Reaching the central rotunda, he crouched low and performed a circular scan of the immediate vicinity. In better times, music had blared from this small, decorative structure. Better times might come again, he felt, but not soon. And that would not matter, if he and his wife and daughter were not around to witness it.

Satisfied that the area seemed safe, he straightened and motioned across the empty pavement, beckoning Lajjun and Ziza to join him. They could wait in the rotunda until he had scouted out the other half of the plaza. He started to rise.

It was difficult to tell who arrived on opposite sides of the plaza first: the platoon of Necromonger soldiers or the brigade of Helion fighters. Though outnumbered and outgunned, the Necromongers did not hesitate. Nor did they attempt to take cover. Instead, they unlimbered their sidearms and rushed straight toward the much larger number of Helion defenders. To someone trained in conventional military tactics, it would have looked like a suicide charge. Initial developments did nothing to dispel the validity of such an observation. In no mood for a display of politesse, the Helions opened fire immediately.

Ignoring the burst of gunfire and waving his arms wildly, Imam started toward the ruined building where his family awaited. "No!" he screamed as loudly as he could. "Keep back, stay there, don't-"

The furious fire from the Helion defenders would have tracked and eradicated him as a possible enemy combatant had not a pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him down. He fought briefly against the pull, and futilely. It was as if he had been caught and dragged down by limbs of metal instead of flesh. Effortlessly, but with care, they slung him into the deep shadows of the rotunda. He still held the knife. Rolling furiously, he started to come up and face whoever had tackled him. A flash of dim light on goggles stopped him. He knew those goggles.

Crouching opposite Imam, Ridd.i.c.k quietly contemplated his old acquaintance. As always, it was impossible for Imam to tell if the big man was irritated, angry, or merely indifferent.

"Are you following me?"

It would not have mattered if Imam had been able to come up with a sensible answer. Anything he might have said would have been drowned out by the roar of gunfire as the Necromonger platoon clashed with the much larger Helion force.

Attacking with what seemed to be more bravery than military sense, the Necromongers pushed in on the Helion soldiers-and were cut down, one by one, as repeated shots reduced armor and bodies to ruin. In the end, only the soldier carrying the small conquest icon survived-just long enough to plant his burden in the ground and deploy a release mechanism. There was a soft poomph poomph as the head of the icon cracked open. Something missiled out and up, to pause overhead. as the head of the icon cracked open. Something missiled out and up, to pause overhead.

Wary but increasingly confident, the Helion soldiers advanced beneath it. Spinning, levitating, the lambent orb of pale energy resembled some kind of aerial marker, or perhaps a distress signal. If the latter, it had been deployed too late. Every member of the Necromonger platoon lay dead or dying on the plaza. Watching their perimeter, the Helion force continued to advance across the devastated plaza.

Within the shadows of the rotunda, Imam struggled to rise. "Lajjun and Ziza-they're out there."

"Out there where?" Ridd.i.c.k asked him.

Restrained in the big man's grasp, the delegate could only flail helplessly in his family's direction. "Southwest side, under a broken roof. I've got to get to them. They don't know what's happening, don't know where I am. Just let me-"

Ridd.i.c.k held him back, the way an owner would a puppy. "When it's over."

"When it's over? When it's over? When it's over?" Rising as much as Ridd.i.c.k would allow, Imam gestured in the direction of the recent firefight. "Didn't you see what happened? This group of invaders, they're all dead. It is over, at least for the moment." He struggled to rise. "Let me go . I need to be with-" . I need to be with-"

"When it's over," Ridd.i.c.k repeated. Despite what Imam implied, the big man had seen what had happened. And it hadn't made any sense to him. No thinking fighter, however well motivated or brain-washed or drugged, went marching stoically into the face of visibly superior firepower without some purpose in mind. Distraction, perhaps. Something more-they would know, as he had told Imam, when it was over. Which to Ridd.i.c.k's way of thinking was Not Yet.

