CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Prometheus (Sigma Draconis II), 4334 C.E.

It was like Roderick's arrival on Selangore, but on a scale larger by orders of magnitude.

As Corin emerged from the shuttle behind Roderick and stood blinking in the cloudless noon light of Sigma Draconis, the vista of the private Imperial spacefield stretched away into infinity—an infinity of crowds held back by motionless lines of Imperial Guards. Those parallel ranks, topped with gleaming dress helmets and edged with bayoneted gauss rifles, defined the avenue they would follow to the Emperor's reviewing stand. Beyond that, the towers of Dracopolis could be glimpsed in the distance, with the Imperial palace hanging motionless above them in the sky. From this perspective, the palace was like a supernatural silver crown suspended over the head of the man at the summit of the reviewing stand. Corin suspected the layout had been planned with that effect in mind.

He pulled himself together and followed Roderick down the ramp. Maura Brady-Schiavona was beside him, and lesser flag officers followed. They marched toward the reviewing stand to the Imperial Anthem, advancing through a storm of sound—the cheering of the crowds, the music whose sonic focusing gave this outdoor expanse the acoustics of a concert hall. As they neared the stand, two formations of Imperial Guards massed before it came to attention with a collective crash. They proceeded between those formations and up the stairs to the uppermost level where the Emperor waited to receive the conquerors of Sol and Mu Arae and Lambda Serpenti and so much else. The others halted a few steps short of the top and let Roderick cover those last few steps alone. He halted before his father and saluted. Ivar returned the salute with equal gravity.

Corin, from a few steps below, gazed curiously at the Emperor he'd never met in person. It was an older face than he'd visualized, but its granite immobility matched all the stories he'd heard. And yet he thought he detected a smile trembling within that stone, struggling to get out.

"Welcome back, Rod." The deep voice was heavy with suppressed emotion. "You may present your officers."

Roderick did so, in order of rank, so that Corin was called forward first. Ivar's formal words of praise contained no suggestion that he recalled the former mercenary and technical deserter. Corin mumbled something in response—he could never recall precisely what, afterwards—then stood aside as Maura came forward. This time an inarguable smile trembled to life on the Imperial face. The introductions continued, and at their conclusion Ivar stepped forward and looked out over the throng. When he spoke, sound-gathering technology sent his voice winging to every corner of the spacefield, just as the tachyon network would carry it to every world of the Empire.

"More than eight standard centuries ago, the human race declared with one voice that there could be but one sovereignty among the stars." Ivar didn't include Beyonders in his definition of the human race. But then, no one ever did. "Now, we have reaffirmed that truth and reclaimed that heritage. The Restoration Wars are over!"

A wave of cheering washed over them. As Ivar paused, Corin found himself glancing around at the dignitaries with whom they shared the reviewing stand. Off to the side, he saw Jason Aerenthal in his usual elegantly somber attire. And then he turned to the other direction . . . and Teodor Brady-Schiavona's golden head stood out among an array of uniformed figures.

All at once, the summer light of Sigma Draconis was less warm.

Corin grew aware that Ivar was cataloging the reconquests. "—and the immemorial home of us all, the cradle of our species, Old Earth itself, brought back into its rightful position as revered mother of the Imperial family of worlds by our son, Admiral Roderick Brady-Schiavona."

The cheering resumed, not as a single surge this time but as a steady tide against which Ivar could not resume. Instead, he motioned Roderick forward to stand beside him, in full view. The tide grew to a tsunami, crashing over them with a force that visibly took both father and son aback. Then Roderick grinned and gave a wave which brought the cheering to new levels of volume.

Ivar's expression was not easy to read. And, Corin told himself, surely what he thought he'd seen a flash of was really nothing. And yet . . . from long ago came recollections of stories he'd once heard. Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands. . . . 

But that was silly. David hadn't been Saul's son. So there could be no comparison. Could there?

"Well, I think we could all use a drink," Ivar declared as he led the way into the lounge adjacent to his working office, and proceeded to the bar. To all three of his children, it seemed he was as animated as he ever got. By his standards, he was positively giddy. "Yes," he continued as they applied themselves to pouring, "all four of us are together, for the first time in far too long. And it's finally over! All that's left to deal with now are scattered instances of civil disobedience and terrorism."

"Yes," Roderick said with a long cool look at Teodor. "In the Ursa major frontier . . . where they're only too understandable."

Teodor froze with his glass half-raised. Then he seemed to inflate. "Is that an implied criticism of my—?"

