Prologue

The dream had formed in the mind of five men. It was a terrible dream, a dream that four of them knew could, and would, kill. The fifth man didn't know this, didn't care, or simply didn't believe.

The dream killed. It killed four of five. They died of natural causes. Natural causes, that is, for schemers, plotters and disruptors. Then the respite began, and the fifth of four took the reigns of the dream, and molded it to his dream.

But dreams have a life of their own, and dreams can kill again.

Part I. Oh Dreamer, Where art thou?



"...Lurik Enterprises is a successful manufacturer and exporter of low-grade riot gear. This building is their main office, their equipment can be found in many low-budget law-enforcement agencies..."

Commander Michael dBale sat in his ready room, watching the holo on the wall. He guessed that a good portion of Anthos' citizens were doing the same thing this moment. With his hands folded and eyes slightly lidded he watched and listened.

The reporter continued to babble, and images flashed before Michael's eyes. He had stopped paying attention several minutes ago, after the dead body had been shown. The thought of How will they react was on his mind now. He knew what he would do. Most people would have found his thoughts repulsive. He would ...

The channel died suddenly, changing from the image of a pretty human responding to a poll about the 'Lurking Horror at Lurik' to bluish snow. Frowning, Michael stood and moved over to try adjusting the set.

The coax cable was still in, and the power chord wasn't out.. The sound of someone speaking prompted him to look up at the display. The connection had been reset.

"We seem to have lost the feed from Sathora," said the made-for-TV face. "We'll do our best to get it back right away. Don't go away.."

The image faded to a commercial, and Michael hit the switch on the holo-projector. Signals didn't often drop out like that, and he knew protocol. Networks always had a backup image or video ready to jump in in a nanosecond. Unless, of course, the broadcasting base itself went down. In that case, it would take the human operators of a sister network a few seconds to realize what had happened, and act.

DBale also knew the military protocol for hostage situations. At the very least a nominal jamming system would be set up, blocking most frequently used com devices. A heavier class-jamming field could be put up if the military was present. Most military jamming systems would kill all outbound signals, including those of any ANN stations.

Sitting back down at his desk, he continued to think about the report. Terrorists had taken over the headquarters for a manufacturer of riot gear. Not exactly the most lucrative target in terms of influential people or money, nor was it the most flashy target to take. People who took hostages in a building didn't often get away with the act, the men perpetrating the crime must have known that their chances of survival were very low.

That's why most terrorists opted to takeover influential things, like low-grade nuclear bomb faculties, or presidential palaces. Things that would make reporters hit the fans in salivating excitement.

Rolling a pencil between his fingers, Michael mulled the situation over. These terrorists obviously had a statement to make. They had taken over the HQ of a riot-gear maker; they had defaced a symbol of the law. A symbol of oppression, if you thought about it long enough.

Michael sighed, and went back to work. He knew President Kaant. The man was a politician, not a warrior. He would try to talk first, rather than take the advice of someone who actually knew what he was doing. He would talk, they would talk, and after a few hours someone would either find a way to gas the place, or Kaant would let the Terrorists go and bend to their demands. Then the real work would begin. DBale and his ilk would be called to duty, to go hunting after men long since vanished.

DBale signed, and went back to his datapad. He knew what he would do.

'Thomas' walked casually down the road. That didn't necessarily mean he was relaxed, quite the opposite, every muscle in his body (save for his face) was taught, coiled like a spring.

Twenty feet.

Thomas clutched the small roll of microfilm in his right hand, in his pocket, and prepared. It's just a simple drop, you've done it before.. He smiled to himself, yes, he had done many of these before. This one, however, was a little different.

Before he had always been able to come back and do the drop again, should he miss or be forced to abort. This time however, his contact would be leaving the planet, and the next opportunity was a fortnight away.

Only ten feet now.

"Mr. Thomas," said a deep voice. It was all Thomas could do not to jump.

"Sir Achilles," replied Thomas. "I didn't see you come up. Good morning to you."

"And a good morning to you too, Thomas. Out for your morning walk? I am too, do you mind if I accompany you?"

Thomas would have throttled the man in a second, had it been a dark and stormy night, and had he been standing in a dark and wet ally with no one watching. Only ten feet!

"Not at all, Sir Achilles. It is a bit lonely."

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! screamed his brain, but his mouth kept on going. Achilles might be a pain now, but if he thought Thomas was anything but a traveling 'soldier of fortune' he would turn into much more than a minor pain.

"Chilly, too. What say you we take a walk down to that new café on 7^th and 3^rd? I hear they serve a very delectable chocolate."

