It was early the following morning when Dallas returned to the Old Palace. The staff car on loan to him was a brute of a flier: sluggish in yaw, with a tendency to gripe and wallow on account of the imbalanced 'light' armor that had been added to its frame, some time in the last century. He brought it down on the jutting platform abut the palace's peak, landing with an embarrassing lack of finesse. There were wry looks and smirks waiting for him when he slid out of the driver's seat. The ground crew that sauntered forward said nothing, but they didn't have to.

  Sergeant Ricky Lamb grinned far more openly. He had stepped out onto the platform to enjoy a cigar: nasty, smelly things that his lady didn't abide in her apartments -had thrown out old drapes and furniture that reeked of smoke. He savored his rare, smoldering treat beside the door, and eyed the young man as he approached. Nothing missed his critical eye: boots wanting polish, wrinkles in the high-waisted trousers, an unfastened button of the left breast pocket of the short pilot's jacket, sloppy cravat, baby-smooth cheeks (but not from shaving), and longish unkempt hair that countermanded the dapper effect of the blue beret set cock-a-bill on his doltish, but in all other ways handsome, young head. The polite salute he spared the young lieutenant conveyed none of the disdain he savored; that was only expressed in every other conceivable way.

  “Well, I must say sir,” Lamb drawled. “I never had you figured for a military man.”

  “Me either, if I'm being honest,” Dallas said, after reluctantly returning the salute. He had never been comfortable in his uniform, but standing in front of Lamb, it felt more unnatural than ever.

  The Andorran marines no longer went incognito, and Lamb wore the full rig of his species: brown uniform piped with gold, armor and gear harness just one or two shades darker than the rest, also piped in gold. He was polished, burnished, and deadly crisp. He wore his uniform better than most men wore their own skins.

  “Well, congratulations on your promotion,” Lamb said, and was delighted to see how this made the young officer squirm. “It's well deserved. I'm sure.”

  “All I did was get knocked on the head,” Dallas said hotly. He hadn't missed the sarcasm. “I know that.”

  Lamb warmed to him a little. Instead of exhaling upwind, so that his cigar smoke blew into Dallas's face 'on accident,' he blew it straight down through his nose. “Most officers earn their first step for less,” he said magnanimously.

  Dallas looked around to make sure none of the ground crew could hear him. “It's a mistake. I was useless before.”

  “Of course you're useless sir,” Lamb assured him, with no sense of confidentiality; a mechanic was startled enough to drop her tool box. “If you weren't, you'd be a sergeant. Give it a few years: ten or twenty or so, and another promotion or two. I've known captains and majors that weren't all bad. Of course, they were Andorran marines, but nobody's perfect.”

  Dallas fumed for a while, but the twitching at the corners of Lamb's lips convinced him no real disrespect was intended. He saluted, grinning wryly. Lamb's own lips finally twisted a little around his cigar: an almost paternal kind of sympathetic condescension. 'Sergeant's duty,' he called it. Inferior beings needed constant shoring up, and young officers were about as inferior as they came. He returned Dallas's salute.

  The sergeant shook his head and rolled his eyes after Dallas had gone. “Light help him and all who depend on him,” he muttered, and he kindly wished it might be so.

  Some of Lamb's brethren were disposed to act more respectfully towards Dallas; at least they were friendly. They greeted him almost cheerfully, insomuch as they could. They weren't supposed to behave like humans, being door sentries and standing at parade attention, but they knew Sergeant Lamb wouldn't be back for a spell, and they feared no other creature on the planet. Dallas regretted the blue trim of his uniform extremely, but he was in no danger of being called 'blueberry,' even behind his back, as he feared.

  “Do you need anything?” Dallas asked.

  “No sir. We're rationed up pretty good,” Johnny assured him. “And one of your officers even brought us a case of cigars and a keg of beer. He was a major I think: bald geezer with his face cracked and cratered like a moon.”

  “Major Odo,” Dallas said.

  “That's the one,” Teech said. “Said he was a marine himself back in the day: a different kind of potato but a marine all the same he says. I didn't think you had any navy or marines serving this backwater.”

  “Balls Teech.”

  “Mind your fucking manners will ya?”

  “What's wrong with you?”

  Teech withdrew into surly silence, not understanding what he'd said wrong.