Ivar spoke quickly. "Rod, you weren't there in Ursa Major. You can't know the details of what was at best a difficult situation . . . unlike Ted, who was on the scene."

"But I do know what's going on there now. We've had to impose direct military rule, as though it was a conquered province of Beyonders. Our usual practice of ruling through the locals won't work, because almost nobody there will participate in any government structure we set up. Those who do are the scum of their societies. The bulk of the people won't have anything to do with them—except to murder them from time to time." The look he was giving Teodor hardened into a glare. "And we can't very well disrupt a planet in response to the occasional homicide."

The flush that came so easily to Teodor's complexion made him look as though he was about to explode. "You have no right to—"

"Maybe not," Roderick overrode him. "But there's something I'd like to know. Are Damiano Chewning and Vladimir Liang on your staff?"

Ivar cut in before Teodor could answer. "As you know, Rod, it is our policy to give surrendered enemies pardon—and positions in our service so they can have the opportunity to prove themselves trustworthy."

"Even one who murdered an Emperor? And one who tried to usurp the throne?"

Ivar didn't meet Roderick's eyes. "As it transpired, there was sufficient uncertainty concerning Liang's actual role in Oleg's death that . . . Well, I decided to overcome my initial inclinations and give him the benefit of the doubt. And Chewning has recanted his assumption of the Imperial title. He was really quite eloquent about it." What he saw in Roderick's face brought an uncharacteristic defensiveness to his voice. "All right, neither of them is exactly my cup of tea. But a policy of reconciliation means nothing if we only apply it to people we admire!" He took a deep breath and reasserted his habitual self-control. "At any rate, as you know we've always given such persons employment in areas far from their own original stamping grounds—minimizing temptation, as it were. So it made sense to send Chewning and Liang to Ursa Major."

"On Teodor's advice," Maura stated rather than asked.

"Well, yes." Their father sounded ill at ease again.

Teodor spoke in tones of self-conscious reasonableness. "You see, I'd gotten to know them on the voyage here from Sol. I became convinced that they'd merely been making unavoidable adjustments to the unsettled conditions in their parts of the Empire—conditions not of their making and beyond their control."

Maura ignored him totally and stared at their father. "I can't believe I'm hearing this! These scum have influenced us into committing a disastrous blunder. And you're willing to leave the Empire tied to that blunder because repudiating it would mean repudiating him!" She didn't even look at Teodor, any more than she'd acknowledged his presence by naming him. "Excuse me, Father." She set her glass down with an emphatic click and was gone.

"Please speak to her, Rod," Ivar rumbled wearily. "She's always listened to you."

"I'd like to help, Father. But I can't . . . because I happen to think she's right." Without asking leave, Roderick marched stiffly from the lounge.

Ivar slumped over the bar, the day's joy seeping almost visibly out of him. Teodor broke the silence with whiny eagerness. "You see, Father, you see? They haven't the proper respect for you, as I have. In fact—" He stopped dead at the Imperial shushing gesture.

"No, Ted," Ivar murmured, "it's understandable that Rod and Maura should be upset. After all, it was a pretty extreme measure. And, unlike me, they haven't heard your explanation of why it was unavoidable." The craggy face took a worried look, not quite rising to the threshold of suspicion. "You really didn't do it on the advice of Chewning and Liang, did you?"

"Oh no, Father! As I've repeatedly explained to you—"

"Of course, Ted, of course." Ivar looked into the eyes that were those of his late wife, the only woman he'd ever loved, and all his doubts sank tracelessly in those azure depths.

Teodor resumed, emboldened. "But you can see what I'm up against, what with their attitude toward me. The whole situation could be clarified so easily. All you have to do is make the announcement I've repeatedly suggested."

"I don't really think it's necessary at this time, Ted. As my eldest child you're the heir apparent anyway."

Teodor's tightly controlled impatience would have been obvious to most people. "But, Father, that's not legally conclusive, and never has been. A formal designation of me as your heir would—"

"No, no, I believe that would be premature at this time." Ivar smiled fondly. "I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, you know!"

"Of course not, Father. But . . ." Teodor seemed to gather himself. "My loyalty to you compels me to speak bluntly. You saw what happened out at the spacefield today."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"You saw how popular he's become . . . how they were cheering him. His exploits have become something of a legend, I gather. It would be only human of him to let it go to his head."