The rotating energy orb did not dissipate, nor did it change position. Increasingly convinced that, whatever it signified, it might be something more threatening than a distress signal, the officer in charge of the Helion unit ordered his troops to back off. They would go around the plaza. Standing out in the open any longer than was necessary was an invitation to attack. Voices crackled in his suit communicator. Something about something-behind them.

The Necromonger soldiers who had appeared behind the Helion brigade had materialized as silently as their comrades in the plaza had died. Now perhaps a hundred of them blocked the street the brigade had used to enter the plaza. A check of another street revealed another hundred or so of the enemy had already taken up defensive positions there.

Approaching from across the plaza came a third group. Threatening and unexpected, but not invincible. All they had to do, the Helion commander realized, was attack any one of the three columns and reduce it while defending themselves against the other two. They were outflanked, but not outnumbered or outgunned. Inclining his lips toward the pickup in his helmet, he prepared to issue the necessary orders.

At the front of the Necromonger column that was advancing on the plaza, a senior officer halted. Vaako was a favored commander, unusually young to have achieved such a high rank. For an instant, he observed the preparations taking place among the Helion force. It appeared that they were going to make a charge, in his direction. Another officer in a similar battlefield situation might have been concerned, might have rushed to prepare his own troops to withstand the frontal a.s.sault.

Instead, Vaako removed from one pocket a compact signaling device. It was small in size, but not in import. Unhesitatingly, he raised his gaze until it was focused on the pale orb of energy that continued to drift above the plaza. It was significant not for what it displayed, but for what it represented. He pressed the single b.u.t.ton on the mechanism, transmitting a certain signal to his a.s.sembled troops.

Strange thing, gravity. Abstract in concept to all but mathematicians and physicists, when wielded by guiding instrumentation it could move mountains. Or crush them. The Necromonger soldiers who had encircled the area fired-not on the Helion defenders they had surrounded, but toward the hovering orb. Absorbing the combined energy of the discharged weapons fully activated the device. When the sphere of now ma.s.sively increased gravity descended, it punched a neat, perfectly round hole in the plaza to a uniform depth of half a meter. Within its circ.u.mference, everything was crushed to a thickness of less than a millimeter. It was as if the ground had been painted with a smeared combination of metal, pavement, bone, and blood-an abstract vision of ghastly color gratefully muted by the night sky. Within that circ.u.mference had been decorative paving stones, railings, and every one of the Helion soldiers. Now all that remained was a multihued stain barely thick enough to sc.r.a.pe.

Having raised his head just enough above the rim of the rotunda to witness the shockingly sudden ma.s.sacre, Imam found himself stunned and sickened by what he had seen. In contrast, Ridd.i.c.k was nodding slowly, his expression neutral, his opinion of what he had seen wholly unemotional and professional.

"Beautiful. Clean, quick, no mess."

Sitting on the hard floor of the rotunda, his back pressed against the curving inner wall, Imam stared at his companion. He really didn't know anything about this man, he realized. Drawing him here had been an expression of desperation leavened with faint hope. A last-minute thought before the darkness descended, as it was doing even now. And very possibly, a waste of time.

Time. Time was something he had always had, but was now rapidly running out of. But what to do next, how to proceed? Especially given the horror he had just witnessed.

Unexpectedly, Ridd.i.c.k had a suggestion. He was not one to dwell on the past, even if that past was only a matter of days. Understanding, if not sympathizing, with why Imam had conspired to draw him here, he rested an arm on one knee while dividing his attention between his companion and the mob of Necromonger soldiers that was forming up to leave the plaza.

"I've got a ship; she's ready to roll. Come ride b.i.t.c.h if you want."

Didn't the man realize he had other concerns? "No, no, I'll stay to fight. This world has been good to me, and I owe it that much. But I just need to get my family across the river first. There's an underground facility there, built to shelter citizens displaced by severe weather, where they'll be safe."

