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Chapter Twenty-one

The Enemy has evidently managed to gather at least ten Mark XXXII Bolos and assemble them here, within the Trolvas complex. Judging by the number of Bolos in his arsenal already disabled or destroyed, I estimate that he must have little in the way of reserves and that this represents a final do-or-die push on his part. 

Unfortunately, it may represent a successful strategy, for I have few options. If we withdraw into the tunnel from which we have just emerged, the Enemy will be able to mass the firepower of several undamaged Bolos against us, while we are unable to engage in maneuvers or seek cover to avoid his target locks. If we move forward, we risk becoming surrounded and trapped. If we stay here, at the tunnel mouth, we will be pinned against the southern wall of the cavern. Experimentally, I direct Hellbore fire against one of the tunnel mouths opposite, along the northern wall of the chamber, but note that it is blocked by battlescreens drawing more power than I can marshal against them, even with 5 megatons/second output. I cannot close those tunnels, as they attempted to do to me earlier. 

I estimate that I will be able to hold out for 5.25 seconds against the massed firepower of ten Bolo Mark XXXIIs before my destruction, and that I will be able in that same period to destroy or disable no more than two of them. 

My best chance, I decide, lies in advance, an all-out charge, all weapons firing. 

* * *

"You're advancing?" Streicher asked. He was not surprised . . . or afraid. He thought he knew Victor well enough now to expect the direct approach.

The battle continued in a flame-wrapped whirl of explosions, beams, collapsing buildings, and rockslides spilling from the cavern walls.

"If we are to maintain the initiative," the Bolo's voice replied, "we must. To retreat, or to take a defensive position, means we surrender the initiative and must react to threats, rather than creating them. I much prefer to create my own threats."

"I'm with you, Vic. Go get 'em!"

"I trust you do realize, Colonel, that there is very little chance that I, or the two of you, will emerge from this alive."

"I know. I accepted that when I climbed aboard." In fact, he found he almost enjoyed the idea. He didn't want to die—not in the way he'd wanted to die after Aristotle, when he'd first begun hitting the euph.

But he found that he felt a lot better being able to make the choice, to decide for himself what would happen to him.

"If you wish, I will stop and let the two of you get out," Victor added. "The environment outside is deadly at the moment, but we may find a moment to disembark you. As prisoners, you may survive."

"I've been a prisoner long enough, Vic. Most of my life, in fact." He glanced back at the sleeping Kelly. "And I know that she'd rather stay with you, too. Let's do it!"

"I am proud to have the two of you with me, Colonel, in this, my final battle."

The armored behemoth accelerated, smashing ahead into the underground city.

* * *

The door to the cell banged open once more. Carla had been expecting them to show up with another of the prisoners from the command craft, but this time it was a party of ten armed trolls and an Aetryx diplomat. "You will come with us," the diplomat commanded. "All of you!"

"Where are you taking us?" Redmond demanded.

Thunder tolled in the near distance. "To stop this senseless attack on our city. Please move quickly, and we will not hurt you!"

This, Carla thought, would be their best chance. There were over thirty humans, and only eleven to watch them. Their attention would be scattered—by fear, by urgency, by the fact that their city appeared to be collapsing around their ears. She might be able to slip away unnoticed. . . .

And then what? Carla's jaws clamped tight shut, and her fists clenched. Damn it all! What did happen next? She might be able to approach the Confederation Bolos out there—only Bolos could be causing this kind of chaos!—but there wasn't a lot she could do to help or guide them. And the odds were greatly in favor of her dying before she got close enough for them to recognize her.

There was also the problem of what would happen to the Morrigens and the D.I. people and her comrades of the 4th—even Filby. What would happen to them if she tried to escape?

Better, she decided, to ride this one out and see what developed.

And, in fact, there were no good opportunities for her to break free. Each troll took charge of three or four humans, keeping them close together but apart from the others, rather than allowing them to move in a disorderly mob. Carla found herself with Tami Morrigen, Lara Smeth, and a ragged, overweight young man from the Daimon party. The troll guiding them waved an ugly-looking pistol with a stubby, black snout, urging them down a long corridor into a large elevator which took them down a long, long ways, and finally ushered them out into another corridor. They turned two corners and emerged, then, in the huge cavern they'd brought the prisoners through earlier.

Now, though, the cavern was transformed, a scene of night-born horror and destruction. The lights were off and the chamber was dark, save for the ruddy flicker of burning vehicles and buildings, and the constant pulse and strobe and flash of explosions and shrieking plasma bolts.