Thomas agreed heartily, his mouth functioning entirely separately from his brain. As the two men turned the corner and headed up 5th, Thomas couldn't help but glance back at the drop point. His contact had taken up position there, and was unfolding his paper. Their eyes made contact for the briefest of seconds before the man started to read. Two weeks of work gone, because the local royalty had decided to get up ten minutes earlier than normal.

"Twelf dayth until the netht thipment, thir." It was a heavy lisp, one which its owner had cultivated for several years. He was proud of his accent, as he called it.

"That long?" The owner of this voice sighed. "Alright, put in an order."

"That comths to thirteen hundredth and twelf credith, thir."

"There you go, keep the change."

"Alwayth good to do buthineth with you Mr. Vor," replied the businessman, as he raked the credits into his palm, and then into his pocket. No cash register was needed, as this sale had never really happened. In fact, 'Igor', as he called himself was officially dead. It had proven to be too much trouble to get him legally declared 'undead', so he had just slipped into the underground, taken up a new name, and vanished from sight of all respectable citizens.

Igor was a getter. He could get almost anything you wanted, and he could get it fast. Two weeks was the longest any customer of Igor waited, you could be sure of that.

Two weeks was a week too long for Vor, but he had little choice.

Thomas slid into the booth that Sir. Achilles had selected. It was a window seat, with rays of sunlight dancing over the reflective surface on the table.

"What will you have, Mr. Thomas," said Sir. Achilles cordially. "My treat, of course."

Knowing better than to protest the treat, Sir. Achilles was notorious for his so called 'honor', Thomas glanced over the menu and selected a cup of Chinobalan Tea, his preference. When the waitress came to order he asked if they had any Chinobalan bitters.

"No, just the Tea."

"Alright, that will do. Thank you."

For a few moments both Sir. Achilles and Thomas looked out the café window. The people moving up and down the street glowed with the sunlight, making them look almost like angels.

"So, Thomas," said Sir. Achilles suddenly. "I hear you keep up with politics?"

Wondering where this was leading, Achilles rarily did anything without a reason according to Thomas' sources. "A little," he replied. "I try not to read too much about it, or I get worked up over things I have but a millionth of a percent chance in altering."

"Ah," laughed Sir. Achilles. "Many people hold such views. Myself, I prefer to get right in the thick of it, to grab the problems, and the people, and choke some sense into them." He made a squeezing gesture with his hands, and chuckled a bit arcanely. Thomas looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"That is a figure of speech, Sir Achilles?"

"But of course!" replied the man with a laugh. "Politics can be approached two different ways, my boy. The first is by barreling in, do or die, kamikaze. The second is simpler, more subtle. You influence events in the most indirect ways. You twist a mans arm here, prod a fellow there, and by doing those two things you make a third man vote the way you want him to. Some people even go further, hoping their efforts on man A and man B effect man D or E."

Thomas nodded slightly, as if he knew somewhat of what Sir. Achilles spoke.

"But I digress, and derail the topic at hand."

"And that is?" asked Thomas after a moment, prodding Sir. Achilles.

"I need ... I need something."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I need a lever." He pronounced it 'leever', accentuating the word, giving more weight to it. "Yes, a lever. A lever to maneuver man A, you could say."

Thomas looked at Sir. Achilles, a troubled feeling growing in his breast. "And I come into this ... where?"

"Bright lad. Actually, you don't come into it. I just wanted some tea." Sir Achilles smiled, and sipped his tea. The waitress arrived with Thomas' Chinobalan Tea, and a small packet of bitters. "Found it in an empty box," she said, and gave Thomas a wink.

"Ah," said Thomas to Sir. Achilles after the waitress had left. "But now you have my curiosity. What's this lever, and who are you levering? Man C or man F?"

Sir. Achilles smiled slightly. "I'm levering no one at the moment Thomas. But, as they say in Tippoli, be prepared. Don't worry about the tab, I have a running bill here."

With that Achilles got up and left Thomas.

Left Thomas staring at a small roll of micro-film which Achilles had pressed into his palm as he left.

Stang.

The smoking room, as it was called, was fulfilling its occupation well. The room was lit with darkish, moody lights whose effects were further enhanced by the smoke that roiled about in enormous, billowing clouds. The ventilation systems had been shut down purposely, one didn't pay fifty credits for a good cigar only to let its smoke be carried away by an industriously diligent air-conditioner.

An odd-dozen men sat in various spots, each puffing on a cigar. Nothing was being said, they were simply sitting and enjoying. Several sighed on occasion as if they had just tasted the most delectable bit of food they could have imagined.

Finally, someone broke the silence. "Perfection," said Mark Towsnend.