Impatient, Ridd.i.c.k interrupted him. "You'll never get there." He jerked his head in the direction of what had once been the Helion system's center of power. "Too many ships, too many scans. Too many guns. If one of them doesn't shoot you, one of your own's liable to."

Imam looked at him: pleading not with words, but with his eyes. "I have to try. I could go with you, but they can't."

The unspoken implication behind the man's words being, Ridd.i.c.k knew, You take too many chances, I You take too many chances, I don't really trust you with my family, and what kind don't really trust you with my family, and what kind of existence would they have in your company anyway even if you could make it out of here? of existence would they have in your company anyway even if you could make it out of here? The big man was not offended. Reality never offended him. The big man was not offended. Reality never offended him.

"You know, I'm sure G.o.d has his tricks. He plays them often enough. But getting outta h.e.l.lified places no one else can? That's one a' mine." He smiled thinly. "I prefer practice to prayer." He glanced briefly over the rim of the rotunda before nodding tersely in the other man's direction. "Get your family, Imam. Stay low, move fast, and tell 'em to keep their mouths shut."

No one thought to recheck the rotunda that sat in the center of the plaza. It was too small to provide a refuge for Helion soldiers, and civilians were not yet a prime interest of the invaders. Having a.s.sembled an appropriately impressive ground force from the three columns of soldiers, Commander Vaako was now leading it across an approach bridge. On the other side lay the capitol dome, purposely left intact by his forces. An appropriate place for accepting the capitulation of the planetary government.

He could have surrounded the place with drop-ships, but marching up in good order across the bridge would be far more dramatic. It would also serve to testify to the complete dominance of the Necromonger force, and to its indifference to any defense the locals might still think of mounting around their capital. Show was important, Vaako knew. The idea was to crush resistance as quickly and ruthlessly as possible, so as to preserve as many enemy fighters as possible. Preserve them for purification and incorporation. A good many of the troops now formed up behind him-armor glistening, weapons at the ready, were converts from previously conquered worlds. Soon Helion Prime, too, would contribute its share.

A quick, efficient glance at his surroundings showed several gravity orbs still circling above different parts of the city. From time to time, a deep-throated booming would echo over the streets as one was activated and dropped. The Helions were good fighters and there was still some resistance. All the more reason to secure the government's unconditional surrender as rapidly as possible.

He checked his posture, straightened. It would not do for the man inside the armor to appear less impressive than his suit. It was important to make a good first impression. It was important that the locals fear him on first sight.

Time and time again Ridd.i.c.k found himself having to slow down to allow Imam and his family to catch up. While he was not even breathing hard, they were sweating profusely and gasping for breath. To her credit, the little girl did not complain. Only once, when she stubbed her foot. As her mother brushed at her tears and tried to quiet her, Ridd.i.c.k came over and stared down. Meeting his eyes, Ziza quickly went silent.

Lajjun looked up at him uncertainly. "Do you have a way with children?"

He shook his head curtly. "Only with real people. She qualifies." Turning, he resumed leading them onward into the night.

They moved as fast as the woman and the girl could manage, avoiding obstacles that included ruined buildings and dead soldiers-the latter mostly, but not exclusively, Helion. Imam felt they were making excellent progress, when Ridd.i.c.k suddenly spied something approaching and motioned them to move back. There was an urgency to his gestures that barred dissent.

Well hidden in the rubble, they did not see the creatures that came loping slowly up the cross street. Ridd.i.c.k had spotted them just in time. While he was not familiar with and did not recognize their specific physical configuration, he had seen enough in that split second to suspect their purpose.

First one lensing Necromonger and then a second appeared, followed by a specialist squad of soldiers. The lensors were troops who had lost their faces, or parts thereof, in battle, but who through the application of modern military medical technology remained-salvageable. Eyes and ears gone, mouths replaced by injectors, even noses blasted away, they had been converted into tracking devices whose melding of human biologics and electronic enhancements could not be equaled by equivalents that were either purely organic or wholly mechanical. Eerily silent, they led the way along the thoroughfare, single-mindedly searching for survivors. In ancient times, humans had used specially trained dogs for such purposes.