  “Never mind,” Dallas said carelessly. “Ar Suft makes backwater planets look like core worlds. Anyway, you're right. We don't have marines. Odo and General Flea and some others served the Consortium back in the day.”

  “Oh, the Consortium.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Marines and ships galore that lot: big 'ol army too.”

  “Stands to reason with a hundred worlds behind 'em.”

  “How about your wounded?” Dallas wanted to know. “Any word?”

  “They'll make it. Even Myrtle,” Johnny was happy to say. “You heard about poor Higgins though, yeah? He was only a fleet jockey you know, a cargo wrangler and a bosun's mate, but he was alright for blueberry.”

  “He owed me fifty nack,” Teech muttered. “The shit,” he added privately.

  “We'd like to serve the bots back out for him, but it doesn't look like we'll be getting the chance,” Nobu lamented.

  “Why's your Prefect siding with the robots anyway?” Johnny wanted to know.

  Dallas sighed, wishing he had a satisfactory answer. The other marines answered for him: what can a militia do? No navy, remember? And a cruiser in orbit. They'd be lucky to hold off pirates -if any of 'em would bother to make the trip. They were kind, well-intentioned creatures, but their excuses and understanding brought Dallas low.

  “I'd better get in there,” Dallas soon said. He passed through the foyer door, and before it was closed, he heard them whispering recriminations at Teech: holding him solely responsible for Dallas's obviously bruised feelings. Then they caught sight of the militia sentries glaring opposite them, and everyone settled down to quiet, rigid animosity.

  Sinsin Cu and Dana Sky were right where Dallas had left them the evening before. After the desultory end of the lady's dinner party, they had moved to a sitting parlor, and there they had gathered around a table, joined by the other Andorran academics of their expedition: junior researchers who didn't merit any such titles, in Truanna's unabashed opinion. Mounds of data slates and personal networkers were scattered all around the table. Sinsin's omni was there before Truanna, open still, and projecting its screen like a halo over all else. If the incoherent blocks of text the omni displayed had changed at all in the intervening hours, Dallas couldn't tell. Truanna continued to swipe through the display to advance in her reading, but without any signs of comprehension or understanding in her bleary, bloodshot eyes. Her lessers were quite unconscious by then, and scattered around the room on couches and in chairs. Only Sinsin seemed to be going strong still. One of the Andorran data slates was in his hands, and he read it with rapid greed.

  “What happened to relaxed and efficient minds?” Dallas asked by way of greeting. “Maybe you should take a little break Professor.”

  “What for?” Sinsin exclaimed. “It's only... Oh,” he said, checking the time. And then he forgot what he was talking about and went back to reading.

  Truanna blinked in surprise, saw Dallas, registered the time, and surreptitiously took a snort from a vapor box. It was a bit of an abuse, to take vapor in this way. Genteel use called for drinking it, or at least, to disguise its inhalation as drinking.

  Stirred by Dallas's voice, the other occupants of the rooom began to rouse themselves, or else they resentfully covered their faces against the sounds and glaring light of morning. One of the recumbent figures shot up from its place on a couch and smiled at him however. Li Luna had also been up all night it seemed. Her cosmetics covered her fatigue well, and she looked singularly fetching, with her eyes a little bleary, hair gone a little astray, and a shoulder betrayed by her gown and left bare. She extended her hand, and it pulled him thoughtlessly towards her.

  “You look very well this morning Lieutenant,” she said. “And here I am, still smelly and gross from last night.”

  “No,” Dallas said. He wanted to be reassuring and flattering. He had been planning on kissing her hand, like he had seen Flea do, but his dumb, stupid brain was suddenly as sharp as gelatin. “Stars around us,” he eventually groaned, speaking as he did through a pit of longing in his breast. “You're beautiful.”

  Li visibly melted. “It doesn't sound like flattery when you say it.” She dropped his hand and replaced the shoulder of her gown.

  Truanna rolled her eyes, and silently mouthed 'Good morning to you too!' to herself.

  Li threw a pillow at her friend's face without ever looking at her, then she patted the sofa next to her. “I was just reading this novel the Prefect lent to me. I'd love to have your opinion on this particular passage. It's ridiculously romantic.”

