
independent nation-states would create multilateral
alignments and conflicting societies, lifestyles and
philosophies.

They took into account evolving technological
and industrial capabilities, prevailing energy and
declining reserves of industrial metals, minerals,
and other usable substances and related them to the
Solar System's demographic trends and resources
predictions. When the United Planetary System
dissolved, the successor UIPS felt it had no choice
but to continue the Slingshot program.

The conclusions of humankind's most distinguished
scientists and philosophers suggested that two
independent orders in space would bring with them
a heightened likelihood of social and technological
dislocations and disruptions. There would be
interregional and, within INOR, international
competition that would increase the rate of
depletion in resources. There would be a multitude
of disputes, often intentionally misinterpreted,
to resolve territorial and jurisdictional differences
that were already caught up in and molded by the
dynamics of orbiting planets, and their satellites
and connecting space-ways.

The effects on Slingshot could be catastrophic.
Its security was paramount. Immediately following
separation of the two Regions the President of
the new UIPS directed the creation of a powerful
Military Space Force.

The UIPS searched the ancient archives of Earth's
military history and designed weapons of defense
and offense. Ships of war and their supporting
systems were brought back into being, and spunnel
gateways expanded to accommodate them. A militant
phoenix rose from its ancient ashes.

The Military Space Force was charged
with patrolling the space-ways beyond the
Asteroids to protect UIPS vital interests. Their
responsibilities included protecting the lives of
UIPS citizens and private and government property
throughout INOR wherever they happened to be, in
space or on the surfaces of planets and satellites.

The role and intent of the UIPS military was
explained to all INOR governments. "The Military
Space Force," proclaimed the President of the UIPS,
"would remain until INOR's member Nations were
sufficiently stabilized to participate in ensuring
peaceful coexistence and passage along space-ways
and at moorings throughout the Outer Region, and
separately and collectively agree to participate in
and support the Slingshot Program."

INOR, as a Federation, interpreted the formation of
the UIPS Military Space Force and the President's
proclamation on its role as contemptuous of their
social and political maturity. The outcome was
predictable.

Local INOR Defense Forces were hastily organized
and equipped. Dozens of ships of war were built and
many space transports were converted into armed
vessels. Each INOR government, using self-defense
as justification, established controlled corridors
extending hundreds of thousands of kilometers
into its contiguous space, often far beyond their
legitimate jurisdictions. Passengers and crews of
foreign space transports, passenger liners, and
utility and pleasure craft, whatever their points
of foreign origin or destination, required visas,
local pilots, and armed escorts upon arrivals and
departures. Suspicions festered on all sides.

It was an era of international and interregional
political tensions and harassment, and military,
technological and industrial sabotage and
espionage. The history of Earth's ancients had
returned to haunt the solar community.

The rate of depletion in the Solar Community's
reserves of vital but nonrenewable substances
rose rapidly.





 Appendix


 Principles of Governance Among Nations in Space

An article by the Associate General Counsel for the
Smithsonian Institution reported in THE FUTURIST,
page 60, May-June 1990 (Common Era) that the
Smithsonian Institution's National Air and Space
Museum had speculated on a Declaration of First
Principles for the Governance of Outer Space
Societies. The project's participants represented
a broad array of disciplines and interests,
including engineering, biomedicine, law, economics,
psychology, bioethics, and philosophy. Rather than
attempting to frame an actual constitution for
space societies, which normally would be reserved
for sovereign governments. The document would
be a reference for interested government entities
responsible for space policy, and to define the
fundamental rights and freedoms of those who
might some day migrate to space.

I wrote to the article's author, told him I was
working on this story and included a draft of
'core principles' I had drafted. I asked for more
information on the Smithsonian's study. The
author's reply included a copy of the Declaration
and permission to quote from it. It follows:


 Astrolaw: Carrying Human Rights into Outer Space

On the occasion of the Bicentennial of the
Constitution of the United States of America and
in commemoration and furtherance of its values,
we the undersigned petitioners,

Bearing witness to the exploration and inevitable
settlement of outer space;

Recognizing the universal longing for life,
liberty, equality, peace and security;

Expressing our unshakable belief in the dignity
of the individual;

Placing our trust in societies that guarantee their
members full protection of the law, due process
and equal protection under the law;

Reaffirm our faith in fundamental freedoms;

Mindful, as were our nation's founders, of the
self-evident truth that we are endowed by our
Creator with certain inalienable rights;

Recognizing the responsibility of a government
to protect the rights of the governed to exist
and evolve;

Do assert and declare in this petition the
intrinsic value of a set of First Principles for
the Governance of Outer Space Societies and,
at the beginning of this third century of nationhood
under our Constitution, resolutely urge all people
of the United Sates of America to acknowledge,
accept and apply such First Principles as hereinafter
set forth.