Leading this particular mop-up team was a Necromonger warrior of singular size and reputation. He was not called Irgun the Strange because of his distinctive facial features, his manner of speech, or even his sometimes peculiar personal affectations. Rather, he had acquired the name because during one especially intense battle on a long-since conquered world, he had received a knife in the middle of his back. This very low-tech manner of attack had importunely struck and penetrated so close to his spine, the blade curving slightly but critically as it entered, that even Necromonger surgeons felt it could not be removed without considerable risk. That, however, was not what had inspired the singular nickname.

It was the fact that he had chosen to leave the knife-blade, hilt, and all-where it was. It protruded from the center of his back like a flag, a rallying point for his fellow soldiers and a warning to any enemy. Here is my pain, Here is my pain, it declared for any and all to see. it declared for any and all to see. I welcome it, I embrace it, in the service of the I welcome it, I embrace it, in the service of the faith. faith. In its utilitarian appearance, in its owner's indifference to its presence, it was more frightening to an adversary than any deformity of face or body. On observing the injury, the Lord Marshal himself had praised Irgun for his defiance of pain, and had insisted that the blade remain forever where it lay. In its utilitarian appearance, in its owner's indifference to its presence, it was more frightening to an adversary than any deformity of face or body. On observing the injury, the Lord Marshal himself had praised Irgun for his defiance of pain, and had insisted that the blade remain forever where it lay.

As Irgun and his squad swept their surroundings with waiting gun muzzles and sharp eyes of their own, the lensors scanned everything in range or sight of their enhanced senses. Streets, windows, doors, cracks in the ground-all were subject to the same remorseless scrutiny. Occasionally, they found something. Some feeble sign of life. Wounded soldiers being more trouble to the cause than they were worth, they were efficiently finished off by Irgun's team.

Instantly divining the source of the squad's leadership, Ridd.i.c.k determined to start there, before the busy lensors could find him and those who had consigned themselves to his care. Working the darkness and the shadows as only he could, he slipped out of his hiding place and advanced. As he moved, the blade he carried shifted from hand to hand. In an instant, he had drawn close. Should he do it now? Or should he wait, hoping the lensors' senses would overlook the only active life-forms within blocks? He decided to wait.

The squad moved on, lensor heads moving slowly from side to side, soldiers watching, waiting, but not taking aim. Imam and his family stayed where Ridd.i.c.k had put them, holding their breaths. Trying to hold their heartbeats. The Necromonger team was rounding a far corner. Except . . .

There was another lensor. Trailing the squad, it hesitated. Perhaps Lajjun breathed too strongly and it detected the sudden rise in carbon dioxide. Possibly Ziza inhaled too sharply and the working of her small lungs was overheard. Or it might have been the pounding of Imam's heart. Whatever the reason, the creature turned. Locking on, it began to move directly toward the family's hiding place. Noticing their bloodhound's sudden change of direction, several of the soldiers changed direction to follow. One proceeded to alert the others.

Seeing the Necromongers coming toward them, Imam reacted without thinking. Bolting into the open, robes flying, he sprinted as hard as he could for the ruined buildings on the other side of the street. As a gesture worthy of a parent bird or rabbit seeking to draw sniffing predators away from its nest, it worked. Irgun and his troop immediately gave chase. They could have cut him down immediately, but they were curious. A single Helion, in civilian clothes, running from them at high speed, const.i.tuted an unusual encounter in this part of the devastated city. He might be worth interrogating. While killing him would take only seconds, questioning would not take much more. Irgun was curious. So he and his troops pursued, but did not shoot.

It might be a diversion, of course. Any such sudden, unexpected action might be a diversion. So one soldier and one lensor remained behind, to keep watch, and to see if there was anything else that might have drawn the first lensor's curiosity.

