Years ago, I was a part of a group of friends I'm pleased to still keep in touch with to this day. We were members of the University of Minnesota Gaming Society and the Fantasy Role Playing Games Association ... or "UMGS" and "FRPGA" for short. We would meet twice weekly to talk, socialize and play games of all types. Then, one day while mowing my mother's lawn, an idea came to me. Actually, it was a sentence ... and it needed fleshing out. But from those few words, "The Mad Penguin sat in the darkened cockpit of the Dreamer's Folly..." sprung an idea that I've adored ever since. I would put forth a story -written by members of UMGS and FRPGA- that starred those self-same members in a semi-alternate-Universe setting of Science Fiction. I began by writing the first installment, followed by other members who quickly warmed to the surreal idea. We ranged from serious SF to pulp fiction to comic books to Anime to comedy and back again. It was a great amount of fun... And, for the first time on the web, here it is...

In The Dreamstate: Part Six
by David J Rust

Numbing darkness gradually gave way to the faint green glow that separated the Universal Adjudicator from the airless environment of deep space. Beyond counting, the infinite stars shone crisply across the intervening light years lending no heat: only a feeling of immense antiquity and solitude. The air being generated by the Adjudicator's mystical artifact was only just warm enough to keep him alive as he floated through the strange star system's intense radiation fields. The energy manipulated by the Renz was steadily keeping him uncontaminated and giving him an accelerated chance to recover.

Ed shivered and opened his eyes. His head clearing from its welcome, although unexpected, unconsciousness, the Renzman instructed his emerald artifact to adjust the temperature. Gradually, head spread through the force screen warming him and giving the Renzman a feeling of relative normalcy. And a moment for reflection.

Where the hell was he?

Dimly, he could recall an explosion, psychic in origin, that had propelled him into the deep void. He could also recall a voice, screaming in anger and madness. The source of the sudden explosion.

What could it have been? Boyden was dead, there was no disputing that, but Theis...

Could Dr. Jason Theis have had such power at his disposal? Enough power to propel a Universal Adjudicator against his will into another sector of the galaxy? Ed let out a nervous breath that crystallized as it left the environment field.

Absently, he watched the sparkling crystals float away. Reflected blue light from the star in this system glittered in the cloud of crystals as they drifted off. The light of the star reminded him of the Adjudicator's home world of Antonine Triumphi. A system that was far away and had been destroyed long, long ago...

The Adjudicator tapped the crystalline memory matrix of the lens and tried to orient himself. Soon the data began flowing into his mind.

Imperial Star system Green-Phase Seven-point-eighteen. Ed sighed. The Imperial Conglomerate's naming system was about as imaginative as the ex-head of the drug cartel that Imperial Intelligence had recently smashed. Ed himself would have helped, but I.I. disapproved of outside interference by the ancient race of Adjudicators. Also, the strike against Boyden had been under the supervision of Agent Clish, an agent that Ed knew and trusted...

Hold on a minute...

Ed began looking around himself frantically.

Where was Agent Monty Clish?

The two had been near each other at the time of the explosion; in fact, Ed had been shielding the unconscious agent's body when a power surge had warned him of the imminent explosion. The lens should have protected Clish and brought him to this sector with Ed. Even with its power being used to protect his own person, the malleable energy should have followed his last conscious command to keep Clish safe and nearby.

But the Imperial Agent was nowhere near.

Ed's stomach fell. The only reason this had happened was because Monty had contacted him via a special communications frequency that only a few knew, and requested Ed's aid. Ed had gone along to ensure the end of the creature that was Aaron Boyden. The being was more powerful than Monty or anyone had realized, and only Ed knew the true threat. The Renzman's job had been to protect Clish. And, of course, Ed had given his word. If Monty was dead, it would mean a deep failure to his creed and code of honor. True, it would also mean that a good human being had died, but that wasn't quite as important.

Technically speaking.

Clearing the last cobwebs from his battered brain, Ed's consciousness merged once again with the emerald crystal. Amplifying his will, Ed sent out mental probes in all directions looking for any sign of life. Nebulae and asteroids drifted in the old star system so densely that Ed had to slow his probe to be sure there was no mistake. The utter silence of space let a funary feel to the Adjudicator's search.

Nothing.

No life at all. Nothing within light years...

The emerald Renz pulsed. There was something out there. A distant gravitational envelope surrounding faint energy patterns indicative of a life form. Very weak, the life energy fluctuated as if flickering and preparing to go out. Ed's resolve tightened and with a blast of emerald energy, he propelled himself through the maze of space debris towards the distant beacon.

Gliding silently through the trace molecules and small motes of space dust, the grey-uniformed traveler approached a massive iron-core asteroid shrouded in a cloud of debris. A large crater lay bored into one side of the space-rock where some recent impact had permanently scarred it. Drifting in the low gravity some two meters above the center of the crater was the battered remains of an Imperial Penultimatium Gravity Armor suit. It's protective graviton field must have activated once Monty had been blown out of Aaron's space ship into null-gravity. Now, it was the only thing saving his life.

Ed felt a chill go through his body as he looked at the battered form. Somehow is was always unsettling to discover a corpse in space. Something akin to the mortuary-like silence. The Renzman corrected himself. Agent Clish wasn't a corpse yet. With a burst of green energy, Ed sealed the space suit and forced a regeneration cycle into the drifting form. The Renz' readings confirmed that Monty would be fine in a short while.

Suddenly, a psychic burst erupted from space around the two, taking the Adjudicator by surprise. Centering around Monty's healing body, the force slid into the unconscious agent's mind. Immediately Ed put up his defenses.

Stillness ensued after the sudden attack.

Ed was considering reestablishing contact with Monty to scan for what had happened, when the right arm of the combat armor twitched. Ed surrounded the reviving form with a force bubble and waited. After a few more sudden jerks and motions, the body stopped. Then slowly, it shifted into an upright position facing Ed.

The adjudicator felt the hackles on his neck rise. A fierce intellect glared at him from behind the opaque face plate - an intellect and power that seemed hauntingly familiar to the Renzman. Silently the two drifted opposite each other and the quiet of space became the quiet of the soul. Then a soft whisper echoed eerily across the dead space between them into Ed's mind.

"No, Adjudicator... it isn't over yet."

A puzzled expression came over Ed's face which gradually gave way to unbelieving realization. Aaron Boyden.

It couldn't be.

"Oh yes it could, my friend," came the responding thought. "You should be more careful whom you choose to obliterate. I was ready for you. Clish, I can forgive - he didn't know what I truly am, but you, 'Doc Smith,' should have known better."

Ed tried to swallow nervously, but the absence of gravity only made him gag.

"Theis and I are the last two, Ed; and merely destroying our bodies inconveniences us. I admit, I haven't had to use my mental prowess for years and my initial skills had been forgotten. When all you use your intellect for is to dominate the mindless chattel of my cartel, you tend to lose touch with what you can do. But no more."

The possessed body drifted "upwards" and closer to Ed. The Adjudicator reacted swiftly and pushed the force bubble and its contents further away. Boyden/Clish stopped trying to move.

"You don't have to threaten me, Adjudicator. I mean you no harm."

Sure, Ed thought, and I'm Hal Jorden. The Renzman kept the emerald weapon trained on the armored body.

"As you wish," Boyden stated. "But as we delay here, the monster you unleashed is threatening all life in the Conglomerate. My race is long dead, Renzman - Theis and I are its last members. Beings of mental energy - psychic constructs. Jason, however, rejected his noble heritage and invested his consciousness into a mortal - human - form. Eventually he even managed to forget what he had been and became a mere political/social theorist for the Empire."

"And what about you?" Ed thought back. "Why didn't you go elsewhere - away from those you knew would hunt you down? According to you, Theis found his way - he became human. He escaped his persecutors by becoming one of them. And even if that were too 'menial' position for you, why not just flee to another section of space outside the human Conglomerate?"

A voiceless laugh echoed in Ed's mind.

"What better way to hide from one's persecutors than be directly under their noses? I did follow Theis' example. I even created the cartel to generate the political power I needed to harass those insipid mortals that thought I had been destroyed. As my human enemies had never known my true name, I was free to keep using it in all my dealings. 'Aaron Boyden' - genius mind behind the most powerful criminal organization since 'Labyrinth' of Old Earth."