 ARTICLE I

The rule of law and the fundamental values embodied
in the United States Constitution shall apply to
all individuals living in outer space societies under
United States jurisdiction.

Appropriate constraints upon and limitations of
authority shall be defined so as to protect the
personal freedom of each individual, such as
the right to reasonable privacy, freedom from
self-incrimination, freedom from unreasonable
intrusion, search and seizure, and freedom from
cruel and unusual punishment.

Toward this end, the imperatives of community
safety and individual survival within the unique
environment of outer space shall be guaranteed
in harmony with the exercise of such fundamental
individual rights of speech, religion, association,
assembly, contract, travel to, in and from outer
space, media and communications, as well as the
rights of petition, informed consent and private
ownership of property.

The principles set forth here should not be
construed to exclude any other such rights
possessed by individuals.


 ARTICLE II

Authority in outer space societies, exercised under
principles of representative government appropriate
to the circumstances and degree of community
development, shall reflect the will of the people
of those societies.

All petitions to the United States Government from
outer space societies under its jurisdiction shall
be accepted and receive prompt consideration.

The United States shall provide for an orderly and
peaceful transition to self-governance by outer
space societies under its jurisdiction at such
times as their inhabitants shall manifest clearly
a belief that such transition is both necessary
and appropriate.

In response to aggression, threats of aggression
or hostile actions, outer space societies may provide
for their common defense and for the maintenance
of essential public order.

Outer space societies shall assume all rights and
obligations set forth in treaties and international
agreements, relevant to the activities of such
societies, to which the United States is a party
and which further freedom, peace and security.

The advancement of science and technology shall be
encouraged in outer space societies for the benefit
of all humanity.

Outer space societies shall protect from abuse the
environment and natural resources of Earth and
space.

End quote.

 ##

Core Principles drafted at the First Solar
Conference on the Relationships between the United
Inner Planetary System (UIPS) and the Independent
Nations of the Outer Region (INOR)

 Preamble

In order to:

Create and foster political, societal, economic,
and cultural environments throughout the Solar
System which will preclude or minimize acts
of international and inter-regional aggression,
economic warfare, cultural disruption, and other
forms of active hostility between the United
Inner Planetary System (UIPS) and, separately
and collectively, Independent Nations of the Outer
Region (INOR);

Establish the framework for peaceful coexistence
within which all Nations respect the sovereignty,
territorial integrity, and political independence
of each other;

Recognize the mutuality of interests among all
peoples and Governments of the Solar System in
sharing the benefits of The Interstellar Mining and
Teleport System; and

Prepare for and extend the human experience
into interstellar space and toward the coming
Interstellar Era.

We agree to the following:


 ARTICLE ONE

We reject and renounce economic, cultural and
military warfare, and the threat of warfare to
attain national and regional objectives. We will
settle all disagreements and disputes through
peaceful means.


 ARTICLE TWO

We affirm that the peoples of all nations, states,
colonies, settlements, communities, howsoever they
may be designated now and in the future throughout
the Solar System and, eventually throughout the
Interstellar Realm, have ecological unity. Their
harmony is such that none are truly independent
of the others.


 ARTICLE THREE

We affirm that the Solar System is the common
heritage of humankind, and all the resources of the
Solar System, now and in perpetuity, are part of
that common heritage. We agree that each Government
representing the people of a planet, satellite,
independent space entity or a legally constituted
part and collective thereof, is entitled to its
fair share of the natural resources originating
within the Solar System or acquired from other
star systems. Such resources will be available,
proportionately, from the Common Reserve in
conformance with a nation's or government's
verified needs and technological capabilities to
utilize the resources for peaceful and beneficial
purposes.


