IT WAS AN IMPOSSIBILITY, BEYOND ALL CALCULABLE PROBABILITY. But astonishing or not it was indubitably true.

The Battlemaster had been resuscitated into a new universal era.

That it was a new era was already certain. An enormous span of time had passed since the catastrophe. Even by the time it had lost consciousness, the space reef had drifted, smashed, slowly cooling, for a million cycles.

Somehow the Battlemaster's magnificently well-designed body had survived in a dormant state for much, much longer than that.

Survival was astonishingly sweet for some reason. The Battlemaster relished the return to consciousness and decision making.

First there had to be regeneration. The braimass had fallen into decrepitude. The organ inventory was utterly basic. As fresh organs were created the bodymass swelled subtly. The tentacular nerve arms sloughed off and were replaced.

The refreshed optic systems examined the surrounding tank with exacting precision. It was made of a hardened ceramic, with some steel parts and a clear glass inset that had to be a viewport in the upper surface. Whatever had made it depended on vision as a dominant sense.

To the Battlemaster the tank smacked of a piece of lab apparatus. The nutrient gel was replenished from a tank in the base of the machine. Here also were mechanisms for maintaining constant temperatures and pressures within the gel chamber.

It all had the feel of a scientific approach. Undoubtedly the work of a technically advanced civilization.

For a moment the Battlemaster wondered if the Batrachian enemy had survived into this era. Was this some strange Batrachian experiment? Was it a prisoner of the great enemy?

Inspection of the viewport was rewarded, however, with sightings of a bipedal creature, with a relatively large head-to-body ratio, that peered in through the glass with a pair of rather strange recessed optical sensors.

The impression that the creature's sensory apparatus was weak was confirmed when a mechanical imaging system was clamped in place outside the window. Everything that went on inside the chamber was thereafter recorded.

This confirmed the lab apparatus theory.

There was no sign of the presence of the Batrachian enemy. For this there was cause for rejoicing.

But the question remained: Just how long had it been?

The Battlemaster was consumed with an odd fear. What if it had survived alone from the Empire of Axone-Neurone? What if it was the last representative of the great race of the higher nervous system?

What should it do?

Unfortunately, no obvious mission presented itself, other than to escape from the confines of the machine and seize some kind of usable host animal.

The peering creature would serve adequately as host; it appeared to be graceful and fairly flexible. That it was intelligent was of no importance. It was a primitive lifeform, trapped inside a wild genetic code that equipped it with anachronistic physical equipment.

But that equipment, surplus as it undoubtedly was for technical civilization, would be good raw material for conversion to hostform.

And thus, as regeneration of the organ inventory proceeded, the Battlemaster moved to obtain more information about the world outside the gel chamber. Accordingly it fashioned the rover, growing it from a regenerative bud within the digestive complex. A damped down gene-mix from full pup was used to keep the thing very small. Then it was released into the gel beneath the main body and sent down the waste pipe at the base of the tank.

Inside the waste system the rover avoided destruction by breaking through a filter pad and then cutting a way through a pipe. Eventually it found its way to an exit from the machine and explored the surroundings. It returned with a pair of small alien lifeforms. These were investigated carefully in a receptor pouch that was grown at the base of the bodymass. Then they were dissolved and ingested.

The Battlemaster was aware that it was under scientific surveillance; it took extreme pains to conceal its reconnaissance activities. There was a dreadful weight of responsibility upon its actions. It was quite possible that it was alone in the universe. That on its own it would have to re-create the race of the higher nervous system.

An immense task.

But the Battlemaster was not simple Military Form. It carried no Higher Form and was subject to no compulsions in that direction, other than a general desire to see the Empire of the Gods of Axone-Neurone restored to glory.

In another step the Battlemaster had hardened some tentacle tips until they were able to remove screws and break through plastic walls. It grew a small, tough sac in which it brewed powerful organic acid that could be used to cut through metal and might also be useful as an offensive weapon.

The Battlemaster soon found ways to penetrate the interior of the calving machine. Tentacles and independent "runners" were thrust into every recess. Eventually it investigated the entire machine, every cranny, every component.

As information flowed in, certain parameters became apparent in the situation.

It was alone in a medium-size structure that appeared to have been designed to contain a number of large animals. Beyond the structure lay a planetary, exterior winds, rain, and other signs made this clear.

The bipedal creature was the only visitor to the structure interior. It appeared only rarely and never lingered more than a short while. When it came it gave the instruments a cursory inspection and that was all.

That the bipedal creature was not alone in the world was determined when the Rover brought samples of recent animal exudates from one corner of the structure interior.

Quite recently a second creature had lain there.

The Battlemaster felt a pang of regret. Suitable host might have been had quite easily had it but known!

The Battlemaster was in close to prime condition.. . all but for the single, yawning chasm: the lack of host.

This was an itch that could not be met for the lack of a host creature, modified to ride beneath the superior nervous system.

It returned its attention to the biped that visited. There would come an opportunity soon.

In the box canyon near the Klimatee River, Rhem Kerwillig didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Life was becoming an absurd switchback of euphoria and terror.

Reena had taken him back and banished Griff as well as Larshel from her presence. So there was reason to laugh. The men were planning on killing him, so there was plenty of reason to cry.

Every evening now she went out with Rhem into the scrub and gave prodigiously of herself. She was sexually inexhaustible, and Rhem was on fire for the woman. He could scarcely think about anything else.

The rest of the men, on the other band, were not so overjoyed. Larshel and Griff were now the best of friends, and one night they kept braiding rope and tying nooses in it while giving Rhem venemous looks from the other side of the fire.

The next night Griff knocked his beer mug over with a deliberate sweep of his foot as he passed by.