"I told you they were good," replied Sir Achilles. "I had them shipped in directly from Halva."

"Straight from Halva?"

"Yes."

Silence picked up again, and the men continued puffing on their cigars. In the corner, away from the main body of men sat Michael dBale. He was the newest member of the 'Dozen', as the group of men called themselves. As the newest member, he preferred to sit to the side and listen, rather than actively take part of any discussion that was underway. Being an actual member of the Dozen gave him a certain amount of prestige, and the right to speak at any moment, but the advice of his Father on clubs and intimate circles of people still rang true to him. Listen, and learn.

Today's discussion, prior to the Halva Cigars being presented, had been the terrorist attack on Sathora.

"Interesting result to a climatic few moments," had been the general consensus.

Sir Achilles had been the only one vocally supporting the terrorists, or as he called them, the activists. "Notice how their side of the story is never really published?" he asked. "And I don't mean just the people from this incident, but rather, activists from all over the galaxy. Their side of the story gets relatively little airtime."

"Noone wants to listen to the sobstory of some obscure little race of aliens that th'Empire or whatever penny-shop government is oppressing," a short man named Andrew had said. "Every'n has their own troubles."

"And because history is written by the winners, chances are quite low that the real reason behind most activist actions will ever be heard," continued Sir Achilles.

"Why, Achilles, you're not supporting these people, are you?"

"No, not entirely," Achilles had replied thoughtfully, after a short chuckle. "I don't condone their course of action, but then, who are we to say that this isn't the last action on a long list of choices for them?"

"Explain yourself Achilles."

Sir Achilles had stood, paced a bit before continuing. "Lets just say that, because history is written by the winners, let's just say that ... for example, the Rebellion, before they became the New Republic. It's well documented that they tried some manner of diplomatic measures against the Empire before embarking with violent military measures, correct?"

Everyone agreed with him, and told him to continue.

"Well, who's to say that these activists aren’t doing the same thing? Who's to say that they too have tried to get the attention of the public with diplomatic measures, but as Andrew here said, no one would listen because no one wants to hear a sad story about some small nation of aliens that compromises a millionth of the galactic population."

"Achilles has a point," Mark had said. "But, are actions against civilians really necessary? Couldn't these people just target the military of the government they're ticked off at?"

"Killing grandma in the town square may not be nice," Achilles had said, "But it certainly gets more attention than shooting Army Archie in his fatigues, on a small outpost no one has ever heard of."

"Yes, I'll admit that you have a point Achilles, but these terrorists did give a listing of demands. They weren’t the usual "Stop hurting our people or we'll spit on you" drivel that usually gets given." The man who had spoken answered to the name of Ing, and only Ing. His race earned a second name when they had distinguished themselves greatly.

"Oh, Ing? Read something interesting at work today?" Ing was an intelligence analyst for the Central Anthos Intelligence Agency, CAIA, or simply AI for short.

"You know I can't say anything Achilles." Ing grinned slightly. "But I will say that the demands were very, very political. Nothing small here, these are demands that the Empire would probably make to the Galactic Coalition once the GC is down for the count."

"Ship destruction, leader resignation, constrained territory, heavy taxes, that sort of thing?"

Ing just grinned. "Hey," he suddenly said, "Achilles, you had mentioned cigars when you came in?"

"Oh, yes," said Achilles. "Here, try one..."

Vor hunched his shoulders, pulling his dirty-brown trench coat up higher around his now-wet neck. It seemed that it was always raining on this accursed moon. The mud around his boots had made a passable walkway this morning, and now not three hours later it was barely passable.

Muttering under his breath, Oquin twisted his left boot, attempting to free it from the slime. He almost fell when the suction let loose suddenly, with a pop. Quickly the now-drenched scientist made his way off the street, and onto a bit of pavement.

All up and down the street people were standing underneath the awnings of stores, or in the entryways of housing complexes. And though the rain came down hard, it didn't seem to Vor as if it was doing one bit to clean the years of ingrained slime off of the buildings.

Oquin cursed under his breath, cursing the stupid intern who had broken the only suplex-coiled light distributor they had had, forcing someone to take a trip to Clakor IV to dig one up. Well, this time around he had ordered two of them, and several replacement lenses.

"Well, are you coming in or are y'just going to stand there like a blither'n fool?"

The female voice made Vor jump slightly, and he whirled his head around. "Wha.." he said, automatically.

"Are you coming in or what?" replied the woman, who was holding the door open. She had obviously been holding it for more than a few seconds.

"Oh.. I wasn't going to ..." began Vor, before the smell from inside the building hit his nostrils. "Ah, thank you," he said quickly, adjusting his statement. "My apologies.."