 ARTICLE FOUR

In furtherance of ARTICLE ONE, we most solemnly
declare that continuance of organized military
forces by any Government of the Solar System can
serve no useful purpose. We manifestly recognize
that the existence of military mass destruction
weapons and their supporting agencies and
facilities increase the likelihood of their
utilization to resolve differences or
jurisdictional disputes, with consequent harm
to human life, properties, and civilizations. We,
independently and collectively, agree, without
reservations except for the EXCLUSION stated
in this ARTICLE, to the phased reduction of all
military spacecraft, weapons, facilities, personnel
training and other support systems and technologies
to the point of their complete elimination not more
than five Solar Standard Years from the date affixed
to this Declaration of Principles.


 EXCLUSION

We exclude from this ARTICLE specified accords
which are, or will be, required by a legally
constituted Government to exercise normal internal
constabulary powers and authority on, and in space
contiguous to, their planet, satellite, independent
community or zone, and between and among
Governments, as mutually agreed to among the
Parties concerned. The UIPS and INOR will be kept
informed of such constabulary agreements prior
to implementation and their views considered.


 ARTICLE FIVE

We recognize that precise delineation's of
spatial jurisdictions are essential for the
orderly processes of government. We agree that
jurisdictions to be defined and delineated include:

a. the outer limits of any one nation's spatial
control and administration. Such delineation
shall take into account the irrevocable right
and obligation of any Government which
exercises legitimate influence or control over
a non-hazardous natural or artificial planet,
satellite, planetoid, space station, outpost,
spunnel node, link, net or booster; transiting
comet, asteroid, meteor swarm, planetary or
satellite ring, or other astrophysical body to
ensure absence of human interference to that body's
or phenomenon's free and unencumbered passage
through that Government's spatial jurisdiction.

b. control and operation of space communications
booster, relay, and terminal stations and their
supporting research, development, manufacturing,
and logistics systems and technologies. The
intent of this delineation is standardized and
economically operated and serviced conventional
and hyperspace communications systems throughout
the Solar System and in interstellar space.

c. traffic control, flight safety, and management
of UIPS and INOR approved inter-regional,
interplanetary, inter-satellite and other
space-ways. Acceptance of responsibilities shall
not exceed the Party's existing technologies,
resources and capabilities.


 ARTICLE SIX

We commit our Governments to accept financial,
fiduciary, material and technological assessments
for our utilization of the common space-ways. We
agree that these assessments are for the purpose
of defraying the expenditures of any one Government
toward maintaining and upgrading those common
space and traffic management systems that fall
within their borders, or other mutually agreed upon
jurisdictions, and for performing such services for
the common good as:

a. removal of hazards to innocent passage;

b. traffic control;

c. search and rescue;

d. acquisition, deployment, operation and servicing
of communications and navigational aids;

e. construction, operation and maintenance of space
and surface ports of entry and departure for the
common use of all spacecraft;

f. trained, equipped and ready investigation teams
to assist Governments of Primary Concern in
determining the facts of "incidents-in-space"
which occur in proximate international areas, and

g. emergency logistical support capabilities for
performing urgent essential repairs to damaged
spacecraft of other Nations in peaceful transit.
Such repairs shall be to internationally accepted
standards that will permit the craft to continue
its flight to a location designated by the
Government having legal ownership, or authority
to repair or dispose of the spacecraft.

h. We agree that spacecraft, spacecraft parts,
otherwise man-made artificial bodies and parts
thereof, wreckage, and human-generated excess
materials and human waste, will NOT be discarded or
abandoned in space. Derelicts and unattached parts
thereof, rubbish, waste matter, and all man-made
objects in space are considered to be hazards
to traffic or are pollutants. They will be collected
or tagged with an active signal and towed or
transported to where they will not be a hazard
to traffic or pollute the space environment. The
Government of the nearest surface or colony habitat
will be notified immediately and institute actions
for the objects' reduction to harmless residue
or its temporary or permanent removal to a safe
location.