Rhem bristled and saw Larshel watching him with cold eyes from the back of the cave.

He knew he could get killed here very easily. And maybe that was what Reena wanted. She seemed to get her kicks from having men fight over her; maybe she wanted them to die over her, too.

The only choices were to stay and get stabbed one night while asleep or to leave the SWALA and head north and take his chances with the Regulators and try to start a new life.

That wouldn't be easy. His ID had been nailed a long time ago, and he was on the informal computer-network lists. Any local CPS group would gladly execute him if they noticed him.

Any job would have to be found with new ID, and new ID would cost money if it was to be any good.

And, of course, Rhem Kerwillig was penniless.

But staying in the box canyon was likely to be the death of him.

Dusk was settling over the hills by then, and Reena came past. She had a certain look on her face, with a suppressed smile, that told him she wanted him to follow her out into the woods.

She went up the steep back path. Rhem looked around, got up, stretched, and followed her, as casually as possible.

He heard someone spit loudly behind him.

At the top of the trail she was waiting for him and the touch of her body, her lips, her breasts, seemed to ignite a flame in his loins once more.

On they went, into a scrub forest with a hundred small trails and clearings. Rhem looked behind them to see if they were followed, but he saw no one.

In a clearing she drew a sleeping bag out from a hollow tree and pressed its unroll tab. It inflated quickly, even as her hands moved over his body and his lips pressed hard against hers.

Naked, they lay together on the bag and Reena moved to ride astride him. This was her preferred position, where she could control things.

Usually time ceased to have much meaning for Rhem during these sessions with Reena, and he had lost all track of it once more when there was a shocking interruption.

A hand grabbed Reena's magnificent ponytail from behind and yanked hard, dragging her back and away from Rhem.

She gave a shriek, which cut off with a heavy slap. A boot slammed into Rhem's side, but he was already rolling away from it and only took part of the blow.

The boot was coming again. He caught the leg and spun, twisting his attacker off his feet.

Rhem was up in the next moment and looking for a weapon.

It was Griff, and he was alone.

Rhem wasn't afraid of Griff, only Larshel. Griff had forgotten himself; Rhem was the better fighter.

Griff did have a knife out, though, glittering in front of him.

Where was Reena?

Rhem cast a quick look down at her. There was blood on her face, but not enough for a stabbing.

Then Griff attacked. Rhem pivoted away from the knife and tried to kick Griff in the knee. He came close. Griff was so worked up he was careless.

Rhem felt more confidence return. He maneuvered to one side and tempted Griff to strike with the knife.

Again he ducked away from the blow, but without any kick.

Once more they paced around each other; Griff lunged, Rhem moved, but into Griff, pushing the knife hand away and landing a solid right hand in Griff's midsection.

Griff gave out a gasp and staggered backward. Rhem came after him. He noticed that Reena was on her feet and moving, too.

Griff slashed with the knife to keep him back, but Rhem moved in, parrying the knifehand. Griff tried to kick but Rhem kicked first and Griff went down on one knee.

Rhem saw something flash in the corner of his eye, and he ducked and heard a thud.

Griff fell facedown without a sound. Reena stood over him with a heavy stick in her hand. Rhem's eyes widened. It was a club, one of the ones they'd made to kill animals they caught in their traps. She'd hidden it here.

She raised it again and gave him a contemptuous glance as she brought it down hard to smash the back of Griff's head in and spray his brains around the clearing.

"Shit, Reena," he grumbled, "you killed him."

"The asshole deserved it," she said matter-of-factly.

Rhem found himself in agreement with her on the point. Still, there were other concerns.

"We got to hide the body. Larshel will want us dead otherwise."

Reena laughed and put a hand on her hip.

"Don't worry about Larshel, honey, I can make Larshel Deveaux do anything I want. I made him bark like a dog for me once."

Staring at her magnificent body, Rhem could imagine the foolish scene all too well.

"Yeah, but this is different, this is killing. I don't know what Larshel will be like when he finds out."

Reena shrugged and deflated the sleeping bag before putting her clothes back on. The bag hissed to itself as it emptied, roiled itself up, and fastened its clips.

Rhem dressed hurriedly, trying not to look over at Griff's smashed-in head. He was just thankful that none of Griff's brains had spattered onto his own clothing.

"Where you going, Reen?" he said.

"Down to the pool, where do you think? I want to bathe and then have some food back at the cave.

I'm thinking of maybe sleeping out in the woods tonight. How about you, Rhem?"

Rhem thought it was a great idea.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Count KARVUR WAS SO CONSUMED BY HIS PASSION FOR THE pale, zaftig Caroline Reese that he entirely forgot to visit the cow shed during the night. Indeed, he awoke at dawn still aroused and immediately took the woman once more, before she was even fully awake. There was something about the softness of her, the womanliness, that was intensely arousing to him after the hard-bodied peasant women he'd grown used to.

The sexual act amused him and when he was done he bathed briefly, a dip in the cold-water stall, and breakfasted on porridge and milk.

Then he went out to check the cow shed and its contents.

The rain had stopped; a morning mist cloaked the farm. Oxen moaned in the fields. The peasants were hard at work. The rains had come early and the peasants were planting wheat, soybeans, and potatoes.

The count took a few deep drafts of the morning air, fresh and alive with the scents of the country.

Soon, he told himself, all this bucolic tedium would be behind him. He'd be back to the Geezl Karvur of old, living in Frentana Beach all winter and CK City in the summer.

He adjusted his shirt, tucking it in more firmly at the back, and keyed in the combination to the cow shed door lock. It opened with the usual faint beep.

Inside the cow shed the count couldn't resist peering in through the observation port. He looked and felt his heart pound in his chest.