Lajjun and Ziza huddled in their hiding place, pressed back as far as they could among the rubble. It was very quiet. It remained quiet even when the lensor's distorted, sensor-filled skull appeared above them. There followed a muted, cracking sound, but it was not the sound of gunfire, or even of sensors rendering confirmation. The lensor's head twisted around 180 degrees, its faceplate catching the star-light. Lajjun had never seen one of the creatures before, but given its otherwise human body she did not see how it could be capable of such a feat of skeletal dislocation.

It was not. The turn was entirely involuntary, forcefully induced by the man who now stood behind the slumping figure. With distaste, he let it fall to one side. It landed not on the ground, but on the body of a Necromonger soldier, dispatched recently and with equal efficiency.

Ziza's eyes were very wide, but to her credit the child somehow managed to keep silent. As for her mother, Lajjun could only whisper desperately. "Imam-can you find Imam and-bring him back?"

Life was simple, Ridd.i.c.k mused. It was always people who complicated it, messed things up. Turning, he vanished into the night.

Expecting to feel his back explode at any second, Imam ran on, amazed by his continued existence. Could he have lost them? It seemed improbable, unreasonable. He did not slow down to ponder the unlikeliness of it. Still unwilling to accept that he was going to live through this, he thought he might have a chance if he could just reach one place, one special spot. After all, he knew the city, knew where he was. His pursuers did not. And Ridd.i.c.k remained behind, to look after his family.

It lay just ahead of him: a small pedestrian bridge. In normal times busy with strolling couples or exercising bureaucrats, it loomed like a darker slash against the night. There were places on the other side, a warren of pathways and tunnels through a nearby city park, where one might successfully hide even from trained trackers. If he could just get across it . . .

Something flashed through the air to one side. He wasn't sure if it leaped, or ran, or was propelled by some mechanism beyond his understanding. All he knew was that in one moment the narrow bridge stretched out empty before him, and the next.

The next, a single figure stood blocking the way. Slowing, Imam regarded the Necromonger. The man was huge, his armor designed to intimidate, his expression pitiless. All the humanity had long ago been drained out of him, lubricant for the soul that had never been replaced. Yet he did not shoot. Instead, he smiled encouragingly and beckoned for Imam to approach. The smile was as genuine as the rest of the man's expression.

Exhausted from running, frustrated at the events that had overcome him, in agony over what had happened to his innocent, beautiful home, Imam knew instinctively that whatever the soldier wanted, in the end they would not just let him go. He knew it as surely as he knew his faith, and his destiny. There was only one more thing he could do, and that was to try and extend for as long as possible the diversion that had sent him running from his family in the first place. He wanted to tell that to Lajjun. He wanted to tell it to Ziza, too. To try and explain what had happened to their life. It would not have mattered if he had been given the opportunity. Because he had no explanation. Maybe Ridd.i.c.k would discover one, he thought. Only that would not matter, because Ridd.i.c.k wouldn't care.

Locking eyes with the slowly advancing soldier, Imam pulled his plasma blade. Surprised, Irgun stopped. He continued to beckon, to encourage. Wondering which way he was facing and hoping it was the right one, Imam murmured a silent prayer. Then he attacked.

Moving fast, Ridd.i.c.k heard the distant guns discharge. He accelerated, keeping to the shadows. It would do no good to move faster. Better to stay out of sight and get there alive.

He slowed when he reached the bridge; scanning the span, both ends, the ruined buildings nearby, the destruction that dominated the far side. The only thing moving were a few insects, the ultimate survivors of any combat. In the distance and fading fast, he heard the sound of retreating boots. A distant glimpse of soldiers double-timing it away, dominated by one figure that towered over all the others, and then they were out of sight.

Cautiously, he moved out onto the bridge, stopping only when he saw moisture at his feet. He did not have to taste the blood to recognize it. The trail of dark liquid led to the opposite side. In a single leap he was on the parapet, balancing there easily. A solitary shape on the pavement below caught his eye immediately. He could not see the face, but he recognized the robes.