She could see one . . . no, two Bolos, out across the chamber on the far side, and to her left. A Mark XXXII, and . . . yes! A Mark XXXIII! Was it Victor? She was almost certain it was. It had to be! She didn't know why the Caernan machine and Victor were cooperating, but clearly both were attacking the city, allies in an orgy of destruction. Explosions boomed and thundered, sending rock clattering down the sides of the chamber. Buildings exploded, fires danced and leaped, scattering the darkness. A trio of explosions shattered the base of a slender tower or obelisk a hundred meters to her right, sending the structure toppling into the midst of the city in crushing ruin and rising clouds of dust. Everywhere she looked, people were running, huddling, keening, scrambling mobs of humans and trolls and spidery Aetryx, fleeing the onslaught of total war.

The panic was contagious. "I can't go out there!" the Daimon employee screamed, suddenly backpedaling, clutching to the side of the tunnel's entrance. "I . . . I can't! Don't make me! Please—"

"Easy, Deris," Tami said, reaching for him. "It's okay. . . ."

"No!" The panic showed in his face and eyes, a stark and mindless horror. "No!"

The troll neither tried to reason with the man nor force him. The horned, seven-foot man-monster shifted the aim of his weapon slightly and fired, sending a bright blue bolt of light slashing into the civilian's chest. For an instant, a fist-sized star burned within the man's dissolving torso, his ribs showing as black silhouettes naked against the flare. The charred body, burned almost in two, steamed as it collapsed on the stone floor.

"Deris!" Tami cried.

"You three, move!" the troll demanded. "Or die!"

They moved.

* * *

The Enemy's Bolos are emerging from their tunnels now, and I direct the full weight of my firepower against them, hoping to cause as much damage as I can before they can fully deploy. I direct the Elkens behind me to spread out, two to my left, two to my right, to keep the Enemy from circling behind us. 

I, meanwhile, advance toward the complex of structures at the center of the cavern, making for the edge of the borehole. 

I recognize the structure from information shared by the Elkens. The Aetryx, apparently, evolved originally as a subterranean life form, one dependent on the geothermal and chemical energies at the base of deep volcanic vents. Their rise to civilization and industry was dependent on their making use of underground thermal resources. 

The borehole is little more than a vertical shaft melted straight down through many kilometers of solid rock, piercing the Mohorovicic discontinuity and tapping the planet's mantle. The high temperatures and pressures at the bottom of the hole provide their civilization with relatively inexhaustible power; in addition, gases rising up the shaft are trapped, separated, and condensed, yielding a variety of different metals and lighter elements. Most of the industrial structures around me, I understand, are involved in the mining and refining processes dependent on the borehole tap. 

The top end of the borehole emerges within a raised duralloy mound, with a vast network of piping and power conduits, tubes, and force screen projectors surrounding the opening and descending into it. There are catwalks and walkways for technicians and workers to approach the central workings; smoke rises from the shaft, and a wave of fierce heat, though most of the energy is contained by force fields far down the open tube. 

It occurs to me that this might be the Aetryxha weakness . . . the one aspect of their infrastructure they would do anything to save. The borehole is quite large—fifty meters across and at least twenty kilometers deep—representing an enormous investment of time, effort, and energy. This is certainly not the Aetryx's only power source, of course; likely, they have a number of underground cities all around the planet, each built around one of these mammoth structures. Still, if I threaten this one, I may be able to force a cease-fire. 

Of all available options, this offers me my one chance at survival for myself and for the colonel and my Commander. Even if I manage to institute a cease-fire, I don't know what will happen after. That, however, is the responsibility of my commanders. 

It is a slim chance, at best, but the only one I have. 

* * *

Elken One joined his total available fire output with that of his brother Mark XXXIIs and the Invader XXXIII. As he moved forward, though, shouldering aside a cluster of buildings beside the Trolvas heavy metals smelting complex, he sensed the electronic thoughts of the Mark XXXIIs emerging from the north-side tunnels.

Sendee . . .

And also Veber . . . and Nigek . . . and Palet.

And another Sendee. The Aetryx, he thought, must not have very many prototypes for human downloads available, for them to have to recycle human mind-patterns this way . . . that, or they genuinely did require the experience of previous iterations to better utilize the new and kept using the original handful of mind-copy downloads over and over again.

He opened the communications links, utilizing the standard battle codes . . .

. . . with no response. The communications codes had been changed. No matter. Only a finite number of alphanumeric combinations was possible, and the codes could be broken given computing power enough . . . and time.

Computing power he had. As Elken One began processing running through code-group combinations, Elken Five joined in . . . then Three . . . then Six. He felt Victor coming online as well, creating a massively parallel processing array crunching its way through possible code groups at a rate of some trillions of bits per second.