Ed snorted mentally - it felt stupid. "Until a 'mere' mortal infiltrated your little group and cracked it like an egg."

Aaron mentally scowled. "I couldn't understand that either. Since then, I've realized that it was probably due to the unique nature of Clish. He's the single most unpredictable being I've ever met. That quality and his hyper-kinetic enthusiasm were more than enough to get him by the lesser minds running the operation."

"And then break the cartel into a thousand pieces... Boy are you ever a sore loser, Boyden."

The drug lord was silent. Suddenly a thought occurred to Ed.

"It was you. You were the one who saw to Theis' overdose! You were the one who put him in the mental clinic in the first place!"

Behind the face-plate, Clish's face smiled. "Why Adjudicator," he replied sarcastically, "did it really take you until just now to figure that out? How disappointing."

Ed ignored the insult. "But why would you? Your 'race' never fights amongst itself - your enemies are purely external."

"I've always disapproved racial generalizations..."

The Renzman sighed - he hated mental communication.

"But this time," Aaron continued, "you are correct. I have no personal animosity towards Theis - just disappointment that he ignored his true potential. He never even wanted godlike powers, he always felt out of place with them - as if they'd been thrust upon him. He was an outsider amongst his own kind. He never fully realized that without his inborn abilities, he'd be so bored that he'd attempt dissolution. I suppose that's why he wiped his own memory. That way, he could fit into Imperial Society and not be tormented by the loss of his psychic power.

"But certain people weren't fooled. Young Senator Comeau discovered Theis' ruse, but decided to keep it covered up hoping to eventually use Theis as a pawn in his own power games. He convinced the Emperor to create a project whose goal was to anticipate future attempts to destabilize the Empire and counter them before they could succeed. Comeau arranged to have his 'pawn' placed as head of project and covered up his lack of a past with some creative records alterations. Then he started Theis upon the research.

"Then came to unexpected. Theis discovered something. Something in the ancient archives of the Empire. Something an ancient historian had called 'the DreamState.' I had managed to intercept some of Theis' transmissions to Comeau, but couldn't understand very much. Furthermore, Comeau's computer files are secure enough to resist any external assault my technicians could attempt.

"I decided that it was time to change the rules of this little game and deal myself a hand. Mind you, my unaware political 'partner' couldn't bid worth a damn, and I had to glean as much as I could from small hints and communications through surveillance taps in his office."

The archaic card-game reference went over Ed's head, so he ignored it and pried for further information. "So I assume you arranged to overdose Theis to get him away from Comeau. But why? It would render him useless to you."

Aaron gestured casually. "Because of what he'd found out. After all, if a realist like Comeau gets so worked up about something - to the point of calling it 'the greatest discovery of the millennium' - I get interested. I still don't know what this 'DreamState' is, but I'm willing to bet that Theis and Comeau are even now, acting to obtain it.

"Anyway, to answer your questions as to 'why,' I couldn't break their confidence. For that reason, I injected Theis with a hallucinogen hoping to initiate his forgotten mental powers. In doing so, I discovered that his projected plan to destabilize the Empire was somehow tied up with this 'DreamState' he'd discovered. So as he vegetated, I gently prodded his jumbled thoughts so that he'd apply his latent psychic talents to the task at hand and finalize the plan. Then I arranged to have him freed from the Research Center and brought to my presence. From there, I would have been able to coax the information from him - if it hadn't been for your interruption."

Ed laughed. "That was your own fault. I would never have gotten involved if your agents hadn't tried to kill Clish. That set in motion the chain of events that brought me into the picture."

"Yes... my one mistake. Alerting Clish to my presence by trying to kill him was an indulgence that I let myself succumb to - I wanted revenge."

"But in the process, you alerted the whole I.I. to your presence."

"Not really. They still don't know it was me - only Clish discovered that. One of his street contacts had managed to discover my existence as well as my drug cartel's dealings with Comeau. It was she who informed Monty - not I.I."

"'Dealings with Comeau?'"

"Of course. Just in case I couldn't get the information from Theis, I approached Comeau as Boyden's drug cartel and offered an alliance - my illegal connections in return for special favors in Senate. Eventually, I had hoped to worm my way deep enough into his covert dealings to unearth the secret of DreamState. Unfortunately, Clish and I.I. broke the cartel and dissolved my usefulness to Comeau. Without my organization's usefulness, I became minor in Comeau's plans. Oh, he knew that I had survived, in fact, he started trying to use me by offering me power once again. You see, he's the one who goaded me into attacking Clish. I suppose that Clish was getting too close or was working for someone who was too much of a nuisance... Oh well, nobody's perfect..."

"Although I probably could have worked my way into his confidence again and found out all that I needed to know, I put my full remaining focus into capturing Theis."

Ed tried not to yawn. Although the admission of guilt, past plans, and the implications of Senator Comeau were all very interesting, they were also boring. "You like to hear yourself talk... er... think, don't you?" he asked sarcastically.

"Believe what you will, Renzman. Right now we have a more serious problem than my soliloquies. Theis believes himself to be God - his delusions are out of control. And with the constant use of his psi over the past five years of institutionalization, he has become perhaps the most powerful Construct in the galaxy."

"What's he up to?" asked the Adjudicator, worriedly.

The combat armor shook its head. "I don't know. All I can guess is that it has something to do with DreamState - it was foremost on his mind for years. Now, he's probably going to do something about it."

Ed thought about the unspoken implications of Aaron's words. "You want an alliance, don't you?"

A crackle of energy coalesced around the space suit forming into a convincing image of Aaron's human form. "Of course. Your power and my intellect should be enough to stop him - as long as we act quickly."

"And after we stop hum? You'll try for DreamState again."

The illusion smiled. "We'll just have to worry about that when it happens. Until then, your friend's body will be my insurance policy against aggression."

Ed closed his eyes in seeming defeat. He couldn't do it. Working with Aaron was like working with the devil. Then again...

What choice did he have? His code dictated that he do his utmost to help Monty. There was no choice at all.

Slowly, the Adjudicator nodded his head in agreement. The Renz dissolved the force bubble surrounding the possessed form.

Aaron smiled with a self-satisfied grin.

"You think you're so superior," thought Ed, "but know this: if it comes down to it, I'll kill you to stop you - Clish's body or not. Your alleged intellect won't save you."

"'Alleged?'" Aaron's illusionary hand gestured to his forehead. "A high forehead has always been indicative of a vast intelligence, my friend. No insult intended, of course."

"None taken. But I've always thought that it was a sign of male pattern baldness."

With that Ed turned and flew back towards civilized space.

Frowning deeply, Aaron followed.

Senator Comeau had long-since stopped pretending to be one bit interested in the proceedings taking place on the floor of the Senate. Already several obviously fraudulent measures had passed the floor, designed to put more money in so-and-so's pocket or promote another senator several notches in the mindless populace's opinion. Seventeen special interests of various small companies and lobbies had already been brought forward for some blatantly obvious personal gain and still had passed. A maneuver that Paul had used only once or twice in his career.

The difference was that at the time he proposed the legislation, he had grown so tired of the feeble pretenses to legitimacy under which most of these proposals were created, he didn't even attempt to obscure the issue. He simply called the measure the "Give-Me-Money-I'm-A-Senator Day" bill and presented it via one of his junior senators to the floor. In his own way he had demonstrated his utter contempt for his "peers" while simultaneously gaining access to a moderate amount of monetary credits. He had been surprised that it had actually passed.

It had gone to prove to him how bad off the Empire was. The great, intricate system was failing.

Putting down his copy of "Zen Bouquet," Paul looked about the room at the other senators. Several had followed his example and were either resting or reading magazines. Most of them, however, still looked as if they cared about the proceedings.

Boring.

Right now the item on the floor was a vote being taken to determine how to avoid a war with the Mad Penguin's mercenaries once they were informed that their payment was to be stopped. Paul got up and left. It didn't matter now, anyway. The end result was already determined. He, as a representative Senator of the Conglomerate, would be sent to CoMann's world to talk to the Penguin. Undoubtedly, some of his enemies assumed he'd never return. Let 'em think what they want - everything was going according to plan. After all, he knew that he'd need some excuse eventually, to explain his journey to CoMann's world. This was perfect.