Ivar's pause before shaking his head vigorously was almost imperceptible. "Nonsense. I can't believe that he—"

"Oh, I don't doubt for a moment that he's completely loyal to you in his own mind. But factions with their own agendas may seek to cultivate him, to take advantage of his status as a popular hero, as long as the possibility exists that he could be your successor."

This time there was no hesitation in the Emperor's headshake. "No. He'd never let himself be used that way. And now, I really must get to work."

Before his departure for Ursa Major, Teodor had established himself in one of the massive yet soaring towers that made up the palace's superstructure. Since his return, he'd used his inexplicably augmented personal fortune to furnish it with a new opulence. So he had a particularly splendid setting in which to pace, muttering into his brandy snifter.

Damiano Chewning eyed him from the sofa on which he was seated. There had been a time when he wouldn't have thought of sitting in the presence of his nominal master. Vladimir Liang stayed hovering in the background; he'd learned that Chewning was by far his superior at manipulating Teodor, and was more than willing to defer to consummate artistry.

"So," Chewning murmured, keeping his face fixed in its rabbitlike mask of manifest harmlessness, "he wouldn't agree to make the announcement?"

"No, even though I used all the arguments you suggested, including the one about my brother's growing popularity with the mob."

And doubtless botched it, Chewning sighed inwardly. Still, Teodor had planted a seed that might eventually take root in Ivar's mind. It was as frustrating to have to act through this self-obsessed simpleton as it was degrading to be dependent on him for protection. But there was no help for it. And I have no right to complain, he reminded himself. It was incredible good fortune to get access to him—so highly placed, and so controllable. And the opportunity to silence Romaine permanently was an added bonus. 

He decided it was time for Teodor's periodic dose of flattery. "Surely, sir, he'll come to realize that it is the correct course of action. Clearly, you are the only possible choice as his successor. Unlike some, whose inner qualities do not immediately meet the eye, yours are reflected so accurately by your outward semblance as to be obvious to anyone!"

"Well, of course." Teodor unconsciously struck a profile-displaying pose. Chewning gave another silent sigh. Flattering Teodor bored him; it lacked the challenge of flattering an intelligent person. But then the pout of half-drunken petulance was back. "Anyone, that is, but my self-righteous prig of a brother and my virago of a sister! They've never appreciated me."

"Well, after all, sir," Chewning simpered, "jealousy is understandable, where you are concerned." With Teodor visibly mollified, he turned businesslike. "It is my assessment that your sister's attitude toward you is largely a reflection of your brother's. His influence on your father is the real danger." This, he reflected, was true. However much love and pride Ivar might lavish on his daughter, his background rendered him incapable of giving a woman's opinion full weight, even when he consciously thought he was doing so. "So Roderick is the problem that must be dealt with."

Teodor had been nodding and making affirmative-sounding grunting noises. He continued doing so for a second or two before his somewhat befuddled realization of what Chewning was saying caught up with him. "Uh . . . `dealt with'?"

"Consider, sir. In addition to its obvious grounds, his jealousy of you has an added, poisonous dimension: his knowledge that you can expect to greatly outlive him. He'll always hate you for that, not just out of ordinary envy but also because it reinforces your status as the logical choice to succeed your father. He knows he can never legitimately ascend the throne . . . as long as you are alive."

Teodor, who had resumed his nodding, suddenly looked alarmed. "What? Do you really think he'd—?"

"With you dead, your father would be under tremendous pressure to declare him the heir. Remember, exaggerated accounts of his exploits have made him a hero to the masses, who are incapable of appreciating the difficulty of the decision you reached at Rhea, where you set aside your personal feelings and took the distasteful action necessary to suppress the insurgency." The odd thing, Chewning thought, is that he really does remember it that way. The self-justifying version of reality Teodor had manufactured was, by now, the only reality that existed in his mind.

"Few other men could have done it," Liang put in earnestly.

"True," Teodor allowed. He took a fortifying gulp of brandy. "But the point is . . . you think he'd use his popular status to try and seize the throne?" He had no trouble believing the scenario, for he knew it was exactly how he would have used such a status, had he possessed it.

"I'm quite certain he intends to," Chewning said slowly. "But it can only work if you're out of the way."

"Which means," Liang continued the thought, "that it can't happen if he's put out of the way first."

Teodor's face wore the disoriented look of one sobering up with excessive rapidity. "But . . . but . . . but I don't really want to—"

"Of course not, sir," Chewning soothed. "The ideal solution would have been for His Imperial Majesty to heed your suggestion and disavow your brother. But since he is unwilling to do so, other means now become necessary."