  Dallas took the offered data slate and the seat she indicated. He tried to read like she asked, but he couldn't make sense of the words on the screen. Li stretched over the back of the couch, and her arched back brought her glorious bosom into outrageous advantage next to him. She sighed, and then she wiggled tight against him, hugged his arm, and after using her leg to guide his feet up onto the ottoman before them, she intertwined her own with his. She was cold at first, but warmth rapidly began to spread between them. Dallas never saw her stick her tongue out at her friend.

  Dallas read and reread the first sentences several times before their meaning sank in, and then he forgot all about the softness pressed against him. He wasn't reading a passage from a novel; this was a message from General Edward Flea, addressed to his hostage. It expressed polite regrets for the necessities of subterfuge and clandestine communications, the usual niceties, etc, and segued into a proposal. Flea promised military aid against Evolution, in exchange for patents of high nobility, the Congress's official recognition of him as the ruler of Ar Suft, assistance with rejuvenating the planet by means to be stipulated in future detail, and the promise of an annual trade expedition to his world.

  Li looked up at Dallas as he read. She was more pleased than ever by what she saw. He was a simple, lovely boy, with absolutely no guile. It was easier to read the thoughts on his open face than her own social calendar. He would make a perfect first concubine: utterly safe, marvelously kind and considerate, almost servile in his desperation to please and do right. He would never be tempted by the intrigues of the Congress. He'd make for an indifferent lover of course, but that's why a lady took on more than one concubine, and other lovers wherever she found them. Could he be brought to accept polyandry though? She had noticed his jealousy, which was so typical among the lower orders of society across a multitude of worlds. It was almost universal. What caused it? What made aristocrats different? She mused on the differences between the classes for a while, and then she saw that Dallas had finished reading.

  “I think he must be something of a rogue,” Li said sleepily. “Don't you?”

  “I...” It took Dallas some time to answer. He was out of his element, communicating in this way. It was like walking sideways through a conversation. Besides, it was something of a revelation. He had no idea Flea could be so devious, nor so ambitious. “I suppose so. But I still think... I mean, a rogue can still be a good man, right?”

  “Mmm,” Li grunted. She compelled Dallas to put his arm around her and she hugged him. She was thought that if she could just fatten him up a trifle, she'd never have to fall asleep hugging a body pillow again. “Maybe. You don't think he's greedy then?”

  “Well, I don't know about that,” Dallas said hesitantly. It seemed absurd not to call a man greedy when he asks for an entire world: even a poor one, like Ar Suft. “But maybe he isn't greedy just for his own sake.”

  “You're not sure though,” Li observed, though her eyes were firmly closed now.

  Dallas didn't know what to say, and before he could think of anything, Li had fallen asleep. One moment she was muttering something about how warm Dallas was, and the next, she was wheezing softly. Her snoring would have mortified her, and maybe that was why Dallas took an absurd delight in it. He smiled like an idiot, and once he had pulled her hand a little more north of his waist, he found he was quite comfortable and relaxed.

  Li slept for several hours, by which time Dallas wanted nothing more than to stand up and allow blood to circulate back into the various parts of him that had gone numb. Sergeant Lamb came, saw his lady and Dallas together, and hesitated only slightly before he came and knelt next to her.

  “My lady,” the sergeant mumbled, and at the same time, Dallas shook her a little eagerly. “Par Com Sar is here,” he said hoarsely. “It's waiting outside.”

  “Give me one minute, then let it in,” Li said at once: as if she hadn't been sleeping at all.

  The lady leapt up and scurried over to her friend. She took the vapor box from Truanna, and snorted twice from its spout: once through each nostril. She paused to hold a finger under her nose and shiver. Once the rush of euphoria had passed she twirled away. She was half way to her bedchamber when she remembered Dallas. She darted over as he rose from the sofa, and leapt up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss squarely on his mouth, even as she slipped the novel from his hands. Then she was gone.

  Not knowing what else to do, Dallas came to stand beside Sinsin. The professor would have preferred that he didn't, but he was too polite to complain about the odor emanating from him. Human hormones were powerful even at the best of times: even after a perfectly sanitary bath, and Dallas was a young male wreathed in a malodorous cloud of his species' love-stink, male and female all mixed together, and he and Li had both been sweating. Seeing a coffee pot off to the side, Dallas poured himself a cup, offered the others some, and having served this domestic function, found himself at the limits of his usefulness. He lapsed into complaisant silence, oblivious to Truanna's redoubled scorn, and impervious even to the imminent arrival of Par Com Sar.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Li hadn't returned by the time the cyborg was admitted. Sar went directly to the table. The researchers gave over an entire side to it and huddled together in a clump. It said nothing at first. It picked up data slates one at a time, and with inhuman speed, began reading their contents, then tossed them carelessly aside.

