Cabell looked at her. "Descendants of Haydon? Surely you don't mean Veidt's brethren?"

The expression on Jean's brown face flattened. "Well, yes, I did. "

"The beings we call Haydonites," Cabell said, "bear no more relation to Haydon than do Karbarrans, Praxians, or any other Local Group race." He caught sight of Jean's puzzled look and added, "Perhaps I should explain."

Vince said, "Perhaps you should."

Cabell rubbed the side of his nose. "The one we call Haydon is thought to have been a member of an ancient, highly evolved spacefaring group, whose collective name-if indeed they possessed one-has not been passed down to us. Nor, for that matter, can we be certain that 'Haydon' was the name applied to a single entity or the group itself.

"Jean, Vince, Scott, you have all seen some of the shrines erected to Haydon, and certainly you recall how dissimilar they are to one another, save for their age and gargantuan size. But not one is believed to represent Haydon as a living being."

"But there has to be some record of him, or them," Jean said. "Instruments, tools, artifacts, that sort of thing." Cabell chuckled to himself. "You're familiar with Garudans, Praxians, Karbarrans, and such, are you not?"

Jean nodded.

"Well, Haydon's handiwork is these very races." Cabell adjusted the high collar of his cloak. "You see, each planetary race was in a sense 'altered' by Haydon. And each perpetuated Haydon in a form appropriate to their own world view. So one hears Spherisians speak of 'the Great Shaper' or Karbarrans mention 'the Great Augury," when in effect they are all talking about the same entity or group."

Cabell shook his head in a self-amused way. "Where that group came from we cannot begin to guess. But from myths, legends, and fanciful historical accounts that have been handed down to us emerge 'through a glass darkly,' if I may borrow a Terran phrase-two versions of the final days of Haydon's race. In one we are told that they were on the threshold of an incredible turning point in self-generated evolution when they were destroyed in some catastrophe their own tamperings may inadvertently have brought about."

"And the second?" Nichols asked.

Cabell let out his breath. "In the light of recent developments, this version is by far the more interesting. For it suggests that the race did not vanish-though we are so led to believe-but placed itself in a state of what I once heard Dr. Lang refer to as suspended animation."

"We're all familiar with the term, Cabell," Vince assured him. "But what are these . . . geniuses supposed to be waiting for?"

"An event," Cabell said with a faraway look. "A cosmic event that would alter the fabric of spacetime."

Nichols gaped at the Tiresian from across the table. "The Invid," he said, gazing at everyone. "Don't you get it? Their mating with the Protoculture, their transubstantiation. That's what Haydon's race was waiting for."

He threw his head back and laughed. "They're getting ready to wake up. They're figuring on hooking onto the Invid phoenix and following it right off the map!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Of course, we had a sizing chamber aboard [the SDF-3], but Cabell's suggestion that micronization of Drannin or the other Zentraedi children could result in developmental problems had naturally filled Kazianna with a newfound fear of the device. I still believe the suggestion was totally unfounded, but because it was taken as gospel at the time, it meant that those Zentraedi who had elected to ship with us had done so full-size-not to mention what it meant for the work crews who now had to construct the nursery to accommodate children of vastly different sizes. Anyway, the experience of that day I walked into the nursery to check on the children's creation left me convinced that I'd placed too much importance on all this child bonding and that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea, after all. In retrospect I think I should have insisted that [the Zentraedi ship] Valivarre fold with the rest of the fleet instead of remaining: in Tirolspace with its skeleton crew.

Lisa Hayes, in Resh N'tar's Interviews with Admirals

"Seven worlds," Exedore said to himself, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the alloy floor of his confinement area quarters. Max, Miriya, Dana, and the Praxians were off somewhere exchanging wall tappings with the Karbarrans. Aurora was in the front room, glued to the display screen of their monitor unit as though it were one of Earth's old-fashioned television sets.

Seven worlds, Exedore repeated in thought, head down, eyes on the floor.

The past dozen hours had been punctuated by deep rumblings from Haydon IV's artificial core, the sound of powerful machines being reactivated after who knew how long a slumber. On-screen schematics flashed by Veidt's device told him little, but it was easy enough to imagine modules being hoisted and repositioned by robotic arms, gigantic plates retracting, a change in the very sphericity of the world. Exedore awaited some word from Veidt. Haydon IV was surely reconfiguring, but reconfiguring into what? An unassailable battle station, as the more nervous of the Karbarran captives were suggesting? A world turned inside out? A factory of some sort? The Awareness still had not made any external visuals available; positional data, however, indicated that the artifact was well within three hundred thousand kilometers of the small carbonaceous moon that remained the focal point of its eccentric orbit. Almost close enough to touch.