"But . . . what will Father say?"

That's the rub, isn't it? Chewning smiled to himself as the real source of Teodor's jitters finally emerged. "His Imperial Majesty will, of course, be distraught at first. But on reflection he will understand that you were acting out of self-preservation, and also out of a higher loyalty to the Empire and himself, to assure the proper order of succession. Besides which—"

Besides which, he'll have no choice, Chewning thought as he went automatically on with the well-prepared presentation. With Roderick dead, Ivar would be stuck with Teodor as his successor. The need to secure a cloudless succession would compel him to do what he probably wanted to do anyway, given the large blind spot he'd always had in the shape of his firstborn son. How he rationalized it to himself was immaterial.

Chewning brought his mind back to the present, and the task of managing Teodor. It was never very difficult.

Their quarters were located high in a tower not far from the palace's northern perimeter. Corin, standing at a wide window, looked northward through the conceptually integrated architectural splendor of neighboring structures and glimpsed the ocean. Turning to his right, he could see the coastline curving away to vanish in the hazy distance to the east. An ovoid of darkness seemed to float on the ocean just off that coast: the late-afternoon shadow of the palace in which he stood. Armand Duschane's architects, not wishing to subject the city of Dracopolis to a daily solar eclipse, had positioned the sky-palace over the oceanfront. Here, in the planet's middle northern latitudes, this meant the shadow always fell on the rolling waters to the north as Sigma Draconis moved from east to west, even on a summer day like the one now drawing to a close.

He turned away from the spectacle with somewhat less difficulty than he'd previously experienced, for he'd had time to adjust to living in one of the man-made wonders of the galaxy. In the room behind, Roderick was adjusting his full-dress uniform and preparing to depart.

"Sure you don't need a drink?" Janille asked mischievously.

"Right," Garth rumbled. "I'd need a little bracing if I were you."

Roderick shook his head and took a last look in the mirror. "No. I think I'd better be sober for this. I'm still not sure what to make of it."

"None of us are," Corin agreed, joining the group. They were still puzzling over the invitation Roderick had received from Teodor.

"I still don't think you should go," Janille insisted.

"You may be right," Roderick conceded. "But if I didn't, I'd stay up nights wondering if I'd passed up an opportunity. It might be the olive branch it purports to be, you know."

Since their return to Prometheus, Corin had noticed this in Roderick: not so much a mellowing toward Teodor as a desire to mellow. Perhaps, with his brother a flesh-and-blood presence rather than a distant abstraction, he was finding it harder to think in terms of the contingencies they'd discussed under the strange constellations of Selangore. And he'd rejected as farfetched the notion that the banquet to which he'd been invited posed any actual danger to his person.

"Well," he said briskly, sending Corin's thoughts scattering, "it's just about the cocktail hour. I'd better head on down to the transposer stage." In theory, the palace's battery of transposers could have plucked him from this very room and deposited him in Teodor's three-quarter-mile-distant establishment, had he been wearing a link. In practice, for reasons of safe and orderly traffic control, they only flicked people to and from certain established stages. The nearest was in a plaza near the base of this tower, so Roderick didn't have far to go. With a final wave and a swirl of his dress cloak, he was out the door.

The three looked at each other. "He's weakening," Janille stated with pessimistic satisfaction.

"Maybe not," Garth demurred. "He just needs to know he's tried—met his brother more than halfway—before he can act wholeheartedly." Corin was about to speak up in agreement when the door chimed for admittance. Corin signaled it to open.

It was Jason Aerenthal.

"Good afternoon. I hope I'm not intruding, but I was looking for Roderick and understood he'd be here. Since I was in the area anyway, I thought I'd drop by."

"Actually, Inspector, you just missed him. He's on his way down to the transposer stage."

"Oh?" Aerenthal lifted an eloquent eyebrow. Roderick seldom used the palace transposers, preferring to burn off his excess energy by walking.

"He wanted to be sure to be on time," Corin explained.

" `On time'?"

"Oh, you didn't know? His brother invited him to a banquet. In fact, he's the guest of honor. Under the circumstances . . ." Corin voice died as he watched Aerenthal's face go pale and freeze into an indescribable expression he'd never seen on it. "Uh, Inspector, are you all right?"

Aerenthal blinked and seemed to snap back into the present. He drew a long, shuddering breath. When he spoke, there was something odd about his voice, something Corin couldn't quite put his finger on. "Admiral Marshak, all of you, listen carefully. We haven't a second to lose. He cannot be allowed to leave! There's no time to explain. We must stop him."