He could easily assign Taylor and his representative staff in the position of military liaison. Then, he and a few hand-picked constituents could finally acquire CoMann's world. Paul had heard rumors that the Penguin's forces may conclude an alliance with the rebels to ensure planetary control. It didn't matter. All Paul cared about was that he got the planet. There was only one thing that worried him.

The Renzman.

What would one of the Universal Adjudicators be doing here in Conglomerate space? And why now? there was no way the Renzman could have known about Comeau's dealings - no way at all.

Comeau had ordered the abduction of Theis as soon as his plans on CoMann's world had begun - only to find that someone else had beaten him to it. This hadn't really worried him except that Theis wasn't human. The unknown abductor apparently shared Comeau's secret about Theis' background - a secret that he had shared with no one.

Someone else knew about Theis - and by extension, Comeau's own plans.

That person eventually turned out to be Aaron Boyden, ex- associate. Paul didn't know how, but somehow the drug lord had learned of Theis, and was preparing to blackmail the Senator with that knowledge, Luckily, the abduction was not actually carried out by Comeau, so the Adjudicator couldn't actually pin that on him. Perhaps the Adjudicator also knew of Theis' true identity; but that seemed unlikely.

Nonetheless, it would explain why the Renzman destroyed Boyden's ship. The unfortunate Aaron had probably been judged by the Adjudicator and executed. But that still left Comeau feeling nervous. He could be the Renzman's next target.

And if that hadn't been enough, mere minutes after he received work that his supposed blackmailer had been reduced to atoms in a Renzman-induced explosion, a hostile messenger program invaded his personal computer system with a threat to expose him if he didn't cut all funding to the Penguin immediately.

Normally, he would assume the latter threat had come from a rival in the Senate. However, as the Senate had just voted earlier during the day to suspend funding, the threat had to have originated elsewhere. Originated by someone who didn't want any funding to be continued by hadn't known about the vote. There were many people who fit that category, ranging from business associated who wanted the CoMann trade routes opened again to the rebels themselves.

The problem was that the A.I. program had known about the DreamState.

It had also threatened the break Comeau's secure files and spread the details of his plan across the public-access net.

That was when the Senator's computer infiltration defense system kicked in. It absorbed the hostile A.I. and converted its central command structure to a complex bridge game program. Another potential threat removed.

Unfortunately, it meant another person in on the plot.

Whoever had programmed that A.I. obviously knew what was going on. Privately, he wished he had the expertise of Todd Clasen here to help him decipher the computer riddle. He could only hope that the mysterious programmer wouldn't act again before Paul had a chance to finish.

Still, the original questioned remained. What had drawn the Renzman into the picture in the first place?

Virtually no one knew how to contact them, and even fewer would have the desire to do so. Paul hoped that his theory about Aaron accidentally tipping off the Adjudicator with the abduction of Theis was accurate.

Gradually, Paul made his way to the Crystal Concourse. It was a vaulted atrium of red-tinted crystal over a multi-tiered garden. Anti-grav lifts raised and lowered visitors and off-duty officials to the different levels for relaxation, contemplation, private deals, and intimate rendezvous. Scented plants covered each lever, carefully maintained in hydroponic suspension, along gravel paths and granite benches.

Comeau stepped into one of the warm downdrafts that propelled users of the grav lifts to lower garden levels. Gently, he floated to ground lever. He closed his eyes to the scene of an elderly female Senator making moves on two young information runners and tried to imagine himself to be alone. Slowly, he allowed the tangled mass of plans and countermeasures within his mind to unwind like uncoiling clock springs. More relaxed, he opened his eyes and moved on down a small gravel trail.

The path wound its way past several bubbling fountains and small waterfalls from upper levers and finally ended in a secluded grotto. The distant synthesized sounds of Langford's "Asteroid Concerto" warbled through the serene surroundings. The Senator sat down on the single bench in the area and contemplated his situation.

Aaron didn't have the personnel to program such a complex A.I., so that still meant that someone else had knowledge of the DreamState. Also, Theis was probably still out there somewhere. Comeau knew that he was too difficult to kill. However, as the former was merely a computerized threat coming from an uninformed party and the latter was a vegetable, Paul could feel a certain security that it would be unlikely for any further complications to arise before he was ready. It would only take him a few weeks to reach CoMann's world, and before that, he could send a message to the Penguin informing him of the private credits that would continue to pay the Mercs even when the Senate cut funding. Then again, what about Theis?

He couldn't be killed - not easily at any rate - and he was certainly out there somewhere. Floating in deep space. Unpredictable. It was conceivable that the explosion could've killed him, as the only was to wait for it to take on a solid form and catch it off-guard, but without Theis' body, Paul couldn't be sure. The explosion may have also restored the beings memories, and then it would become a real threat. Theis may even go after the DreamState on CoMann's world.

Then again, he might not. Damn.

Too unpredictable.

Theis was the last of his kind. A unique entity. As humans had expanded into the galaxy, they had found evidence that they were not the first to do so. An ancient race, the Dirmenians, had evolved faster and conquered the depths of space first. But by the time humanity got there, they were extinct. What had caused their mass elimination was originally unclear. But soon remnants of their culture provided all-too-deadly clues.

The Dirmenians had been a psi-oriented race and much of their machinery and tools reflected this. The Dirmenians had created "robots" to serve them and perform a multitude of tasks... robots constructed of pure psionic energy. Unfortunately, the Constructs eventually gained free will and subjugated - and later, killed - their masters.

By the time of humanity, however, only a handful remained. As they lacked the means to replicate themselves, their limited numbers were gradually reduced by warfare with other races and an occasional accident.

That had been millennia ago.

When humans arrived on the scene, most of the wars were over. Many of the Dirmenian Constructs her been obliterated. A few conflicts came and went in the early years of the Conglomerate - enough to instill a deep fear of the constructs in most humans - but they were short lived and very final. Supposedly all the Constructs had been destroyed.

All but one.

Paul never understood why it had taken human form and tried to fit into Conglomerate society as a researcher, but discovering Theis' true nature had put him in his present situation. Apparently, Theis didn't - or couldn't - recall his past; but the Senator had hoped that if Theis worked on anything long enough, his latent abilities would have to apply themselves sooner or later. Whether or not this was true still had to be seen.

But Theis had made an incredible discovery. A Dirmenian factory complex that had the capacity to create more Constructs. And it was located on a small world whose only use was an orbital trade center between the Imperial core and the outer colonies. CoMann's world. A world capable of generating psychic constructs of incredible power to serve their creator. The problem of the Construct's loyalty had already been hypothesized and overcome in computer models by the genius, Todd Clasen. Only Paul, General Taylor, and Dr. Clasen knew the full extent of the Dirmenian secret.

But only Paul knew the nature of the DreamState.

If the Factory was programmed in a certain way, it could elevate a being's psychic potential to a level even beyond that of the Constructs. The being's body would collapse into a deep slumber, while the elevated person's psyche was free to act anywhere within its considerable range. It had been this power that had held the ancient Dirmenian Empire intact. The Emperor could be anywhere at any time with such power that no one could stand against him.

It was only when the Constructs had gained sentience and rebelled that the Dirmenian DreamState power was seriously contested. Even that great power couldn't stand against the might of over a million psychic Constructs. So, in the end, not even the Emperor could stem the tide of disloyalty in the Dirmenian's creations.

But Paul had learned from history. He would not make the same mistake. He wouldn't create constructs until he could be sure that Clasen had overcome the loyalty factor. But then...

He would be the all-powerful god-emperor with a loyal army of Dirmenian Constructs serving his every whim. The Conglomerate would gain a new Emperor and the human race would expand to encompass the entire galaxy. No force would be sufficient to stop him.

Unless...

The Adjudicator and Theis. Everything came back to those two enigmas. What had happened and where were they now?

Paul frowned.

"Senator Comeau. Please report to the Senate floor immediately. Senator Comeau. Please report to the Senate Floor immediately."

A soft sigh escaped his lips. He'd have to go on flying blind until he could reach CoMann's world. His plans were too well advanced for changes now. He would go to the rebellious colony on the pretense of closing the Conglomerate's contract with the Penguin. Then he would take command. He and the Penguin would hold the planet long enough for him to create his loyal army. And then, no number of Adjudicators could stop him.