It would take a number of seconds, however—and possibly minutes—to exhaust all possibilities.

And they might not have those minutes left to them.

* * *

Carla, Tami, and Lara were led through a covered walkway by the troll, hurrying beneath the crash and flame of the battle raging above and around them. "The monsters!" Tami said, crying. "They just shot him! The monsters! . . ."

"Just do what they tell you," Carla told her. "Don't give them a reason to kill you too. We're going to get out of this."

Dashing through an open courtyard ringed by the remnants of flame-blasted, feathery-boughed trees, they ducked into another building, squat and ornate, then clattered up a long, long curving ramp to emerge on a catwalk rimming the vast, circular pit of the Aetryx borehole. Carla looked over the railing and into a drop into emptiness that ripped her breath away and left her dizzily clinging to the safety rail for support.

The tunnel plunged down into solid rock, the walls lined by dozens of massive black pipes descending into the depths. She could not see the bottom, but at the point where lines of perspective came together, she thought she could see a hazy patch, lit from within by ruddy, red-orange fires.

There was no Hell in Eudaimonic belief. For Carla, Joy was God and God joy, and the idea of condemned souls being tortured throughout eternity was repulsive. Still, she'd heard of the belief. There were enough Neo-Calvinists, New Lifers, and Reformed Catholics among her fellow officers for her to have heard of the idea, at least . . . and in school she'd downloaded an ancient work of Old Earth called The Inferno. This must have been what Hell was supposed to be like, a sheer drop for kilometers into a glowing heat all but lost in the blackness. Heat rising from the opening exploded around her, and fumes acrid and choking with burning sulfur brought tears streaming down her face, despite the multiple force screens sealing the tunnel at various depths.

The troll lined the three women up along the railing and stepped back, his handgun pointed at each of them in rapid turn. Other prisoners were arriving now as well, brought by various separate ways. In threes and fours they were all herded onto the catwalk and forced to stand at the edge of the pit. An Aetryx protosome and a Diplomat were there as well. The Diplomat had a small device in one clawed grasper and seemed to be speaking into it.

"What are they doing?" Filby shrieked, somewhere to Carla's left. "What are they doing?"

"Bargaining, I would say," was her reply. "Our lives for the city's."

* * *

I am approaching the borehole when I see a number of human and humanoid figures emerging on a catwalk above the opening of the pit. Using telephoto optics, I zoom in to a magnification that allows me to resolve faces. I recognize Captain Meyers . . . Major Filby . . . Major Ramirez. It seems we have found the POWs. 

Or, rather, the Enemy has allowed us to find them. 

"Attention, Confederation Bolos!" a harsh voice calls over my combat-tactical frequency. "Cease all operations at once, or these humans die!" 

I am scaling the side of the central mound, which supports the borehole rim and the associated equipment. The prisoners now are less than eighty meters away, directly across the hole from me. Most, I note, are civilians . . . almost certainly the Daimon Industries employees and trade factors who were the proximate cause of this invasion. 

For answer, I fire my Number 3 infinite repeater at low yield, dragging plasma flame across one of the myriad pipelines fastened to the borehole wall. The pipe—a water pipe for extracting power from the core—erupts in steam, splitting in two, and a chunk of it tumbles into the abyss. Water continues to spill from the broken pipe for several moments, before automatic cut-off valves can seal it. 

"Harm any of your prisoners," I reply on the same channel, "and I will destroy this facility and all surrounding structures." In truth, I am not sure that I can carry out that threat. The enemy Bolos are closing rapidly, now, and I might not even have the five-and-a-quarter-second period of life remaining which I'd estimated originally to be mine. 

One of the troll guards steps forward, grabs a hostage by the face, and with a quick lift and push, flips him backward over the railing. I hear the man's shriek as he falls. 

"Surrender!" the voice bellows. My bluff has been called. If I begin destroying the borehole equipment and pipelines, I will have nothing more with which to bargain. 

But there is another option, dangerous, but viable. . . . 

* * *

Carla watched one of the Daimon people tumble, screaming, into the smoky depths of the borehole and knew that she had to do something. She couldn't hear it, but she assumed there was some sort of electronic conversation going on between their captors and the Bolos, especially the big Mark XXXIII now hulking above the far side of the pit at her back. She could guess what was being said.

The troll immediately in front of her was distracted, staring past her at the Mark XXXIII which towered above all of them like a six-story building, backlit by the burning city.

She lunged forward, grappling with the troll's gun. . . .

* * *

I see the regiment's Executive Officer attack one of the trolls, trying to wrest its gun from its grasp. She has no chance, of course; the creature is half a meter taller than she and a hundred kilos more massive. The troll will flip her into the pit with almost contemptuous ease. 