"But why . . . ?" Corin didn't complete the sentence, for he suddenly realized what had seemed strange in the agent's voice. It was an echoing quality . . . but not in the usual sense, for the words his ears heard were echoed inside his head, by a sense other than hearing.

He became aware of Janille's voice. "Corin, he's right. We've got to stop Rod before he transposes!"

Corin looked at her and Garth. Both faces wore the same expression of bewildered urgency. Then he turned back to Aerenthal. For a heartbeat, their eyes met.

All at once, he understood.

"All right," he said quietly, not releasing Aerenthal's eyes. "I agree. Garth, Janille, get down there as fast as you can and try to find him. I'll stay here and try to reach a comm station somewhere near the transposer stage."

"Right," Garth growled. "Come on, Janille." And they were gone.

Corin strode to the desk communicator and started to call up a directory. Then he stopped and smacked himself on the forehead. "I'm an idiot! Rod's got a basic wristcomp—it's part of the uniform." He spoke a code to the machine.

"Yes?" No image accompanied Roderick's voice, for the standard wristcomp included no such capability. It could, however, project a small holographic viewscreen of its own, and Roderick could see who had called. "Corin, what is it?"

"Rod, where are you?"

"Down here at the transposer stage, of course, still waiting. Lots of traffic today." He noticed Corin's expression, and his own voice changed tone. "Hold on a second. There's a public comm station just a few steps from here . . . all right, now." His face appeared on Corin's screen. Beyond could be seen a mall-like little plaza among the maze of structures that stretched away into the sun-drenched distance, soaring upward into an afternoon sky where aircars flitted about like midges among the towers. A few yards behind Roderick was the transposer stage. Another figure in full dress, bearing captain's insignia, waited beside it.

"Now, Corin, what's this all—?"

"Admiral," the captain called out. "We're next!"

Roderick shook his head and spoke over his shoulder. "Go on without me, Captain Delambre. I'll see you there." Delambre nodded and stepped onto the platform as Roderick addressed the pickup. "Now, Corin, what's so important that I had to miss transposing to hear it?"

Before Corin could reply, the warning light flashed on the transposer stage, and Captain Delambre was gone. . . .

And a cylinder of rock, three yards high and four yards thick, stood on the platform, which immediately collapsed with a crash under a weight it was not intended to bear.

Passersby started screaming.

"What?" Roderick whirled around and stared. Then he turned back to Corin with a look of incredulous horror. It was obvious what must have happened, but obviousness did not automatically carry acceptability—not when people stared in the face of an accident so rare that most of them had forgotten its very possibility.

The transposer induced the segment of reality defined by its field of effect to change places with another somewhere within its range. A volume of air from Teodor's residence should have replaced the space that had contained Captain Delambre. Instead, the stage lay shattered under this multiton intruder that could have come from only one place: far beneath the surface of the planet, somewhere in Prometheus' bedrock—where Captain Delambre was now trapped in a small cylindrical chamber, whose air was rapidly getting stuffy. . . .

"The focus was off . . . way off," Roderick said as he emerged from shock. "How could they have gotten the far end of the transposition so wrong?" That "they" triggered a realization which brought redoubled horror. "Corin, the operators are down there!" The transposer's control chamber was located unobtrusively beneath the stage. Its occupants must have been crushed beneath that titanic "plug" of stone. "We've got to get to them, see if they're still alive! And try to locate Delambre—"

"Yes, do what you can," Corin said. "And, Rod . . . Garth and Janille are on their way. When they get there, send them back up here, will you?"

"Why . . . certainly." Roderick still wasn't entirely himself. He would have been more than human if he had been, after what he'd just witnessed firsthand. "Signing off."

After the screen blanked, there was perhaps a full second of dead silence. Then, with absolutely no warning, Corin spun out of his chair and flung himself against Aerenthal, slamming the older man against a wall and holding him immobilized with a stiffened forearm against his throat. The agent made a gagging noise which sounded like a plea for release.

"I think not, at least not just yet," Corin said pleasantly. "A serious distraction—like choking—makes it impossible to achieve the kind of concentration needed for telepathy, doesn't it?"