  “What progress have you made?” Sar asked flatly.

  “We're still categorizing and prioritizing our information,” Sinsin answered. “You're making a mess of our organization,” he added unhappily. The disorder Sar was bringing to the table was more distressing than anything that had happened to him since coming to Ar Suft.

  “None of this information is pertinent,” Sar responded and threw the data slate it held in its hand. It flew across the room and clattered off the far wall.

  Dallas's hand instinctively went to his sidearm. He merely wore it as part of his uniform, and until this outburst, he had never had a notion of his needing it. He he hesitated to unfasten the flap covering its handle, and fidgeted with its clasp nervously.

  Sar's facial tick had returned. “Our data miners went over all of this months ago. You're wasting time.”

  “How do you expect us to proceed then?” Sinsin asked carefully.

  “I expect you to find it!” Sar brought its fists down on the table, making the data slates jump. “I'm not expendable! I won't die here because of your incompetence!” The facial tick lapsed into stillness as Evolution reined in its constituent. Sar drew itself back up and clasped its mechanical hands behind its uniformed back. “The entire galactic hub has been mined for references to Ar Suft. All relevant data was turned over to you. There's no reason to look for new information.”

  “You've... mined... the entire galactic hub?” Truanna asked skeptically.

  “Yes,” Sar replied.

  “How...”

  “The superiority of Evolution is incomprehensible to its inferiors,” Sar said dully. “You either have eyes to see, or you are blind.”

  “Interesting,” Sinsin muttered, and he wondered if it could be true. Who was to say for sure: had it really been Evolution that didn't question itself all those centuries ago, or its maker? There was no way to know for sure, except to integrate, perhaps. Very interesting indeed.

  “Evolution is perfect?” Truanna challenged.

  “Yes,” Sar agreed.

  “You don't make mistakes.”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you wasting time with us?”

  “Biological imperfections defy predictive models,” Sar explained smoothly. “You're regularly observed to fail successfully.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” a researcher asked indignantly.

  “Evolution is hoping we'll find this treasure on accident.” Sinsin explained.

  “Yes,” Sar agreed.

  “Wow,” Dallas said dumbly.

  “The contradiction isn't fully understood, but stress and fear have been observed to increase the probabilities of favorable results,” Sar said. “Therefore.”

  In a blink, the table was overturned, its contents were scattered around the room, and Sar was at the throat of one of the Andorrans. It forced him to his knees, even as it began to choke him. The man's breathless struggles were drowned in the cries of terror and clamoring of the others to get away. Only Sinsin Cu and Dallas stood their ground.

  “That's enough,” Sinsin urged. “You've made your point.”

  “Have I?” Sar demanded, and its facial tick had returned. There was a faint ratcheting sound as its grip on the man's throat tightened. “You have a rare mind for calculating motivations and probabilities Professor, but have you considered what happens if our cruiser is forced to retreat as quickly as you hope? Thousands of drones and constituents will be left behind. What do you think we'll do to this backwater shit heap if we're marooned here? What do you think I will do to you, personally?”

  Dallas's sidearm was in his hands and pointed at the cyborg. It wasn't until Par Com Sar looked squarely at him that he realized he had forgotten to arm it. His thumb came up and flicked the switch. Sar sneered at how much the barrel wavered before the gyroscopic stabilizer spun up to help steady it. It could see Dallas's fear as clearly Sinsin could smell it: could read it in his body temperature, heart rate and breathing, and it could even see the trembling in his leg. There were two more clicks from its wrists as Sar tightened its grip. The strangled man's face was purple now.

  “Let him go,” Dallas said. It wasn't a command however; he spoke without anger or authority. He pleaded, even as his finger tightened over the pistol's trigger. “Please.” He was about to shoot when the man gasped and was allowed to collapse.

  Par Com Sar straightened, smoothed its uniform, resettled its cap, and left the room without another word. Dallas's sidearm tracked his progress, and continued to aim at the door for several seconds.