Coslett's image flickered on the small screen in the central prison block. His perpetual scowl seemed to deepen as Wayne3 returned from the holding cells. The clone's expression told the I.I. director everything.

"He still claims to know nothing, sir."

Coslett furrowed his brow in thought. "Any word from Comeau to stay the execution?" he asked hopefully.

Wayne3 shook his head. "No, sir. Apparently the Senator doesn't consider Widerski important enough to bail out."

"Damn." Coslett had counted on the Senator to pull strings in high places to overturn the ridiculous execution order that I.I. had trumped up in order to arrest Widerski. If Comeau had done that, Coslett could easily have had the Senator arrested on the very real charge of interfering with an Imperial execution; but now, if the Emperor ever actually looked at the crime for which he had sentenced a junior senator to death, it would be Coslett who was disintegrated.

The evidence had to be hidden fast.

"Kill him, Mr. Ziebell. And leave no trace of the body when you're done." Coslett's image faded.

Wayne3 smiled. He hadn't performed an execution in months. Furthermore, unlike his predecessor, Wayne2, Wayne3 actually enjoyed the pain he inflicted; the more the merrier.

Brushing back his stiff, blonde hair from his scraggly German features, the sadistic clone sauntered towards the visitor's chamber, which opened onto the prison cells. A low buzz from the Comm-unit brought his attention back to the computer console. His heart fell. Hoping that Coslett hadn't changed his mind, he walked back to the main control board.

With the flick of a switch, he turned on the view screen. The video display informed him that the call was coming from the prison's main door - not Coslett's office. Wayne3 sighed in relief and checked the view screen for identity... and was abruptly taken aback.

The young woman appearing on the screen was waiting by the main prison entrance standing in a soft layer of new fallen snow. She was fairly tall - over two meters in height, but slender and subtle in her contours. Her face was also slender and slightly animalistic - resembling a cross between a human and a deer. Her ears rose from cascades of reddish-brown hair and looked like those of a small horse. Her petite features were highlighted by her slender, athletic build: well-toned muscles covered by a soft layer of brown fur. Although it was cold outside, the woman wore very little clothing. Only a light, voluminous blouse concealed her supple breasts and flat abdomen.

But as much as the half-concealed view of the woman's cleavage made Wayne3 become tight in the groin, it was her lower half that drew the most attention. For although genetic halfbreeds were common in the Conglomerate - mostly as working slaves, pleasure units, or members of the eccentric elite - it was rare for such a complete use of a basic animal's stock in an entire form. She was sextopedal.

A centaur.

Her lower body looked as if someone had used a gazelle as a pattern to base her upon. In fact, upon secondary consideration, she looked as if she were wholly descended from gazelle-stock. Her eyes were large and exotic, yet seemed to fit the petite upper torso. This, and the fact that the lower, bestial section was also lithe and slender, spoke to the craftsmanship of the genetic designer. The form worked as a complete being.

The woman shivered and shifted her weight back and forth on her tea-cup sized hooves. "Hello?" she asked into the air by the door. "Is anyone there?"

Wayne3 was jarred from his fantasies and quickly punched the Comm-button. "Yes! Yes, you've reached prison station seventeen. State your name and business."

The lovely centaur smiled shyly. "I'm here to see a... friend. He's been... sentenced to execution by disintegration in a matter of hours and... I'd like to see him one last time." She looked shaken and nervous; strangely vulnerable despite her size.

Wayne felt his crotch stiffen. However...

He and his predecessors hadn't held this guard position for so long by falling for a pretty face and tearful plea. "What is the prisoner's name?" he asked, anticipating the answer.

She smiled winningly. "Junior Senator Robert Widerski."

The clone laughed.

"Robert Widerski?" he asked incredulously as the centaur's face fell. "Your brain must be more than half-animal if you expect me to fall for that old trick. You've got exactly ten seconds to either leave with your little tail intact or give me a damn good reason to let you see him."

The centaur looked sadly at her clenched hands as if trying to stop them from shaking. "He... he's my lover, sir. My name is Michelle Erin, I used to work at a call girl firm in th' inner city until I met the Senator... he got me outta there." The young woman looked plaintively into the camera. "Please, I'd do anything to see him before he's killed. Please...?"

"Just a moment." Wayne3 flicked off the communicator and smiled to himself. Let 'er sweat a bit more. "Anything," she had said. His smile broadened. She was probably one of those exotic sex-girls from Scumtown; he'd always wanted one of those.

After five minutes, he turned the Comm-relay back on. The lovely woman reappeared on the screen. Wayne3 licked his lips. "O.K. You'll have ten minutes - no more." With that, he cycled the air lock door open and let her in.

A few minutes later, Michelle stood in the large computer control room which abutted against the prisoner's visitor tank. Relief calmed her twin hearts as she realized that only one guard was assigned to this section; the same guard to which she had spoken at the door.

As she cantered into the echoing, metallic chamber, she could feel his eyes upon her. She hid her feelings as best she could and turned to face Wayne3.

Not too bad, she noted mentally. Muscular, not too much fat, cute rear, blue eyes... he was almost in her league.

"Well," she asked plainly, "where is he?"

The clone smiled. "He's cyclin' through decontamination. He should be steppin' into the observation room son." Wayne3 gestured at the long window along the far wall which revealed a large, sterile room with a table running down the center. A massive airlock joined the prison control room to the visitor tank, and the only other exit was a similar airlock on the opposite wall which Michelle assumed led into the individual holding cells.

"In the meantime," Wayne3 continued, "how about that 'anything' you mentioned?"

Michelle hid her disgust with a forced, seductive smile. A part of her hated this - the part that said she'd become too jaded with all her male conquests. The smile came too easily nowadays - no matter what she truly felt.

The centaur sauntered over to the guard, stopping mere inches from his face. "Well," she began slyly, "a deal is a deal." Slowly, she placed her arm over one of his shoulders. "Do you think you're man enough to satisfy me?" she asked with a back glance at her equine half?

Wayne3 laughed. It sounded forced. "Hey, lady - it doesn't matter how much y' got... it's how you use it that counts."

Michelle's smile remained in place as she moved her free hand down Wayne3's body. Delicately, she caressed the bulge in the clone's pants and pulled him closer.

Softly, she whispered in his ear. "Spoken like a true, dickless son-of-a-bitch." Michelle squeezed her caressing hand closed with a twist of her enhanced muscles. Wayne3's eyes bulged as his mouth tried to produce a sound. The tiny hypodermic needle beneath her fingernail on his neck made a quick-strike and injected the clone with a lethal toxin.

Convulsing, Wayne3 fell to his knees and tried to draw his pistol. His muscles shook uncontrollably and he felt a burning in his veins. A garbled scream escaped his throat as he pitched forward and lay still.

Michelle tried not to think about the clone's death as she removed his ID card. Death had almost become as easy as sex. She hoped Bob would be able to turn that around. Deftly, she slid the ID tag into the lock mechanism by the door that led to the visitor cell. A small panel hissed open beside the lock revealing a numeric key pad and a hand plate.

The centaur smiled grimly. It was one of those defense mechanisms that required a hand imprint simultaneously with a numeric code. An incorrect entry on either would leave the would-be invader without a hand. Quickly, she took off the glove on the deceased clone's right hand and pressed it into place on the scan surface.

Nervously, she hoped the toxin which had killed the guard functioned as planned: artificially stimulating a temporary blood flow and normal body temperature. The system waited for the code without any extra actions.

So far, so good. But she had to hurry. It wouldn't be long until someone, somewhere, noticed the absence of the guard.

Calming herself, Michelle silently tapped out the code that her informants had told her would work. She could only hope that it was the same code that was keyed to Wayne3's hand print. Nothing happened.

Then, with a barely audible hiss, the massive prison door swung open.

The half-gazelle's tiny hooves echoed as she entered the large, empty room. The single, long table had only four chairs and comprised the room's only furnishings. The spartan accommodations and soft grey walls lent a feeling of isolation and captivity to the chamber. Probably to aid in intimidation of the prisoners, Michelle thought grimly.