Upon entering the small building, a bar by the looks of it, Vor took another smell. The fragrance of home-baked bread, along with some delicious type of stew assaulted his olfactory glands, sending a shiver down his spine. It had been over a week since he had had decent food.

"Sit down, there," said the woman. Vor complied quickly. He blinked after seating himself, and then fished around in his pocket for his billfold. Removing it, he placed a few bills in the woman's hand. "Will that do for some bread, and whatever it is that smells so good?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Sitting there, eating soup and hot, buttered bread, Vor didn't do much thinking at all. Instead, he just focused on eating, and enjoying what he was eating. The sounds of a party in the back didn't bother him, though more than one other patron glanced back in annoyance.

"Flipp'n resistors," said one man, at the bar. "Can't keep there mouths shut worth beans.

"The ASA will take care of them soon enough," replied his companion. The first man glanced at him curiously, and grinned when he saw the communicator.

"Aye, that they will."


Vor finished his food, and sat back contentedly. He patted his now-happy stomach, and burped. The food felt good. He pulled out his billfold again, and removed a few more bills. Placing them on the table, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He was just dozing off when someone screamed.

Oquin's eyes popped open, and he glanced about hurriedly. The sight of armed men pouring into the building made him gape. It had been several years since the events at Aeten, and the briefings of his superiors concerning armed me and sudden movements failed to surface quickly enough. Standing, with his hands out, Vor opened his mouth to protest.

A blue flash of light hit him in the chest, putting the protests far, far away, and sending Vor back to his nap.

Isjhe Kaant, president of the Anthos Republic, accomplished politician, was having a rather bad dream.



The five men were sitting in a bar, one of Clakor's famous floating bars --one of the few buildings on Clakor that was actually anchored to the surface of the planet--, and were talking.

"It's a surefire plan," said a man who looked like just like Isjhe.

"Well, surefire in that it'll get us all killed," replied one of the other men, a man who called himself named Cecil Lash.

"Maybe," replied the Isjhe-lookalike, grinning. "But isn't that how it's supposed to go? Blaze of glory, dying for a cause you believe in?"

"No," replied Lash. He pulled a cigar out of his mouth, and puffed some smoke toward Isjhe. "No, we're supposed to perform the coup, and live to enjoy its benefits."

Isjhe blew at the smoke wreathing around his head, and grinned again. "I suppose you have a better idea?"

Lash just winked. He puffed on his cigar again. Suddenly one of the other men at the table screamed, and his face became a bloody mess. An eyeball fell out, into his drink. The Isjhe gasped, and jumped as one of the other men slumped forward, leaning on the Isjhe's shoulder. He had a small, dark hole in the center of his forehead, and it was beginning to bleed. Yet another man cried out in pain, and his head fell off of his shoulders, rolled across the table, and fell into the Isjhe's lap.

The Isjhe duplicate jumped from the table, blood covering his hands. He cried out for help, for a doctor, for anyone, but no one heard him.

A puff of smoke surrounded his head, and the Isjhe looked up. Lash was sitting at the bar, a red line forming in the middle of his chest. Lash grinned, and puffed on the cigar.

"See what I mean?" He winked, laughed, and then he too died.



Isjhe Kaant, president of the Anthos Republic, accomplished politician, sat up in bed, and was violently sick.

Thomas sat in his apartment, brooding. He wasn't a brooding man, normally, but hard circumstances did strange things to otherwise predictable men. In the palm of his hand he held the small roll of microfilm that Sir Achilles had given him.

The term microfilm was barely accurate. Film had been replaced by digital methods of storage eons ago. This small roll probably contained a chit with a diameter smaller than that of a human hair, yet it could contain hundreds if not thousands of two-dimensional images. The small plastic container had a micro-dot on the end, an interface where a pin-sized plug could be inserted to remove the chit for use.

Thomas squeezed the roll. It didn't take a hyperdrive-scientist to deduce that Achilles knew something, or at the very least, suspected something. Achilles was rumored in the Trogan underground to be quite the schemer and plotter.

Thomas paused in his microfilm-squeezing. What was that Achilles had said about a lever? A lever to manipulate Man A, he needed a lever to manipulate man a. Man A, the first man in a sequence. Thomas gritted his teeth. His assignment here on Trogan was strictly low-ball; taking pictures of various petty polarities at their petty meetings wasn't going to gain him any promotions quickly. He was as low as an AI Agent could get. He was the perfect Man A.

Achilles had said he preferred manipulating from a distance. Then he had given Thomas a roll of microfilm. A nudge here, a jog there, and events began to play out the way the schemer wanted them.