Should have killed them when I had the chance, he told himself angrily, thinking back to the initial encounter with the patrolling platoon. He had been too cautious. Because of the child? Should have trusted his first instincts. Death invariably followed hesitation. he told himself angrily, thinking back to the initial encounter with the patrolling platoon. He had been too cautious. Because of the child? Should have trusted his first instincts. Death invariably followed hesitation.

The child. With a last glance to make sure all of the Necromongers had left and that there was nothing in the immediate vicinity capable of following him, he jumped down onto the bridge and rushed off into the night.

VI.

Eventually, mercifully, dawn came to Helion Prime. The sunlight washed out the light from the fires that continued to rage throughout the capital and other major cities. Locally, the last pockets of resistance were being overwhelmed and mopped up by Necromonger forces. Outside the centers of commerce and industry, all was relatively quiet. Unable to affect their own destiny, country folk listened and waited to learn of their fate. They had nothing to say about it. Having not partic.i.p.ated in the fight, they would be equally shut out of the peace.

Like a gigantic black beetle, something ma.s.sive and dark squatted in the center of the capital. Come to ground, the Basilica was even more impressive than it had been suspended high in the upper atmosphere. It towered above the surviving government structures, dominating them as easily as a lion would a pack of cowed foxes.

Preparations for the armistice had been prepared as meticulously as the battle plan. The Basilica faced the damaged but still intact capitol dome. Flanking it were the warrior ships. Soldiers lined up on both sides of the towering doors at the bottom of the Basilica. The doors had been proportioned to impress onlookers, not because the command vessel was crewed by giants. As martial music flared, the barriers parted.

Backed by his field commanders and princ.i.p.al advisers, the Lord Marshal stood staring out at the battered surface of Helion Prime. Even from his interior vantage point he was able to make out the capitol dome and the ranks of hovering warships. At his appearance, the heads of the ranked vessels began to dip in perfect unison: an aerodynamic bow. The aerial ballet could not fail to impress any who saw it.

Eminently satisfied, he started down the wide steps. "It is time. Let's go replenish the ranks."

Commanders Vaako, Scales, and Toal trailed him as he exited the Basilica and strode toward the waiting capitol dome. The Purifier was there, too. Falling in alongside Vaako was a woman who held no formal military rank, but whose attention everyone sought. That she was partnered with Vaako did not keep others from trying to insinuate themselves into her good graces-and elsewhere. Vaako was aware of such efforts. They did not rouse him to anger because he understood the motivation. Having seen, or more properly, been exposed to Dame Vaako, most men and not a few women could do little else. That she had chosen to partner with him was a matter of some pride.

"Never fails to inspire, does it?" she commented as they marched side by side. "Each time a dynasty falls. So much expenditure of effort, so much waste of treasure, all for naught in the end. As it always is, so it will always be."

Leaning toward her, an annoyed Vaako whispered tightly, "This is the Procession of Conquest. Mark your words and remember your place."

Unperturbed, she hooked her arm through his and nodded in the direction of the Lord Marshal. "Why? Do you worry he he will overhear? He is too full of the moment of victory, too full of himself right now, to notice anything that does not reflect on his glory. As for my place, that is at your side, dear Vaako. From now till the UnderVerse come. Never doubt that." will overhear? He is too full of the moment of victory, too full of himself right now, to notice anything that does not reflect on his glory. As for my place, that is at your side, dear Vaako. From now till the UnderVerse come. Never doubt that."

"I don't," he replied with conviction. Raising a hand, he pointed. "Look. The ceremonial final."

A pair of Necromonger fighter craft had zeroed in on the huge symbol that crowned the capitol dome. A few perfectly placed charges smashed through its base. The symbol teetered unsteadily. Then, falling as if in slow motion, it toppled and spilled to the ground, cratering the surface where it landed. Digging its own grave literally as well as symbolically, Vaako mused. He did not think the intentionally violent gesture out of place. As an experienced warrior, he knew well the importance of symbols. In case any still doubted, it was visual confirmation of the fall of Helion Prime.