Aerenthal stopped struggling and stared at him. Corin smiled, and eased the pressure a bit. "Not that you can control my mind anyway, as you found out when you were doing it to Garth and Janille. I have an innate resistance—I can be communicated with, as you were doing, but my will can't be overborne unless I'm asleep or hypnotized or something." He smiled again as Aerenthal's eyes widened. "Now, unpermitted telepathic contact is nothing more than a misdemeanor, and grounds for a civil action. But unpermitted telepathic influence is a felony."

"The Inspectorate," Aerenthal began in the firmest voice he could manage, "has—"

"Special immunity from such laws," Corin finished for him. "Yes, I know . . . but only when acting in the line of duty, against the Emperor's enemies. And besides, given the way most people feel about psi, I don't think legalistic arguments would count for much."

"This was an emergency," Aerenthal got out past the still-constricting arm. "A matter of life or death. Roderick's life or death."

"You're right about that," Corin acknowledged. "But the point is, you knew Roderick was in danger the instant I told you where he was going. How could you possibly have known that?"

"Well," Aerenthal began, with an approach to his old insouciance which wasn't really close but had to be accounted remarkable under the circumstances, "you know I'm a telepath. Have you considered that I might possess precognition as well?"

"No. If you had that ability, the history of the last few years would be very different. And besides . . . I saw the expression on your face when I told you about Rod's invitation from Teodor. It was a look of sudden realization that something long expected was about to happen. And it held another element: knowledge that you had to help that event along, and that your own role was also part of your foreknowledge."

"I can't imagine what you—aarrrgh!" Aerenthal's voice died in a gurgling choke, as Corin suddenly redoubled the pressure on his larynx—for the door had slid open, and Garth and Janille burst into the room.

"Corin," Janille began, "did you see what happened down there? Rod said—Corin!" The scene in the room, with Corin holding the elderly agent pinned to the wall, suddenly registered on her.

"Both of you, get mind-shields on," Corin snapped. "Now!"

"But, but—"

"Do it!"

"Come on, Janille," Garth rumbled, and took her arm. He led her into another room, leaving a tableau that held, with Corin and Aerenthal locked into motionlessness and the latter's face turning an interesting color.

Presently, the other two emerged. Janille was wearing an earring she hadn't worn before. Garth's mind-shield wasn't visible, but that meant nothing. The devices were as miniaturized as they were ubiquitous. Corin released Aerenthal, who fell forward onto his hands and knees, gasping and massaging his throat.

"Corin," Janille demanded, "will you please tell us just what is going on here?"

"Certainly. But I had to make sure you two were shielded first. I didn't want Inspector Aerenthal playing tricks with your minds, like he was doing earlier."

"Huh? What . . . that is . . . you mean . . . ?" Janille's eyes widened as she remembered the strange sense of urgency, the unquestioning acceptance of the agent's word. Then her face contorted, and she sprang forward with an inarticulate cry, her hands formed into claws reaching for Aerenthal's throat.

Garth grabbed her from behind and held her until her struggles had subsided, all the while giving Aerenthal a look that was, in its own tightly controlled way, more frightening than Janille's ferocity. For a moment, Corin let the agent contemplate the reminder he'd gotten of that which two millennia of history had burned into the collective human soul concerning telepathic suppression of free will. Then he spoke conversationally, as though nothing had happened.

"Actually, you two arrived just in time. The Inspector and I were about to discuss . . . Omega Prime."

Time seemed suspended in a realm where there was neither motion nor sound.

At last, Aerenthal got slowly to his feet and regarded Corin levelly. "So you know," he stated.

"Yes. We've been there—just before we met you and Rod. And you've just displayed exactly the kind of limited foreknowledge that is Omega Prime's to dispense. So I want to know this: what is your connection with Omega Prime?"

Instead of answering, the agent asked, "Then you three are aware of your origin?"

Corin felt heat spreading over his ears. "Omega Prime told us, and showed us compelling evidence, of those from whom we were . . . were . . ." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "Cloned. It also gave us hints—maddeningly vague ones—"

"Typical," Aerenthal interjected, with returning playfulness.

"—of the role we're supposedly going to play in the restoration of the Empire by my . . . that is, by Basil Castellan's descendant Roderick Brady-Schiavona. Apparently, whoever it was who introduced us into human society is also going to be involved."

"Indeed," Aerenthal nodded. "That involvement has now commenced."

In the ensuing silence the agent sat down on a divan, from which he studied the three of them, one by one, watching as understanding dawned. They stared back, their voices immobilized by tangles of unfamiliar, conflicting emotions.

Janille finally spoke. "So it was you. But how—?"