Another hiss brought her attention around to the other air lock. It, too, opened slowly and revealed a long, dim corridor. Standing in the doorway was Bob.

"Michelle?" He sounded surprised. Then he saw the corpse propped in the other airlock, holding it open. A confused look came over his face. "But... but, how?"

The centaur smiled. "Tell you later, sexy - right now, we've gotta get goin'." She patter he back and moved so that Widerski could climb up. His dazed expression faded to determination as he climbed onto her back.

"Umph." Michelle had to admit that this form was hardly ideal for carrying passengers - it was lucky that Bob was so lightweight. After a moment to catch her breath, she sprang away out of the prison and into the night alleys of the Imperial City. Bob held tightly to her upper torso - somewhat to the distraction of the Scumtown prostitute.

Michelle swore that before they left this planet, she would have to adopt another form - more useful for carrying and flights. Hmm...

Dr. John Parks would have a fit. Another rush job. Oh well, the best back-street geneticists always had these problems, and it wasn't as if she couldn't afford a 20-hour gene-slam. What worried her was that she may have to move faster than that.

"Thanks, Michelle," Bob's whispered gratitude brought her attention back to her passenger. "I guess I'll have to thank Paul for sending you."

The centaur frowned. "No, you'll only have to thank me."

Bob cocked his head at the mildly cryptic remark. "You mean that you came here without getting Paul's help? Michelle, that's flattering, but Comeau could've supplied you better - there would've been less of a risk..."

"I got you myself because Comeau had given up on you."

Silence descended upon the pair as the centaur's legs bore them on towards Scumtown. The softly falling snow had grown thicker. Bob shivered.

"But then..." he stammered, "why...?"

"Oh, Bob, you weren't 'useful' to him anymore. I asked him for help and all he would say was that 'everything was under control.' I know politicians well enough to know what that kind of statement means - he was going to let you rot."

Bob's features hardened and Michelle could feel his muscles twitch.

"Where to now?" he asked with anger barely suppressed in his voice.

Michelle swallowed. It could be scary when Bob got angry. She looked over her shoulder at her passenger. He was absently fingering his cyber-eye. That small orb had more than once saved his life due to its hidden weapon, power source, and IR/UV scanners. Obviously, the prison guards had deactivated it.

"First," she said, "we go to a reputable doctor I know who can re-engineer me and repair your Mitsui-eye. Afterwards... I saw we go follow Comeau and get a few apologies."

Bob nodded. "Where's he off to?"

"CoMann's world. He's been delegated to inform the Mad Penguin that all funding to the mercenaries is to be cut. The news was all over the Net."

The junior senator frowned.

"What's he up to?" he asked no one in particular. "He could get killed doing that. Comeau never acts unless he's sure of himself..."

The sounds of Michelle's hooves echoed loudly as they entered the old, disused shuttle tubes that surrounded the Scumtown perimeter. No air cabs moved through the transit system anymore, as hardly any legitimate businesses occurred in the area. The tubes were silent save for their passage and the occasional crackling of a bonfire.

Homeless members of the area built whole towns in the transit tubes, many times creating entire sub-cultures like clans or tribes. Sometimes, warfare would break out between the rival clans and I.I. would have to take notice of the beings that they'd rather ignore. Soon, the military would be sent in and the grimy transparent tunnels would be wiped clean of any living inhabitant.

The last time had been almost a month ago, so the tunnels were relatively clear of any new groups. It made their path clear and relatively safe. I.I. wouldn't be watching for trouble this soon after a Clear-Out.

"He's up to something, Michelle. I can feel it. Something that's got I.I. so worried that they tried to use me to force Comeau's hand." He paused. "I'm going to find out. That bastard owed me - I've given him every day of my left for the past ten cycles and now comes payment time. And if he won't 'share the wealth,' I'll blow him out of the water."

Michelle sighed. Sometimes Bob could be as single-minded as he was single-sighted. "What about in the meantime?" she asked, trying to change the subject. "How about a little fun before Dr. Parks opens up shop?"

Bob shook his head. "Not really in th' mood, Michelle. Besides, I don't have the money."

Michelle put on a pretty pout; she had found it capable of melting many men's hearts. "Why won't you ever let me give you some free time? I do it only for the best, you know. When are you going to let go of that stupid drive to always pay me for my 'services'?"

"Oh, I don't know," he replied sarcastically. "When are you going to let go of that stupid name and get it changed to 'Heather'?"

Michelle relaxed her face into its more normal contours. Bob had an obsession with women named 'Heather'. She wondered idly if it had been his mother's name. Oh well. There could be no reasoning with him now...

Hearts pounding, she exited the empty transit tunnels and galloped on into the deep night of snow-bound Scumtown.

Paula Taylor relaxed in the soft contours of a reclining chair in Paul's state room aboard the Imperial Conglomerate Space Ship "Ramses II." She felt at peace. After weeks of uncertainty surrounding the Senator's plans and her own attempts at back-up plans, the whole scheme was coming together. Idly, she rolled the queen from Paul's oriental chess set between her fingers.

Her plans to promote Widerski to a position of exposing Paul had proven unnecessary. Furthermore, with the recent report from Coslett's office that Widerski had "vanished" from his cell in prison17, she knew that the confidential reports that she had sent to him were safely unobserved.

Taylor glanced over the hard copy of Coslett's transmission.

Well, Paul couldn't nail Coslett to the wall on this one. The time that Widerski had spent in prison hadn't been long enough to warrant a disintegration offense for Coslett. As long as the director maintained the charade that Widerski had "vanished," he couldn't be charged with unlawful execution. Unless Paul could permanently deal with Coslett, he probably wouldn't push the matter.

Sooner or later Paul would nail Coslett.

Paul came out of the ship's showers in a black bathrobe with white trim. Smiling, he crossed the room and curled up next to Taylor. Softly, she began to knead his back.

"Y'know," she began, "it's really too bad about Bob. You should have found a way to get him off."

Paul looked at her longingly. "Perhaps. But then I'd have been risking everything for just one man; I don't take risks like that."

She smiled at him. His tone meant that he didn't want to talk about such matters now...

A crackle of the ship's intercom broke the mood.

Paul looked across at General Taylor. "Well," he said in a low voice, "are you ready to make history?"

The two embraced warmly for a moment before Paul gave the command "Engage."

The distant throb of the engines made the ship vibrate as it moved out of spacedock around the Imperial Homeworld and start on its month-long journey to CoMann's world. A secondary hum shook the ship as, with a flicker of fading stars outside Comeau's state room window, the "Ramses II" faded into warp space.

"A toast then, General." Paul rose and crossed the few feet to the expansive wet-bar along an adjacent wall. He removed two ancient, small bottles from a hidden, locked drawer. "To celebrate our coming victory."

Paula accepted her drink after Paul had poured the bottles' contents into two blue crystal wine glasses. The aged label was barely legible, but its writing bore the appearance of a language of some sort from Old Earth.

"Very few are left," said Paul as he sat again beside Paula with the glasses. "The 'Bartles and Jaymes' vintage was a rare one and this bottle alone is just over a millennia old. It's been well preserved in a stasis field during all that time..."

He sipped the drink.

"And now, my dear General, we will make history."

A smaller ship followed. Within the depths of warp space, the silver form of the "Satyr's Heart" trailed the massive Imperial craft. Michelle Erin sat at the flight position next to Widerski. Her form was now a vulpinoid centaur and she sat comfortably on the floor with her bushy tail wrapped around her body. Widerski carefully operated the small ship's docking beam that held them to the "Ramses II."

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked nervously.

The fox-like centaur nodded. "Assuredly. Admiral Pabon owed me a favor. Besides, he only thinks we're going to the outer colonies via the trade routes through CoMann space. Quite a few people that I do business with do the same thing with larger ships to save fuel. Anyway, he's a good man with a stout heart. When he gives his word to help someone out, you can trust him to the death."

Bob grimaced. He still wasn't sure.

Michelle noticed his expression and felt her heart melt. "Don't worry," she said softly, "once we arrive at CoMann's world, one of my... better... clients will meet us and be able to help - I've already alerted him to our arrival."

"Will he be in a position to help us?"