In the central meeting chamber, the leaders of Helion waited uneasily. Politicians, bureaucrats, ministers, clerics, they waited and whispered while surrounded by an elite corps of Necromonger fighters led by Irgun the Strange. Some of the representatives had come willingly, hoping to negotiate the best possible terms of surrender for their people. Others had arrived with hopes of working with the conquerors. Still more had been rounded up and chivvied along against their will, unable to escape or turned in by the first of the inevitable collaborators.

Silence fell as the Lord Marshal and his retinue entered. Without fear or hesitation, he started down the stairs toward the central dais. No one had to part the milling Helions for him. That he advanced alone, without flanking security, was not lost on the onlookers. Backing away, they gave him plenty of s.p.a.ce, as if the radius of fear that surrounded him was a palpable thing and not just an impression.

Mounting the dais, he took time to study his surroundings as the Purifier joined him. The interior of the capitol dome was impressive-in the usual transitory, meaningless way of the ignorant and misguided. Like everything else, that would soon be corrected. As the Purifier began to speak, his words were heard clearly all the way to the back of the circular auditorium. The voice of the senior spiritual adviser of Necromonger society had no need of amplification.

"Leaders of Helion! Harken unto me and learn of the true reality. In this 'verse, life is antagonistic to the natural state of being. Here, humans in all their societies and sects are but a spontaneous outbreak, as Covu realized, an unnatural occurrence, an unguided mistake. Our purpose in coming among you is to correct this mistake. Because of the nature of the truth, we are compelled to bring forward our message of understanding and deliverance by those means that cannot be argued."

It was certainly not the speech the a.s.sembled had expected to hear: no talk of paying tribute, of installing satraps and governors over the existing provinces of Helion Prime. No thundering denunciations or threats of reprisal against the stiff resistance that had been put up by the planet's defenders. Some of those who had gathered in fear now began to relax ever so slightly. Others maintained their guard, as wary of what they did not expect as they were of that which they did not understand.

The Purifier continued, his voice rising, cajoling, persuading. "But let me tell you of another 'verse. A 'verse where life is welcomed. Cherished. Appreciated for what it represents. A ravishing, wondrous, all-encompa.s.sing new place called the UnderVerse. All one needs to reach this place is to walk the road that crosses over the Threshold."

"The Threshold," the a.s.sembled victorious troops intoned rapturously. the a.s.sembled victorious troops intoned rapturously. "Take us to the Threshold." "Take us to the Threshold." It was difficult to tell which was more unsettling to the a.s.sembled leaders of Helion: the volume with which their menacing guards thundered the request, or the ma.s.sed unison with which they declaimed it. It smacked of political and religious philosophies long discarded in this part of the galaxy. As the sagest among them knew, technology had a way of granting new life to discarded dogmas. Technology, and promise. It was difficult to tell which was more unsettling to the a.s.sembled leaders of Helion: the volume with which their menacing guards thundered the request, or the ma.s.sed unison with which they declaimed it. It smacked of political and religious philosophies long discarded in this part of the galaxy. As the sagest among them knew, technology had a way of granting new life to discarded dogmas. Technology, and promise.

"The Threshold," the Lord Marshal explained for the benefit of the confused-which at that moment included every non-Necromonger in the chamber- "is what you happen to call 'death.' Sadly, it is a term that throughout human history has been as misused as the condition itself has been misunderstood." He stood a little straighter on the dais. "We have been privileged to see through these historical misconceptions, and to find the one true road."

Nodding, the Purifier continued. "So you see that it is our 'verse-and not the one popularly thought of as the beyond or the end or any one of a number of other equally inaccurate designations-that must be cleansed of life so that the UnderVerse can populate and prosper."

The threat of the circle of watching soldiers notwithstanding, rumbles of discontent began to rise from the a.s.sembled Helion leaders. Not only from the clerics, whose own deeply held faiths were being so casually disparaged, but from their secular counterparts as well.