  “Dallas,” Li whispered. She was standing next to him, and her hand covered the top of his pistol. She urged him to lower it with the gentlest pressure. The firearm's little gyroscope wound down as he disarmed it, and he dropped his arm. “Thank you,” she told him, still in a whisper. Then she knelt next to her injured follower, and urged Truanna to give him a snort of vapor.

  “I need to... I need to go make a report to Ed. The Prefect. He needs to know I pulled a gun on Par Com Sar.” Dallas backed away as he spoke.

  “Wait,” Li stopped him. She gave him the 'novel' Flea had lent to her, which now bore a message of her own. “Please return this to General Flea with my thanks.”

  Dallas walked from the lady's apartments at first, but he soon found himself scurrying, and then jogging, and then running. He went straight to Flea's office. He wasn't there.

  “He's in the operations center,” the Prefect's secretary told him. “There's some kind of emergency.”

  Propelled by fresh alarm, Dallas hurtled down the hall, and threw himself back into the elevator. The sentries that greeted him on the other side were in a similar state of distress. They restrained him, and forced him to stand still for a body scan before allowing him through the armored door.

  The militia's operations center was the command and control nexus for most of the planet. It was arranged like a theater, with a series of workstations arranged as an elevated auditorium that looked down upon a stage comprised of an enormous holographic projector and a backdrop of screens. Some of workstations were as old as the palace itself, and they monitored and managed the militia's entire network of information sharing. They governed everything, from the scanning buoys scattered throughout the solar system to the most basic logistical filings of their smallest, remotest garrisons. Only the New Dawn systems based in the starport were separate. Most of the consoles were unmanned and some were entirely defunct. There was frantic activity around those that were functional however, as operators bounced back and forth between multiple stations. Voices were raised and words were spoken with obvious stress and alarm.

  General Edward Flea sat at the back of this theater, looking down on its goings-on. He leaned against a conference table that had once accommodated more than two dozen senior military leaders and officials. Dallas would have run to him, but there was the militia-uniformed centurion between them, and Par Com Sar stood at his side. Dallas skirted the former cautiously with his hand on his sidearm, but as ever, the centurion remained indifferent to his existence. Sar turned and spared him a smirk as he approached.

  “Not now Dallas,” Flea told him tensely.

  “Sir-” Dallas tried to say again.

  “Evolution just lost a dropship,” Flea told him. “Some kind of local craft rammed it at high speed. It looks like it might have been a death and glory run.”

  “It certainly was,” Sar replied. “Our ship tried to take evasive action. It was pursued.”

  Surprised, Dallas turned his attention back to the theater of consoles and their operators. He could see now that they were conducting a snap audit of spacecraft: trying to ascertain the ramming vessel's identity and origin. Captain Ellenstein was in their midst, organizing their efforts with some very few, but very sharp words. She soon sent a young woman over to the General.

  “I think I found it sir. Zero Alpha Seven, Third Logistics out of Newtown, Chief Hillary Dubois piloting. She was scheduled to make the distillery run but she's eleven minutes overdue and not responding to comms.”

  “That would put her a thousand kilometers off her route,” Flea observed. “How did she get so far without anyone noticing?”

  “Sir,” the operator said defensively. “More than three quarters of our sensors are offline. There are so many gaps in our net that's not even net. It's a-”

  “Alright, alright, alright,” Flea placated her. It wasn't her fault or anyone else's.

  “The problems of provincial rule, General Flea,” Sar said. “You really should think about collecting some kind of tax to subsidize the upkeep of your infrastructure.”

  “You're not very upset over the loss of your dropship,” Dallas observed warily.

  “Because Evolution understands that the militia isn't responsible,” Flea said. “We don't have any martyrs or zealots in our ranks, as it knows very well.”

  “There's a non-zero chance it was you of course,” Sar said with its sneer. “But the probabilities point to the Andorrans, or a fourth party. Either way, the goal was almost certainly to instigate armed conflict between Evolution and the militia.”

  “Well good,” Flea said. “I'm glad you understand and that this doesn't have to escalate into a catastrophe. Thank you specialist,” he dismissed the young woman.

  “I assure you, our reprisal will be moderate,” Sar said cheefully.

  “What reprisal?” Flea demanded.

  “Why a reprisal?” Dallas cried. “You know we're not responsible!”