The centaur nodded. "He certainly can. Commander Mark Edwards is a major participant in the game being played out on that planet. If he can't help us, nobody can."

Bob fingered the packet of papers that they'd found in his apartment before they'd left. They bore the signature of General Taylor. He sighed. If what Taylor said was true, Paul had to be stopped or the Constructs would be re-created.

"Well, if you're ready to start, let's begin."

The Mad Penguin surveyed the two genetically engineered colonists across the table from him. Both were tall and had a brownish-green cast to their leathery skin. The leader of the rebels, identifying himself simply as 'Evan,' looked the Mad Penguin in the eye with an unwavering glow of golden light. His assistant, a gene-colonist priest named Father Richard Kubik, sat at his side and fidgeted with an ancient religious talisman. Each rebel also wore an atmosphere mask to help them breathe in the environmentally converted city.

Out of the two, the half-machine mercenary noticed with an interest, only the priest wore any kind of cybernetic alterations. Heavy amounts of exposed circuitry and data-jacks adorned Father Kubic's forehead and temples. One eye was a solid black sensor sphere and the wires going from his neck to his shoulder suggested a set of reinforced reflexes in the upper body. He decided not to ask about the combat modifications, though he was interested as to why a priest would wear them.

The Penguin grudgingly respected these two. Their small rebel forces had managed to harass both P.Y.V. and F.R.P. for days before D.O.A. and the other twenty two units had arrived. They probably still would be fighting too, had it not been for a bizarre creature that had crashed to the planet and began decimating both sides with equal fervor. At least the mercenaries had been able to defend themselves adequately to come out ahead when the smoke cleared.

Only two planetary space craft remained out of the original three that he had been ordered to secure. The third had been claimed by the unknown being. The Imperial ambassadors had all died, save for one, and he was in intensive care right now. There were no official Imperials anywhere on the planet. Which the Penguin counted on for these negotiations to be successful.

"Gentlemen," he began, "I'd like you to meet my command staff of P.Y.V. and F.R.P. They are: Commanders Steve Stackhouse and Mark Edwards, and Lieutenants Pietro Boggio and Daniel Gjerdahl. They're the people who have been giving you headaches for the past two weeks." Rob surveyed the assembly slowly, mirrored lenses betraying not one emotion. Drawing a breath of air, he continued.

"Six weeks ago, your colony revolted, anticipating a funding cut from the Senate - a cut which came as soon as word of your revolt reached their ears. They feared that you might be able to alter the life-support equipment on the three ambassador's ships and spread your rebellion to the crucial space platforms above." Here, he paused for emphasis. "But we arrived here first. Two weeks ago, we arrived ready - if we had to - to expel you from your platforms and re-take the planet. Now it looks as if that won't be necessary."

"A recent Conglomerate vote determined that 'the Mad Penguin's mercenaries are too costly.' They think it would be better to simply nuke the planet and be rid of you once and for all."

The Penguin saw visible concern on the priest's face. It was going well. As long as the rebels thought there was some change of the Conglomerate overturning the nuclear arms legislation, he could bargain from a position of strength.

Evan looked nervous, but more in control. "They're actually considering it?"

"They already have. Undoubtedly, they're on they way as we speak - we've got three to four weeks to prepare." He let the imaginary threat sink in before going on. "I'd like to recruit you. Our losses here have freed-up an entire ship out of the seven in my corps' fleet. It can be modified for your environmental requirements and you'd be free of this rock. I could use people like you."

Evan remained still. It would be a great boon to his people if they could escape CoMann's world, but to become mercenaries...?

"What would we have to do?" he asked slowly.

"Only accept me as your employer and help me kick the Imperium a few times for double-crossing the corps. After that, we'll go where we have to: even terminate your stay with us. But until we stick it to the Empire and get the money promised to me, your services belong to the Mad Penguin."

Richard leaned forward. "Hardly a good offer. We can only survive comfortably on CoMann's world or a modified starship. You'd effectively own us for life."

"Not so," the small form of Commander Stackhouse stepped forward. "Our biochemist, Jim Felling, has enough skill to re-engineer you back to a human state."

The Penguin nodded. "And if that isn't enough, a condition of our alliance could be made that as soon as possible, the entire colony will be brought back to their human states and relocated on a friendly world in a neighboring Empire. I do occasional business outside of the Conglomerate and have numerous contacts."

Evan scratched his scraggly beard. He had to admit, it sounded like an ideal solution. Unfortunately, nothing was ever as perfect as it seemed.

"I'd like to ask a question before agreeing to anything."

The Penguin smiled. It felt good to let down the facade of being an emotionless automaton. Too many people felt that he had no feelings at all, when he really felt deeper than many could. "Ask away."

"Without you around."

A flicker of a frown crossed the Penguin's face.

"I'd like to ask your officers a question - in private."

The Penguin stalled. What could the revel leader want to ask? He considered. Well, he could trust his men to tell him what it was all about, later. But he'd have to know before any agreement could be made, of course. Smiling gently, he rose, nodded to the assembly, and walked out.

All eyes turned to Evan.

The rebel leader swallowed. He looked at each one before speaking.

"I want each of you to answer honestly. My companion," he gestured to the priest, "has the sensory capabilities to ascertain whether or not you are telling the truth."

The priest smiled knowingly and tapped the black orb implanted in his right eye socket. The officers looked at each other nervously. They couldn't betray the Penguin's trust, the failure to answer a question may be misinterpreted as affirmation.

Evan continued. "The question is this: Is the Mad Penguin trustworthy?"

"Of course." The swift answer had come from Pietro. "He's never double-crossed anyone before. You shouldn't have to question his honor."

Richard rolled his eyes. "Yes, well that's all very fine and good, but please think about it first. I admire your loyalty, but we're not questioning your integrity - merely his."

Evan nodded. "Please think carefully - if we are betrayed later, I can order all my colonists to rebel against him. Now, reconsider."

Silence filled the room for several minutes.

Finally, Steve cleared his throat and stepped forward. "If the question is 'do you think we have anything to worry about in the Penguin's corps?' then I'd say 'yes.' Being a mercenary isn't like playing a game. Death and uncertainty become your bunk mates..."

"... Either that or a big guy named 'Bruno'..." mumbled Mark.

Steve shot a withering glance in his direction before continuing. "But if you are asking whether or not the Mad Penguin will treat you fairly and honor his promise, I'd trust him with my life. He's treated us like we expect to be treated without undue harshness or condescension... I'd bet my life on it."

Richard nodded to Evan. The rebel leader turned to Pietro.

"I still stand by my earlier assessment," stated the Communication Officer."

Evan sighed and went on to the next.

Dan shrugged.

Taking this to be an honest indication of opinion as opposed to a muscle spasm, Evan went on to Commander Edwards.

The Commander just shrugged.

"My God," thought Steve looking from Dan to Edwards, "it's contagious."

Evan considered carefully. Two committed replies and two uncertain. If he agreed, he could be getting his people into a lot more trouble than they were currently up to their armpits in. Then again, if the Mad Penguin was correct, all of his people's problems would be solved pretty quickly in a blast of nuclear fire. Evan hated being spokesperson. Why couldn't someone other than he have been the one to unite his people against the Imperial Conglomerate? He was only a glorified gardener for God's sake...

With the tiny wheezes of microservos and cybernetic attachments, the Penguin re-entered. Slowly, he sat down opposite the rebel leader.

"Well, Evan; ready for a decision?"

The colonist sighed. "Yes." It was barely a whisper. "Yes, we'll join your force."

The Penguin smiled as the priest crossed himself.

"Excellent," the war-borg stated with more warmth than he'd like to have used for the occasion. It felt good. "Spread the word amongst your men. Between your engineers and my technical staff, we should be able to get the 'Dragon's Smile' ready for you within a week. I'll tell my men to cease all hostilities and yours can follow suit."

Evan frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"Well," he began nervously, "four of my best men are unaccounted for - one is just 'missing,' while the other three..." He trailed off.

The Penguin's voice grew cold. "What?"

"The other three were on a mission deep beneath the city to set up a base within your defenses from which they could mount an attack on key personnel."

"Great."

The room fell into silence.