Thomas glared at the film.

"What, exactly, does Achilles expect me to do with you?" he muttered. "Turn you in? Keep you, and pretend it had never happened?" Both options would completely blow Thomas' cover. If Achilles didn't know for sure that Thomas was with AI, he would know if Thomas didn't mention the microfilm it the next time they met.

Or did Achilles know? Perhaps he had but a suspicion, and he was testing Thomas? Give the man film, see what his reaction is?


Give it back. Pass it on. Keep it. Give it back. Pass it on. Keep it. Give it back. Pass it on. Keep it.


The choices ran through Thomas' head like ponies on a pinwheel. His brain hurt. He was a field agent with just enough aptitude to perform the most menial intelligence fieldwork. He wasn't an analyst.

"Damn you Achilles," muttered Thomas, meaning it with all his heart. He stood up, and after securely locking the microfilm away inside his safe, went out.

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->Another man was brooding at approximately the same time as Thomas was. Sitting in the smoking room, Michael steepled his fingers, and looked over the tips of them, as if examining his fingernails, or signing down a gun.

"Don't shoot!" said Mark Townsend in mock horror. "I give up, I swear!" He held his hands up, and grinned. His bewiskered chin bobbed slightly as his lips spread his face into the grin. It was the grin of a shark.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"Give me your valuables first," said Michael in a harsh, low voice. He held out a palm.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"Honestly now, cannot a man even walk through his own club without being mugged?" said Mark as he delved into his pocket, and withdrew a Cigara. He placed the tube in Michaels palm, and then let out a laugh.

"I told your father more than once that you should have gone to acting school, Michael."


DBale grinned slightly at the comment before pocketing the pilfered goods. "Da didn't have a very high opinion of actors."


"Nor of actresses, but he married one."


"Well," began dBale, but Mark interrupted him. "Yes, I know. Your mother ... a special woman, Michael."


Michael blinked. "Yes."


Mark looked pointedly at Michael, and then pointed his own smoking cigar toward the Commander's chest. "Don't let the past weigh you down, boy. Let it go. Your parents chose what appeared to be the best path, at the time."


Michael turned from Townsend, and started to walk down the middle of the smoking room. The last of the rest of the dozen had left twenty minutes ago, leaving Mark and Michael alone. He looked at the grue leather chairs, the ornate oaken tables, the towering walls and the extravagant drapes covering them.


"This, what is this?" he asked suddenly, turning on his heel. "This ... this utter infatuation with extravagance? What is it? Why? What purpose? To enjoy oneself?"


His voice rang out through the room, the only response was the echo.


"Why do we spend millions of credits per year on this building, expanding it, building more and more pleasurable things onto it, while not twenty kilometers from here people die on a daily basis because they lack the most basic of necessities?"


Again, only his echo greeted him.


"My father ... My father spent his life amassing wealth. He fought to the bitter end to maintain it. We moved twenty-seven times, from planet to planet, in an attempt to find the 'nirvanic balance between profit, and taxes' as he put it. What he meant was, to find the best place to rip people off .


"He spent his life hoarding cash. I remember spending two days trying to convince him to loan me the cash to buy a speeder so I could race my friends. Loan, note you, not give. I eventually had to agree to 20% interest. Mum said it was robbery, Da said it would teach me the value of money.


"What did it get him, I ask you, Mark? What did my Father gain from spending his life getting money?"


Michael stared hard at Mark, demanding an answer.


<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->"It was what he liked to do," replied Townsend, shrugging slightly. "What else would he do?"


"NOTHING!" barked Michael. "It gained him NOTHING! He gained the world, yes, but I believe he lost his soul in doing so."


Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Michael held up a hand.


"Did you know that in the Clakor endeavor, the one with the Radian? Do you remember?" Achilles nodded. "Father's efforts there resulted in the death of three hundred people. They contracted that dam, and then skimped on the materials so badly it cracked last week, and killed everyone in the valley below.


Micheal stopped suddenly. "My apologies, Mark. I've ... I've been thinking about that too much lately." He laughed, his voice sounding slightly maniacal. "I offered to rebuild the entire town, the dam, and set up a support fund for those who lost loved ones, and they are still suing me. ME, not the company Da contracted, or the men who purchased the goods, or the men who designed the dam, but me personally! Money, all they want is money. They just lost over half of their settlement, and all they want is money."


"Money doesn't heal wounds, Achilles. Money is like drinking saltwater. You only want more."


Mark opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it. He rememberd what day it was.


"Anything I can do for you, Michael?"


"No, no.. I'll be alright. I should go home."


"I'll drive you."

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