  Sar pointed to the wall screen. To the universal dismay of the militia operators, their lists of craft blinked out of existence, and were replaced with a high altitude vantage of the surface of Ar Suft: duplicates of the larger screen. The image was centered on a military installation comprised of half a dozen hardened hangars straddling an emergency runway. It was accompanied by the usual support buildings: control tower, dormitories, bunkers, garages, silos and pillboxes.

  “Evolution has to be seen to respond,” Sar explained. “Our enemies have to be encouraged to try again. You'll step up your security, and the next time it happens, they'll be caught.

  “Your casualties will be light,” Sar promised. “We're only targeting the hangars.”

  “Wait a minute,” Flea urged. “Wait a minute. Let me warn my people. Ellenstein, hail Chateau Roux, tell them evacuate the hangars!”

  “Sir,” an operator replied. “We just lost comms again!”

  “That's not even where the transport came from!” Flea exploded. “You're sending your message to the wrong place!”

  “Yes, you'd rather we targeted your rusty old transports. Word will get around back to the guilty parties eventually. You're welcome to warn your base with this secret method of yours however. No? Too short range? Does it take too long? Perhaps it's not so very valuable to us after all then.”

  “Or maybe I'm just shy about using it in front of strangers,” Flea replied, and his ruthlessness chilled Dallas.

  “It's too late now anyway,” Sar replied.

  The Evolution cruiser had been loitering in distant orbit around Ar Suft, out of prudence. The militia was weak, but it wasn't without fangs: like the heavy strike wing at Chateau Roux. There were forty small craft hangared there, belonging to three under-strength squadrons. The interceptors and fighters were of little consequence, but the strike wing was legitimately dangerous to any ship. Evolution was only too happy to have an excuse to wipe them out. Even before the militia had identified the likely culprit of the suicide attack, the cruiser had settled into a position directly above their hangars.

  The cruiser fired eighteen shots from its main batteries, in salvos of three: one salvo for each of the hangars below. One by one, with hardly a second between the salvos, the hangars disappeared in clouds of dust. When it cleared, only craters and scattered wreckage remained. Then the fires started. Power cells, when ruptured and exposed to atmosphere, inevitably caught fire.

  Flea continued to watch in grim silence. He said nothing when Sar took its leave. He said nothing when the image disappeared and the militia's lists returned.

  “Sir,” Ellenstein came to him. She was shaking with fury. “What are your orders?”

  “Dispatch additional medics and firefighters from Pont du Garnier. Follow them up with a wave of ground crews. We need to salvage everything we can.”

  “That's it?” Ellenstein demanded.

  “No. After you've issued those orders, I want you to put together a security detail and head out to New Town personally. Find out what happened out there. If it was really one of our people flying that transport I want to know. If it was somebody else, I want to know how they managed to take it, and I want to know exactly who they were and who sent them. Then I want you to kick everyone in their collective asses and make sure that nothing like this ever happens again. We may only be a militia, but that doesn't mean we can't act like professionals. Right Captain?”

  “Yes sir,” Ellenstein replied stiffly.

  “Do you have questions for me Captain?” Flea asked combatively, when Ellenstein lingered.

  “No sir,” she said. Contrarian anger burned in her gaze, and the muscles in her temples writhed as she ground her teeth, but she said nothing further. She turned, and without waiting for Flea's own salute, spun on her heel.

  “Pour me a drink, will you Dallas?” Flea requested. They had lingered in the operations center long enough to get the first casualty report (three confirmed dead, and four still missing) then returned to his office. He sank into his plush chair with a fatigued sigh, feeling older than he had ever felt in his life. “And pour one for yourself. You look like you need it more than I do.”

  Dallas did as he was asked. Flea lit a cigar, quaffed his brandy and still, he glowered. He motioned for Dallas to sit, and then he forgot about him for a while. It was only when he felt his thirst return that he remembered Dallas, who was still standing. He looked up at him quizzically.

  “What?” Flea asked. “What is it?”

  “I pulled a gun on Par Com Sar. He was strangling one of the Andorrans and I-” Dallas's voice cracked, and he looked down at the brandy in his hands.

  “This isn't your fault!” Flea said quickly. “Drink that. That's an order. Drink. And get us a couple more. Fill them all the way up this time.”