"It was in 4288. I was in the Intelligence service of the Empire of Man. Armand Duschane had already become the power behind the throne he was to seize three years later, and I was taking pains to make myself useful to him. I'd been taking care of some highly unofficial business for him in the old rebel sectors. As I was returning to Sigma Draconis, alone in a small courier craft, an obviously advanced spacecraft intercepted me. It was, as it turned out, a proxy of Omega Prime, with the same artificial psionic powers. I initiated contact with it. My own telepathic talent, though by no means to be compared with its own, allowed it to communicate with me at a far greater distance than is possible with non-telepaths like yourselves. I followed it to Omega Prime's system, knowing as I did so that my will was not altogether my own. I learned everything you now know about Omega Prime: its origin, its capabilities, the role it has already played in human affairs. In addition, Omega Prime allowed me some fragmentary knowledge of the events to come, and of my own part in them."

"More than it's done for us," Janille grumbled.

"Finally," Aerenthal went on, "Omega Prime showed me three stasis chambers, holding three newborn human infants." He smiled as he observed their expressions. "They went with me, along with instructions on how to release the stasis field. On my return to Prometheus, certain contacts enabled me to arrange for the adoption of one of them. The same contacts put me in touch with those whose help I needed to do the same for the other two on different worlds."

"Why were you so willing to follow Omega Prime's instructions?" Corin asked curiously.

"Well, it wasn't really all that radical a departure for me—just another form of secret agentry. And while I had to keep it a secret from my official employers, at least I wasn't actually betraying them. Omega Prime's interests and those of the Empire dovetailed nicely."

"But how could you keep working for the Duschane dynasty, knowing the end it was going to come to?"

"I knew it was going to give way to another dynasty, yes. That happens, you know. But Omega Prime had made me realize that, in the long historical perspective, Armand was really the founder of the New Empire that was to attain its zenith under the dynasty that would supplant his. He laid the groundwork, and Ivar has been sensible enough to avail himself of that foundation in erecting his governmental structure. And Oleg's creation of the transposer networks that bind each developed world into an economic infrastructure of unprecedented efficiency will, in the long run, enhance the new dynasty's luster."

"Seems unfair," Garth commented.

"Inevitable, though. The rabble think that on any given day the economy is the way it is because their ruler waved a magic wand that morning. The concept of `lead time' is beyond their comprehension. So Oleg got the blame for the project's cost, while the Brady-Schiavonas will reap the credit for its benefits."

"Does cynical contempt for people go with your profession," Janille inquired, "or are you just a shit by nature?"

"You're entitled to your opinion of me. But I remind you that we're allies. Were it not for me, Roderick would now be suffocating somewhere beneath the surface of Prometheus."

"You . . . and Omega Prime," Corin corrected.

"Very astute. Yes, Omega Prime allowed me some knowledge of this attempt on Roderick's life. I knew the time had arrived as soon as you told me about the invitation from his brother."

"So you're saying this was an assassination attempt, not an accident?"

"Don't be absurd! Of course it wasn't an accident. How often does a transposer—any transposer, much less one of those here within the palace, locked into a fixed grid of destination points—go haywire and focus on a point nowhere near its intended terminus? Or experience a safety interlock failure?" All transposers incorporated a feature which prevented them from activating if focused on a location inside solid matter. "And as for the probability of both happening at the same time . . . ! No, this was the work of Teodor—or, to be precise, of Chewning and Liang acting through him."

"But," Garth protested, "how could they have done it? Here in the palace, where the Emperor's person is at stake, security can't be that lax!"

"Remember, they have Teodor's personal resources to work with, and the immunity from suspicion that goes with belonging to his personal staff. And quite some time passed between their arrival here and their departure for Ursa Major. They had the opportunity to look and listen, to establish connections. We're not likely to find out the details, for I suspect the crucial individual they corrupted is down there now, crushed under tons of stone below the transposer stage."

"But they failed," said Corin. "And even without Omega Prime, our own common sense tells us that they can't stop now. They'll have to try again."

"Precisely," Aerenthal affirmed. "And on two points, Omega Prime was very explicit. First, we're going to have to let them try. And second, Roderick may not know any of this."

"Anything about Omega Prime, you mean? And about my . . . relationship with him? Yes, we know."

"Then you realize we can't tell him how we know Teodor and his manipulators are seeking to kill him. Or why he must walk into their trap."

"They never found him," Roderick said dully, more to himself than to the others.