A deafening movement from seemingly underfoot rocked level four and nearly sent Exedore sprawling. There had been several jarring moments already, but no one had been hurt. No power failures, split seams, broken seals. Buried in the Awareness's neural programming were command codes that apparently ensured the safety of Haydon IV's passengers and guests.

As there were command codes that safeguarded Haydon IV from the threat of attack.

But just what had the historical Haydon-as individual or race-gone to such lengths to protect: the world's passengers or the world itself?

The Zentraedi perched himself on the edge of the bed, unconsciously adopting a thinker's pose. Seven worlds, he thought.

He had surmised from investigations undertaken during the Sentinels' campaign that the Awareness had had dealings with Zor in the early stages of his self-styled rebellion against the Robotech Masters. Later, the Tiresian-Protoculture's midwife had for some unknown reason duplicatedthe route Haydon had taken through the Quadrant millennia before, using Haydon's chosen worlds as the objects of his seeding attempts.

Had Zor been attempting to pick up where Haydon had left he had already visited Optera, where, assuredly, Haydon had brought Invid and Flower together.

But then he had gone to seed Peryton, for which Haydon had devised a thought-propelled instrument capable of altering the rotational axis of that dying world.

And gone on to seed Karbarra, which Haydon had gifted with the ursine-responsive Ur-Flower.

And Garuda, where Haydon had restructured the biosphere to facilitate a true planetary consciousness.

And Spheris, where Haydon had experimented with the evolution of crystalline lifeforms.

And Praxis, where biological parenting had become a single-gender affair.

And-by way of the deliberately crash-landed SDF-1-Zor had seeded Earth, where according to Dana's accounts the Flower had taken root with perplexing tenacity.

Which suggested that Haydon had used Earth for some purpose.

But a larger question remained: What had Haydon hoped to accomplish on his namesake world? What was Haydon IV that it should at all costs be spared the injustices visited upon the rest?

"Exedore," Aurora called from the front room.

That she had said it just loud enough to be heard did not keep Exedore from jumping out of his skin. Miriya's youngest had that effect.

He entered the room a shaky step or so ahead of Max and Miriya, who had also come running. Aurora was seated in front of the monitor screen, one finger raised to it.

"It's the reconfiguration pattern," Exedore said excitedly after a moment's study of the displays. "We'll be able to see-" Miriya gasped.

Haydon IV's northern and southern hemispheres were separating. The artifact world was about to open up like a hinged ball!

In newspace, Lisa edged quietly through the doorway to the nursery. She told herself that in addition to being a naturally inquisitive mom, she was being considerate just now, mindful not to disturb the children's play. At the same time she realized that her inner voice was not urging caution but demanding it; the feeling was similar to the fight-or-flight hormonal responses that were triggered every time she had to give the order to deploy the fortress's defensive shields.

The kids, human and Zentraedi, were still grouped around the enormous sphere they had constructed, completely absorbed in their work. The toe of Lisa's heelless boot touched down on a squeaky toy, and a dozen pair of eyes were suddenly trained on her.

"Hi, kids," she said, pinning a smile on it.

Roy glanced at his peers, rose out of his cross-legged pose on the deck, and walked over to meet her halfway. Lisa squatted down to his eye level and mussed his black hair. "Hey, that's some globe you guys made," she began. "What is it, some kind of space base?"

Roy took a quick look over his shoulder at Drannin. "It's secret, Mommie. You have to leave."

Lisa adopted a wide-eyed expression. "It's so secret you can't even let your mom have one quick peek?"

"No."

"Oh, sweetie, please."

Roy shook his head, adamant. Behind him, the human children had formed a guarded line in front of the sphere. Lisa straightened up to her full height. "Just one peek, Roy, and I'll leave you guys alone," she said more firmly.

Roy's eyes and faltering tone of voice betrayed his ambivalence. "You can't, Mom. We're doing something secret." Stern-faced, Lisa folded her arms across her chest. "Now listen to me, young man, I'm still the commander of this ship. Just show me what you've built and I'll-"

Abruptly, Roy turned on his heel and rejoined the group, leaving Lisa standing in the center of the room. She shook her head in disbelief at the mirrored side of the observation window and was about take a forward step when Drannin and the other Zentraedi children suddenly positioned themselves between her and the sphere. It was like facing a fifteenfoot-high wall of muscle and bone.

Lisa tried to contain her unease. She had not had to face off with a Zentraedi in almost longer than she could recall, but some part of her remembered and pumped fear into her blood.

"Drannin," she said in a scolding voice, "I don't approve of this behavior. And Kazianna won't, either." She could see Roy peering from behind Drannin's knee. "Do you want me to go get her, or are you going to show me what you've built? I promise I'll keep the secret," she thought to add.

"It's almost finished," Drannin answered in English. "We can show you after, not before."