"I know the true name of your 'verse," someone shouted from within the crowd. "The perverse!"

Muting the rising discontent through the sheer force of his personality, the Lord Marshal stepped forward and replied. "Look around you. Look-are you afraid?" He waited while the sullen eyes of the subjugated scrutinized their vanquishers. "Every Necromonger in this hall-every one of the Legion Vast that just swept aside your planetary defenses in one night-was once like you. Fought as feebly as you. Commander, officer, soldier. Supporter, technician, adviser. All came from elsewhere, from else-when. From other empty, meaningless lives. From worlds not conquered by us, but liberated by us. From ignorance and delusion. Because every Necromonger who lives today and who serves the cause is a convert. A convert from ignorance and delusion."

His speech did not have the intended effect. The roiling sounds of discontent filled the chamber even louder than before. Why was it always so difficult? he wondered. Why were there always those who felt compelled to resist? He had come to think of it as a reflex action, no more planned than it was predictable. Some worlds were worse than others. He had not yet decided about Helion Prime. But it was always the leadership that was the most difficult to convince. Perhaps because they felt they had the most to lose. If only they realized that they had the most to gain.

It would not matter. The end would be the same. As it always was.

"We all began as something else," the Purifier boomed, his voice rising above the swelling clamor. "I was once no different from you. No less resentful, no less angry. And no less uninformed. It was hard for me to accept, too, when I first heard these words. But I listened, and reflected, and in listening and reflecting I was changed. I let the words take away my pain. Just as you will, too, when you realize and accept that the Threshold to the UnderVerse will be crossed only by those who have received the Necromonger faith. For those who will, for those who are willing to challenge accepted ignorance on behalf of revealed truth, right now, drop to your knees and ask to be purified." Lowering his head, he stretched out his arms toward the crowd, as if willing them to give a positive response. the Purifier boomed, his voice rising above the swelling clamor. "I was once no different from you. No less resentful, no less angry. And no less uninformed. It was hard for me to accept, too, when I first heard these words. But I listened, and reflected, and in listening and reflecting I was changed. I let the words take away my pain. Just as you will, too, when you realize and accept that the Threshold to the UnderVerse will be crossed only by those who have received the Necromonger faith. For those who will, for those who are willing to challenge accepted ignorance on behalf of revealed truth, right now, drop to your knees and ask to be purified." Lowering his head, he stretched out his arms toward the crowd, as if willing them to give a positive response.

Emboldened by the semiconciliatory nature of the words that had been spoken, more and more in the crowd began to give voice to feelings that had been suppressed since the inevitability of their military collapse.

"You cannot expect us to do this, or to ask it so brazenly of our citizenry. So much has happened so quickly. They need time to recover, to consider, to discuss and debate the fine points of what you a.s.sert. Do you really expect all of us who believe, to on such short notice-"

"Renounce our faith?" a Meccan cleric interjected in disbelief.

"No one here will do what you ask," another well-known, well-respected politician declared boldly. He did not back down as the Lord Marshal descended from the dais and came toward him. Eyes locked on the approaching armored figure, the politician continued, making sure that everyone around him could hear.

"It's unthinkable. This is a world of many peoples, many religions. Our diversity is our pride. We simply cannot and will not cast all that aside, not even on the word of a military conqueror. You may triumph by military means, but your philosophy is alien to us, as it is alien to common sense, to reality, to-"

He gasped and sucked in his breath, his speech cut off in mid-sentence. Something had emerged from within the Lord Marshal. It was red and ethereal yet very real. It resolved itself for all to see into a third arm that plunged deep into the body of the politician. The man twitched, clutching at himself, his eyes threatening to pop from their sockets. When the astral limb reemerged it held something that writhed and twisted and all but screamed. The essence of self? A human soul? Never having seen the like before, none of the shocked and stunned onlookers could say for certain. They could only stare, and surmise.