 ARTICLE SEVEN

We announce the formation of an international
apparatus, with representation from all
Governments, to assemble within three Solar
Standard months from the date affixed hereto. The
primary purpose of this Assembly is to facilitate
implementation of this Declaration. They shall also
create and ensure support for an interplanetary
citizen's volunteer group to review and resolve
complaints and suggestions from the populace that
may lead to recommendations toward improvements
to this Declaration that will:

a. promote the free and unencumbered passage of
vessels, people and commerce between and among
the Nations of the Solar System;

b. encourage cultural, economic, and scientific
research, and exchanges of scholars, students,
and information for the benefit and betterment
of humankind;

c. enhance the understanding of all peoples
regarding the positive values which have evolved
over the millennia since the beginning of the Great
Migration from Planet Earth, and,

d. organize and begin the planning for humankind's
exploration and migration into the Interstellar
Realm.


 ARTICLE EIGHT

We declare and affirm we act in concert with the
spirit and letter of this Declaration of Principles
in the interests of international cooperation,
interplanetary peace and security, mutual
understanding among our far-flung peoples,
and the survival of our species.


 ARTICLE NINE

We encourage all Parties to expand on these accords
through their initiatives and agreements for mutual
benefits to themselves and to all Governments and
peoples in the peaceful use of space.





 The References


ASTROLAW. Carrying Human Rights into Outer Space.
George S. Robinson, The Futurist, May-June 1990.

BIOSPHERE. A New Consciousness for a New
Century. Jeremy Rifkin, 1991, Crown Publishers.
(How industrialized nations exploit the sea beds
of the world for industrial minerals, especially as
land-based minerals are depleted.)

COSMIC WORMHOLES. The Search for Interstellar
Shortcuts. Paul Halpern, 1992, Dutton, Penguin Group,
New York, NY.

MINING THE SKY. Untold Riches from the Asteroids,
Comets, and Planets. John S. Lewis, 1997, Helix
Books, Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA. (Foreseeable
technologies may reveal huge quantities of raw
materials from space.)

MONITORING AND CONTROLLING DEBRIS IN SPACE.
Nicholas Johnson. August, 1998, Scientific American.

OPENING THE DOOR ON TIME MACHINES. Caltech
physicist Kip Thorne explores the limits of
Einstein's theory of gravity, where spunnels
-- or tunnels through space -- lurk. (K. C. Cole,
Times Science Writer, The Los Angeles Times,
February 13, 1998.)

RE-EXAMINING OUR CONSTITUTIONAL HERITAGE.
A Declaration of First Principles for the
Governance of Outer Space Societies.
(An Essay by George S. Robinson, 1989,
High Technology Law Journal, School of Law,
University of California, Berkeley.)

RESOLUTION ADOPTED BY THIRD UNITED NATIONS
CONFERENCE ON THE EXPLORATION AND
THE PEACEFUL USES OF OUTER SPACE.
The Space Millennium: Vienna Declaration
on Space and Human Development.
http://www.oosa.unvienna.org/unisp-3/ or
http://nuclearfree.lynx.co.nz/canadatreaty.htm

THE LIMITS TO GROWTH. A Report to the Club
of Rome (Depletion of the world's non-renewable
natural resources). http://dieoff.com/page25.htm

CHINA PLANS MOON LANDING, October 5, 2000,
by Charles Hutzler, Associated Press.

QUANTUM TELEPORTATION, Anton Zeilinger,
Scientific American, April 2000. (Abstract:
The "spooky action at a distance" of quantum
mechanics makes possible the science-fiction
dream of teleportation -- a way to make objects
disappear from one place and reappear at another.
It has already been demonstrated with photons.)

QUANTUM TELEPORTATION, an IBM Research article.
http://www.research.ibm.com/quantuminfo/teleportation/

TERRITORIAL SEA AND CONTIGUOUS ZONE, Part
Two, United Nations Law of the Sea Convention.
http://www.un.org/depts/los/index.htm
(Precedents.)

THE CLASH OF CIVILIZATIONS AND THE REMAKING
OF WORLD ORDER. Samuel P. Huntington, 1996,
Simon & Shuster, New York, NY.

THE MILLENNIAL PROJECT. Colonizing the Galaxy
in Eight Easy Steps. Marshall T. Savage, 1994,
Little, Brown & Company, New York, NY.

PRESIDENTIAL SPEECH. Vision for Space Exploration.
http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2004/01/
print/20040114-3.html





 Words With(Out) Diacritics


 These two words were stripped of their
 diacritical marks for wider compatibility:

                 communique
                 melange





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