Mark shuffled from foot to foot and wondered if now would be the proper time to mention that Computer Specialist Todd Clasen had also wandered off. He leaned over to Dan. "D' you think we should tell them about Todd? I mean, he did seem to be a bit strung out."

Dan shrugged.

Mark sighed. Count on Dan to be totally calm and noncommittal when it would have been nice to have someone who could get mad occasionally, or even slightly concerned. The Commander rubbed the crystal hanging at his neck. He wished he was aboard the "California."

Joella walked briskly through the empty corridors of the Penguin's ship. Her metallic right leg gave a soft click every other step and was echoed by the similar sound of her self-designed combat staff striking the floor. The staff was only a meter in length and had a handle like a cane, but was infinitely more deadly. She had managed to have the most powerful type of beam weapon in the galaxy installed in its tip and had consequently drained most of her mercenary's paychecks over the years.

She'd been able to have it built to be the most efficient energy weapon in the corps... and then some. Unfortunately, she didn't have even a rudimentary knowledge of how to repair it or even adjust its delicate interior. This minor fact had kept her paying through the nose for specialists to repair it every few cycles. But now, with only ten crew members left to maintain the massive ship during the alliance conference on CoMann's world below, the staff was the last thing on her mind.

Her job had been complicated during the past week by unexpected breakdowns and malfunctions. The on-board communications network that was her responsibility kept fluctuating between all-systems-green and a complete system failure. Glitch after glitch cropped up, prompting constant monitoring to see where the next fault would arise. It was almost as if someone was repeatedly sabotaging the computer system every few hours. Several times, the malfunctions nearly caused fatalities: a decompressing airlock, a sudden electrical surge in bare cables, magnetic lifters suddenly losing power and dropping their loads...

Joella didn't believe in ghosts, but she was almost ready to start. She and the maintenance crew could never find the causes behind any of the malfunctions. They all appeared to be internal failures. She was just glad that the latest problem had occurred when it did rather than five minutes earlier. The entire ship's Comm-net had gone down again, but not before an urgent message from Senator Comeau of the Imperial Senate had arrived. Apparently, the mercenary funding would keep coming, and he was on his way to finalize the arrangements with the Penguin.

She shook her head in disbelief. Some things were so well timed as to be unbelievable. Unfortunately, the Comm-net went down just after the message came through but just before she could notify the Penguin. Now all she could do was hope that one of the life-shuttle Comm-relays was functional and had enough power to signal the planet.

Comeau had said that he would be arriving in four weeks, time that the Penguin would use preparing for a needless war if he wasn't informed of the monetary situation. Shortly, she arrived at the escape-pod air lock.

The elfin mercenary punched in the entry code and stepped into the dimly lit craft. Picking her way through the jumbled array of wires and panels, she moved into the cockpit.

Typing rapidly, Joella instructed the computer to run power from the main ship to the shuttle's communications equipment. After a few minutes, the main screen came to life and the system check came back with an "all systems clear" message. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least something worked.

Quickly, she put on the small headset and started sending a message to the mercenary commander. The screen went blank and several error lights began flashing. "Damn it!" she sword. Well, as impossible as it seemed, she couldn't avoid the conclusion any longer. Someone was sabotaging the Penguin's ship.

A distant sound of metal on metal caught her attention. She looked back to see the airlock closing of its own volition and the internal forcefield seals activating around it. "Hey!" she shouted frantically.

She fired a plasma blast from the tip of her cane at the door hoping it could penetrate the force field.

It didn't.

A faint, mechanical laugh echoed through the darkened cockpit.

"Who's there?"

"Why I am, little friend." The reply was cold and mocking.

The main control screen lit up again but with a cartoon-like image of a young man with a beard and blonde hair. The picture looked like old Japanese animation films that Joella had seen as a child on Tokyo5. This was no child's cartoon, though. There was something in the image that made her pause.

Something insane.

"Who are you?" she asked, controlling her fear.

"That would be telling."

Joella rolled her eyes in annoyance. A smart-ass computer.

"Well," it continued, "if you really want to know, I'm SCOTT. Y' see, I'm a Trojan Horse of a different color - if you catch my drift - and I want to see several people dead. Unfortunately for you and the people left aboard this ship, I need total control of the 'Dreamer's Folly'. I can't have the Penguin know that Senator Comeau is going to get him the money - that would be too easy.

"But you're starting a war!"

The program sounded surprised. "And...?"

Joella was silent. Great. A killer computer program loose aboard the ship, hell-bent on starting a war. Her attention was jarred by the sight of several displays flickering across the screen at lightning speed.

"Let's see now," the mad computer continued, "disable communications, lock the flight path, drain all energy from the system except for an amount to make a quick burst from the engine pods... now all I need is a eulogy. Let me think..."

Frantically, Joella tried to reprogram the shuttle's controls. No use. She checked the flight data. A direct path into this system's sun. "SCOTT, please, listen to me! You don't know what you're doing... the Penguin must know!"

The SCOTT program continued as if it hadn't heard her. "Ahem... here we go: 'Ten little mercenaries just received a good sign. One tripped into a life-pod..."

With a powerful blast, the life craft shot from the ship on its preset course, draining all power in the process. Joella and the craft gradually became lost in the vast field of stars as they sped towards their nuclear destination.

"... and then there were nine."

Jim Felling sat in the quarantine chamber; tubes, wires, chemical sprays, and over a dozen other assorted pieces of life- support equipment keeping him company. Over three quarters of his body had been replaced. Mechanical parts were so numerous, he didn't always know where he ended and the cybernetics began. A small, holographic screen floated before his face that recorded his verbal commands to construct an improved version of the enhanced leprosy-inducing toxin that the rebel's shot had released over Jim's body.

He couldn't believe it. By his calculations, he should be dead - the toxin was supposedly foolproof. True, he had taken the anti- toxin almost immediately, but it had never been tested for lack of a test subject. As much as he was grateful for his survival, he was angry with himself that the important toxin - the induction formula - hadn't been potent enough.

Nibbling on a chicken breast sandwich, he rechecked his latest batch of calculations. Flawless.

Jim smiled. Soon he would be out of here and back with the mercs. He'd heard about the Penguin's alliance with the rebels and decided that it would allow him the opportunity to question a few surviving colonists about the effectiveness of his weapons.

The chemist looked up as a cold breeze blew through the room. Silence descended upon the medical chamber. Nothing was there.

Confused look upon his face. He turned back to his holo-board... and looked into the face of the rebel he'd killed. Jim's eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. The apparition at the foot of the bed smiled weakly.

"You... you're... uh, you..."

The form shook it's head sadly and held up its hand in a gesture of silence. "Yeah, it's me, Jim. I'm surprised you pulled th' trigger... don't you remember me?"

Jim's voice finally seemed to work. "You're the rebel from the tunnels - the one with the blaster rifle..."

"Actually, we all had rifles, Jim. Don't you remember me from before that? I mean, really - look at me. I'm not a gene-colonist: I don't have glowing eyes, funky skin color, and I'm hardly over two meters tall."

Jim's face became confused again. "Hey, I don't even know what you're talking about; I don't know you."

"The Taylor training drills on Immortus Eleven. When you were with the Imperial Army."

A look of recognition came over the chemist's face.

The ghost smiled.

"Now, you know why they called me 'Never Sleeps Rust'... I can't die."

With an electrical snap, all the lights in the room went out except for a pale illumination that emanated like a pale skeleton from with the transparent form of the apparition. "Friends are the most important thing in my life, Felling." A series of six life- support units died in a shower of sparks. "If you're not a friend, you're an enemy." A group of chemical sprays and cybergrafts went non-functional.

Jim yelled frantically. "But I hardly knew you! How could I have known you'd be here? I was under orders - I couldn't disobey. I wasn't ever more than an 'acquaintance'!"

The phantom shook its head. "Sorry. No middle ground."

The remaining life support systems failed amongst the pained cries of the biochemist. The ghost vanished.

Claxons sounded throughout the complex as doctors ran to the scene. The isolation room was lit and humming with all systems functioning normally. Every piece of equipment flawlessly reporting on the condition of the patient.

And each instrument told the same story. Jim Felling was dead.

The mind which had held so many secrets and ideas had ceased to function. His wide, staring eyes looked blindly at a spot near the foot of his bed; his horrified gaze blindly fixed upon a small piece of paper curled at his feet.