Lisa softened her expression somewhat. "So it's not really a secret, then."

Drannin spent a moment considering that, almost as though monitoring something just out of earshot. "No, it isn't really a secret," he said at last. "It's more like a surprise."

Angelo Dante was the one who had discovered Rem slumped unconscious in the rec-deck corridor and had carried him over his shoulder, like a fireman, down to the med lab. The experience had been more troubling than the recent EVA and had cost the sergeant the few hours of after-mission rest he had coming to him.

"The guy's bad news," he was telling Sean, Marie, and Jack. They were picking at meals in the ship's commissary/mess, Karen's harsh reprimands having worked a temporary truce among them. "I've been through this before, so help me. Once I caught him hanging around outside of Major Emerson's office. Then I found him snooping around Fokker Base."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Jack cut in, gesturing with both hands. "You caught Rem where?"

Dante showed him an impatient, look. "Not Rem-Zor Prime. "

Jack scratched his head. "You mean the Masters' clone, the one Southern Cross command stuck with the Fifteenth?" Dante nodded.

"So what's Zor-Prime got to do with Rem?" Jack persisted.

Dante growled. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Captain. They're the same guy!"

Jack looked to Sean, then to Marie for support.

"What the sergeant's saying is that both Rem and Zor Prime were cut from the same cloth," Sean explained. "They're both clones of the same donor. It's like they're identical. "

"On the nose," Dante said.

Jack tried to dredge up what little he knew about theories of nature and. nurture. "Biologically, maybe," he argued. "But Rem was raised on Tirol, for cryin' out loud. Zor Prime grew up on one of those space fortresses, didn't he?"

Dante waved a muscular hand. "Splitting hairs. You find Rem lurking around, you know something's going on."

"Like what?" Jack started to say, when the sergeant suddenly shot to his feet and began beckoning someone over to the table. Jack turned and saw the keyboard man, Bowie Grant, headed their way, meal tray in hand.

"Just the person I was looking for," Dante said as Bowie was sliding into one of the molded chairs. "You heard what happened outside the music room, right?"

Bowie nodded uncertainly. "Rem passed out or something."

Dante returned to his eat and fixed Bowie with a gimlet stare. "I want to know what was going on inside, Bowie."

Puzzled but wary, Bowie tucked in his chin. "We were running down some old songs."

"Who was?" the sergeant demanded.

"Me, Musica, Allegra, Minmei. Why? What's this have to do with anything, Angelo?"

"Minmei?" Jack asked, surprised.

"Some of those old Masters' songs, I'll bet," Dante said. "Some of that clone music."

"Easy does it, Sergeant," Marie cautioned.

Bowie pushed his tray aside angrily. "Let's not start this again, Angelo."

"Minmei singing with you, Rem outside listening ... Doesn't that mean anything to you, Bowie?"

Bowie glanced around the table. "Zor Prime," he said in sudden realization, then laughed. "Look, Angelo, Rem is not Zor Prime."

"We just had this discussion," Marie offered in a weary voice.

"Yeah, well, I'm not convinced," Dante said, rising again. "And besides, even if he isn't Zor Prime, he's a clone of the original. And look what that guy dumped in our laps."

In the SDF-3's briefing room, Rick checked, his watch and muttered to himself. "Damn it, what's keeping her?" Lang regarded him from the hull viewport. "Why don't you just have a seat, Admiral. I'm sure she'll be here any moment now."

Rick stiffened, then resigned himself to it, forcing out his breath as he joined Lang at the permaplas window. "Beautiful, isn't it?" the scientist said.

Rick had to agree. Any planet at all would have been a welcome sight just then, but the one they had found-or the one that had found them-was nothing less than extraordinary. Crystalline skies like those on Spheris, verdant forests like those on old Praxis, seas to rival Garuda's own . . . And yet unlike any of those worlds.

"It makes me think of Earth," Rick said after a moment. "Earth before the first war," Lang amended. "But yes, looking at it summons up the same feelings in me. After Tirol, Karbarra, Optera, how easy it is to forget how affecting the sight of rampant life can be." He cleared his throat. "Now, Admiral, as to a scouting party."

A hatch hissed open behind them, and Lisa stepped into the room, an unreadable look in her eyes. Rick thought it was anger but could have believed it was fear.

"Rick," she began, "you better get down to the nursery and have a talk with your son. When I tell you what he did-"

"We can save that for later," Rick interrupted. He jerked a thumb at the viewport. "Maybe you haven't noticed." Lisa glanced at the planet.

"Of course I've noticed. Raul's kept me apprised of everything. But we can't save this matter until later, Rick. Roy and Drannin-"

"Lisa," Rick snapped. "I said I didn't want to hear it. We can discipline the kids later on. Right now we've got more pressing matters to address."