The effort to locate Delambre had been abandoned shortly after night had fallen. His uniform's standard communicator couldn't possibly have penetrated the gigatons of stone that were his airtight prison walls. And there'd been no reason for him to carry a link. Eventually, with luck, careful scanning of the vast volume encompassed by the transposer's range might detect a little cylindrical bubble in the bedrock, from which his remains could be flicked up and turned over to his widow and two children.

Now the seven of them—Maura and Aline Tatsumo had arrived a while before—sat around a table burdened with assorted potations, under an indirect lighting fixture that gave little more illumination than that which streamed through the window: the stars, the glowing palace towers, the bloodstained sickle of Atlas, and the fireflies of swarming aircars—more aircars than usual, for by Imperial decree the transposer system had been shut down pending a full investigation. In that dim light, Roderick's face wore an expression wrought by shock and alcohol.

"He was sentenced to death by suffocation." Roderick still spoke in the same leaden monotone, but Corin thought he detected something new in it. "His crime? Encountering me, and entering into a conversation as we waited to transpose to Ted's." Now there was no doubt as to the new element in his voice. It was rage. It had become unmistakable with that last word. He took another gulp of his drink, with as little visible effect as all he'd already taken on board.

Convincing him of the truth without invoking Omega Prime had proven less difficult than they'd feared. His survivor's guilt wasn't impairing his intelligence. Then, afterwards, they'd sat in awkward silence and let him come to terms in his own way with the fact that his brother was trying to kill him. But now Aerenthal cleared his throat and spoke diffidently.

"We have no proof, of course. Only certainty—which we can't go to the Emperor with."

Roderick gave a short sound which, purely by default, would have had to be called a laugh. "Hardly. Nothing will ever convince Father, unless Ted is caught dead to rights in a second attempt. So we'll just have to let him make that attempt, won't we?" He looked around the table and managed a wan ghost of the grin all the Empire knew. "Oh come on, everybody! Don't look so glum. You're not the primary targets."

Aline Tatsumo looked up. Even in this light her eyes were visibly bloodshot. "We may have to let them try . . . Rod. But we sure as hell don't have to let them succeed!" 

"Damned right," Janille affirmed fiercely. "Remember, the Deathstriders are still in orbit around this planet. I've already started to have those that are now on planetside liberty quietly rounded up and organized into a quick-response force."

"And we'll continue to quietly bring more down," Garth added. "We'll be in a position to deal with whatever comes up." He gave Aerenthal a pointed look. "Whenever you tell us it's going to come up."

"To be sure," the agent rejoined, a little too heartily. "There are any number of avenues of inquiry open to us. For example, we know the identities of the transposer technicians who were killed. It should be fairly straightforward to determine which one was involved—and then focus on his family, friends and associates. In any successful criminal investigation," he continued pedantically, "the identity of the guilty party is usually known fairly early. Then begins the process of amassing proof. We're fortunate in being able to go immediately to the second stage."

Corin nodded, holding his peace, as did Garth and Janille. This was foundation laying for Roderick's benefit. They would know, by grace of the knowledge Omega Prime had imparted to Aerenthal, when and how Teodor and his manipulators would strike next. But they'd need an acceptable rationale for how they knew.

Roderick started to raise his glass again, then thought better of it and set it down carefully. "All right. Make whatever preparations you think necessary. And I'll do whatever is required of me. But I want to make one thing clear. Teodor is not to be killed in the course of this operation. It is for the Emperor to judge his guilt—not us."

Maura's face had worn a haunted look. Now she nodded emphatically. "Yes. Remember, he's acting under the influence of Chewning and Liang. They're the guilty parties!"

Corin looked from sister to brother and back again. Is it possible that they really believe this? After all Rod's told me about Teodor? 

But what do I—an only child, and an adopted one at that—know about it? How can I know what it's like to have an older child who's an immutable part of the universe from the earliest memory? Playmate, privy to all the secret places, role model by definition . . . No, it's not for me to judge. 

Aerenthal's voice forced its way into his consciousness. "Of course. None of us want him killed, and we'll all make every effort to preserve him from the consequences of his own . . . susceptibility. And to avoid any other outcomes that you would find personally painful. But in matters of this kind, no one can offer guarantees."

Roderick met the agent's eyes, and Corin could read the conflict in his face. He didn't like what he was hearing, but he wasn't fatuous enough to deny its essential truth. For his own part, Corin looked at Aerenthal's carefully expressionless face and decided he was grateful that Omega Prime had vouchsafed him only a strictly limited kind and degree of foreknowledge.