  Flea came around his desk and sat on it. He commanded Dallas to a chair when he returned with two more glasses. He then extended his box of cigars to the young man, and overruled his refusal authoritatively: commanding him to partake in his own personal comforts, even though there couldn't be a hundred Heinlein cigars left on the whole planet.

  “Better?” Flea asked, forcing himself to smile.

  “No sir.”

  “Well,” Flea muttered. “Practice makes perfect I suppose,” he said, mostly to himself. “Why was Sar strangling an Andorran?”

  “He said-”

  “It, Dallas. Par Com Sar is an it.”

  “It said that people work best when they're afraid. Or something like that. I thought it was going to kill him, so I...”

  “You did right. The Andorrans are under my protection. I would have done the same. This isn't your fault,” Flea said again, even more forcefully than before. “It's mine. This is all a game between Evolution and me. Maneuvers,” he muttered. “Something like this was always going to happen, because I won't capitulate. It's my fault. Tell me you understand.”

  “Yes sir. I understand.”

  “Good,” Flea said, relieved. Dallas's conscience weighed more heavily on him than his own ever had, or could. “You don't think I should capitulate, do you?”

  “No sir!” Dallas said emphatically. “I think we should fight.”

  “We could,” Flea said. “And we could hurt Evolution, relatively speaking. We could really gum up their works here, but we wouldn't win, Dallas. A lot of people would die for no better reason than to make ourselves feel better about getting stomped on. Don't forget, Ar Suft is just one little pie Evolution has its fingers in, and it's just the tiniest little tip of a finger. For whatever reason, they aren't committing more forces here now, but that doesn't mean that they won't later, if they have a reason to come back.”

  “But we can't just let Evolution flatten us one little piece at a time though,” Dallas insisted. “Otherwise we might as well surrender.”

  “I agree,” Flea said firmly. He longed to encourage his young friend and to brag about the various cards he quietly held in reserve up his sleeves; some of them were quite wild. And it would have felt good to have someone to confide in: especially now, with even his old friend Ellenstein losing faith in him. He divulged nothing however. He wouldn't have, even if he wasn't under surveillance.

  “What's that in your pocket there?” Flea asked, in a much lighter tone.

  “Oh,” Dallas had forgotten all about the data slate. It was too large for his breast pocket and protruded some centimeters from its top. “It's from the lady. It's one of the novels you lent her.”

  Flea grunted in surprise, and his heart did a little somersault when he took the data slate. Then, remembering that he was under surveillance, he masked his excitement. “She's a beauty isn't she?” There was no pretense to the licentious gleam that came to his eyes. “Light of providence! What a woman!” What Flea wouldn't give to be in Dallas's place: young, handsome and tall (comparatively speaking), and armed with all the debauched and wicked wisdom he had acquired on the journey to middle age.

  “Yeah,” Dallas said, managing some genuine enthusiasm. The thought of Li Luna was cheering, and he felt a little more relaxed, now that the foreboding General Flea had softened back into the smiling, friendly Ed.

  “You like her.”

  “You'd have to be an awkward tit not to,” Dallas replied.

  Flea laughed. “Well, if you ever have a minute alone with her, don't hesitate. Just go right at her, with both hands! Life's too short to let opportunities like that pass you by.”

  Dallas was too modest and bashful to reply.

  “Did she tell you if she liked it?” Flea waggled the data slate questioningly.

  “No sir,” Dallas said stiffly.

  “I see,” Flea replied, reading Dallas's thoughts as plainly as if he had spoken them. “You don't approve of my taste in literature?”

  “I'm just surprised I suppose,” Dallas said dully. He was too tired for this sideways conversing. The effort it took wearied him, and he didn't much like it besides. It felt like lying. “You aren't...”

  Dallas couldn't find his way to the end of the statement he wished to make: not safely -not in a way that was disguised from Evolution, which he knew was listening, so he simply stopped talking. The burning of the brandy in his stomach was spreading outwards as a general warmth. He would be needing a nap soon. He apologized.

  “Have Ensign Cooper give you a lift home,” Flea ordered, seeing the early signs of drunkenness.

  “I'm fine. I can fly myself.”

  “After two glasses of brandy? Before lunch? The hell you are. I don't know what I was thinking. Don't tell Kay,” Flea requested, in a tone not far from begging. “And take the rest of the day off.”