The tiny, white card stood out in contrast to the otherwise cluttered room. Upon its surface was only one, small, hand-written line:

"Veni, Vidi, Vici - Ultio meus est."

Lycon's lupinoid form sat rigid on the large bed in his quarters, his emerald green eyes staring off into space. His roommate, Captain Tschimperle sat in an ornate, antique writing desk working on the technical designs for a new spacecraft. Sleek and aerodynamic, the massive ship "the Pendragon" would be able to enter an atmosphere and - give proper facilities - land. A low moan from behind brought his attention back to the current situation.

Lycon was rubbing his neck and blinking rapidly.

"Have a good trip?" Michael asked tentatively.

The wolf only nodded. Reaching over to the bedstand, Lycon removed his beaten straw hat and put it back on. Only then did he focus his attention on the Captain.

"Yeah, I suppose you could call it that." The voice emanated from deep within his throat and sounded distant and through the long muzzle.

"Well, what happened?"

Lycon shivered and put his clawed hands in his lap. "I killed him, Mike. I'm sorry, but I actually killed him."

The Captain was silent.

"Look, I'm sorry, O.K.? But he killed me first! I'm sorry, but I had no choice; I had to avenge myself. I'm sorry..." His voice trailed off.

Great. Lycon was in one of his moods. Mike rose and poured himself a glass of red Bordeaux. Then he sat on the bed next to the wolf and tried no to sound condescending. "So he killed you. You look pretty good for a dead man."

"You don't understand; nobody does. There's more than one of me in here." He added emphasis by touching his chest. "There are at least sixty different spirits inside me at any given time. I'm a living repository of the dead!"

Mike sighed and sipped the wine. "But they are separate entities. They're not really 'dead people' - you've told me that before. All they are, are expressions of your true self - a special kind of multiple personality disorder that only psychics get..."

"Yeah, but they occasionally become separate and start living their own lives."

"Let 'em. All it means is that you're more sane for a short while: one less facet or 'spirit' to worry about. You are the most unique projecting psychic in the Imperium. Rather than sending messages of pain or manipulation, you project whole personalities, complete with physical forms, into the world around you. They never fade, and are nearly as immortal as you are. And then, after a few cycles, they regenerate - I think it's the immortal equivalent of having kids."

Lycon shook his head. "Maybe you're partially right - but I've had kids over the past centuries. None of them have been immortal. Even my 'projections' don't last forever. When they die, they re-merge with me and I feel their pain. I've died hundreds of times now - both my physical form and my projected forms."

Lycon hung his head in self-pity. Mike drained his glass.

"How old are you?"

Lycon shook his head. "I-I'm not really sure. Somewhere around six hundred forty, I-I think."

Mike nodded. "Listen. Learn to relax. Every time something happens, you overreact - people are dying because of it. Felling is only the most recent case."

Lycon paused in his self-immolation long enough to consider. It would be nice to finally rest - never have to worry about his pain again. If only he could not let things bother him... relax and let someone else worry. But then, how would anything get done? He looked at Tschimperle's confident gaze. Mike had faith in him, when so few did.

He'd have to try, at least partially. "All right, Mike. I'll give it a shot."

Mike smiled. Although he disapproved of killing in general, working for the Mad Penguin had inured him to warlike death. It was inevitable. And although on one level, he regretted Felling's demise, he was glad that no more of those hellish chem-weapons would be made.

He put down the empty glass. "C'mon wolf. Let's go see how our new allies are doing." He put his arm over the anthropomorphic wolf's shoulders and led him out into the hall.

'Third-best assassin in the galaxy'... how he hated that title. Lou crept stealthily down an old maintenance shaft on the lowest level of CoMann city. The assassin grimaced as a loose nail tore his black uniform and bit into his arm. Lou crossed the rough spot and got out the medical kit he always carried with him.

As he tended to the wound, he reflected on that damnable title. Well, at least nobody was thinking he was the best - which he probably was. After all, every year nearly a half-dozen hopefuls would try and kill him merely for the fame they'd obtain for offing the galaxy's 'third best assassin.' He could only imagine how bad things would get if he began being called 'the galaxy's best assassin.'

It was all the fault of that hero-worshipping journalist, Hoegfeldt back on Old Earth. Lou Frank had met him during a job about four years ago and had inadvertently saved his life. Mister Hoegfeldt almost immediately began to ask questions about his past and occupation.

Gratitude like that should be against the law.

However, about seven months after obtaining the journalist's vow of silence, a major news story about the event appeared across the Empire, painting Lou as the 'heroic assassin.'

If he thought it would help, Lou would try to have the planet Hoegfeldt was on blown up. But knowing Ian, the bastard journalist would probably find a way to live through it.

Finishing with the medical kit, Lou continued on his way. He moved through the tunnels like a shadow, following the beacon that he knew would lead him to his target. Hans Melby of the CoMann rebels had hired him to take out a severe threat to their cause: a member of the Penguin's mercenaries who would almost certainly be involved in the invasion forces.

For nearly a week, Lou had been adjusting his sensor equipment to pick up the brain patterns of his victim. It had taken him some days of preparation to pirate the necessary medical data from Imperial records, and several more to adjust the information to fit any reading he could receive. Brainwave scan records usually were fairly accurate, but occasionally, like in this case, matched nothing within scanning range. It could be chalked up to any number of things from local conditions to a faulty medical record.

So Lou had to improvise. Taking into account the effects of the planet's energy envelope and a dozen other features, he had managed to locate a nearly exact match. A match which he was tracking even now.

Suddenly, he stopped.

In the distance he could hear a voice, distorted by an echo.

Lou crept forward and around the next corner. His hand-held scanner indicated that he was close. He looked down at a ventilation grating. There was an even lower level than this one. He could feel the rush of warm air coming up from the room below. And something else...

He couldn't describe it. A feeling of... alienness. In the air all around him and emanating from the room below was a feeling of a totally alien nature. Lou felt a cold wave wash over him. He shook his head to ignore the feelings and went back to work. The strange sensations could wait.

Peering into the floor grate he took in the sight of the massive chamber below.

The floor was a good ten meters away and the walls all the same distance apart. It was like a massive cube.

Only four doors on ground level led into the cavernous area, but one had been opened. A lone figure stood in the center of the room with three small maintenance robots. The voice was still distorted as it gave out orders to the mechanical servants, but Lou knew that it was his target.

Drawing his sniper pistol, he carefully braced the muzzle against the ventilation grating and aimed.

"Goodbye," he thought. "Assassin: 1, Doctor Todd Clasen: 0."

"Lau! Get that leg attachment put away now! We don't have time for games."

Yuk Ki frowned and put the tool kit back into its leg-unit. Leave it to Hans to stop him from improving himself. "Like, Hans, if we - what - keep going without communications, we'll never know what's going' up on top."

"I know, I know - but we can't afford to have the Penguin's mercs be able to track us through our Comm-relays. We just keep going.

Steve "Juggler" Birmingham led the way down the deep drainage canal on the lowest level beneath the city. He looked back at his two partners. They'd been arguing over everything during the past two days since they'd left on this mission. He sighed. Birmingham couldn't see any real reason to continue working for these rebels anyway - they were too dependent upon their atmosphere re-breathers and were hopelessly outmatched.

"They're probably all dead, anyway," he muttered under his breath.

Hans, his gene-altered skin glowing eerily in the subterranean darkness, came up behind the small demolitions expert. "I heard that, Steve. We've got no time for defeatism now - we've got to press on."

"It's not defeatism - just cynicism. Can't you tell the difference?"

Hans sighed.

"Anyway," Steve continued, "that old map of Evan's isn't worth the paper it's printed on. We've been walking for twenty hours now and still haven't seen the side-shaft outa this dump. Who made these tunnels anyway? If this is what I can expect from Imperial Housing and Building, remind me to get a log cabin on the frontier."

"Don't worry, little Steve, the Conglomerate didn't build the lower tunnels. They had only just started digging this canal when they discovered old Dirmenian ruins here. Rather than continue, they incorporated the old tunnels into the Imperial designs for the city. It saved them a fortune."

"What's down here then?" asked Yuk Ki, catching up.