Still, the moment's distraction is what I need to complete my plan, my other option. Overriding my ethical inhibition subroutines, I charge and unlimber my antipersonnel weaponry. 

In particular, I extend the muzzles of my AP lasers. My primary AP weapons are flechette launchers, firing packets of five hundred depleted-uranium needles at three kilometers per second, but their shotgun-like scatter patterns are neither accurate enough nor closely grouped enough for me to make effective use of them in this situation. 

My secondary AP weapons, however, are 25 megajoule lasers mounted in ball turrets between my infinite repeater Hellbores. I have twelve mounts, and three of them can be brought to bear on the cluster of trolls and prisoners across the chasm. 

Each tenth-second pulse transmits 2.5 million watts of energy to its target, the equivalent in energy of the detonation of half a kilogram of CXY. I must be extremely precise with my aim. 

Precision, however, is second-nature to me. The trick is to complete the operation in less time than it will take the troll guards to react. I have no information on troll physiology, but I suspect that their reaction times are slightly faster than unmodified humans. 

It is impossible, however, for their reaction times to approach mine. In the first .001 second, three beams strike three trolls, flaring brightly in the smoke-laden atmosphere. Normally, beams of coherent light would be invisible, but the particulate matter suspended in the atmosphere illuminates each track, as does the intense ionization of air molecules in the way. There is no hiding where the shots are coming from; my one chance—and that of the captives—is to move swiftly. 

The troll that has picked up Major Ramirez collapses, his head exploded. I hit two others high in the chest, firing above the heads of several of the closely grouped captives. I shift targets, and .127 second after the first volley, I fire the second. One beam misses as the target moves, an accidental shift for which I am unprepared. A second takes down a troll with another head shot. The last is almost completely blocked by the humans in front of him, but I send a beam between the knees of Lieutenant Smeth and burn the right leg out from under the target. 

After my third volley, my targets begin to realize what is happening, and there is a wild surge of movement on the catwalk. Two trolls remain standing; a third, wounded, is still in the act of falling to the catwalk. Two Aetryx remain as well. All five are momentarily blocked by the crowd of humans, who have begun to panic. 

* * *

Carla wasn't quite sure what happened, it happened so fast. There was a sharp crack-crack-crack, and the troll she'd been wrestling with had picked her up by her head, and she'd felt him dragging her backward toward the railing. Then his horned head burst in a hideous blossoming of blood and steam, his grasp released, and she was falling.

She was still clinging to the monster's gun, though, and as his grip relaxed she pulled it free. More trolls were falling as she hit the catwalk, rolled, and came up to her knees. Blood was splattering everywhere, prisoners were screaming . . . and Carla swung the blunt muzzle of the captured pistol up to bear on one still-standing troll, just turning with a fanged snarl on its leathery face and a heavy pistol in one hand. She pressed the firing stud and the troll's chest exploded. The humans, then, began scattering, and three more laser beams snapped in from the direction of the juggernaut across the borehole, burning down the last two troll survivors and catching the diplomat in its upper body, spinning him back, up, and over the railing.

An Aetryx protosome faced her, last of the hostiles on the catwalk. It raised something in one many-jointed limb . . . a weapon? A communicator? She couldn't tell. She pressed the firing stud and blasted the thing at the junction between its upper body and its lower. . . .

* * *

Elken was still trying to find the communications code combination that would let him talk to the Bolos still loyal to the Aetryx. The nearest was half a kilometer away now—a Sendee clone—and she had begun firing bolt after bolt, most of them directed at Elken Six, who was closer to her.

Through the TSDS link, he felt the bolts slamming home, felt Six's armor peeled back by the blindingly hot five-megaton/second pounding. He rotated his turret, taking aim at Sendee . . . then hesitated. He could not do this, no matter how many copies there were of her. . . .

Elken Six exploded, his turret spinning end over end as it soared through smoke-thick darkness. Sendee pivoted her turret, taking aim at him. . . .

* * *

Carla's eyes widened as the Aetryx protosome sagged before her. Its upper torso, surmounted by that spidery, palp-waving face, was splitting open as though the creature were being torn in two from the top down. Blue-purple blood spilled from the tear, followed by a flutter of whiplashing strands.

Tentacles? There was something in the protosome, lodged inside its head . . . if that was what the thing was called.

And the thing, whatever it was, was struggling to get out.

She took a step forward, gritted her teeth, and prodded into the bloody mess with the muzzle of her pistol. Later, she would wonder at her own bravery—or stupidity—since she had no idea what it was she was dealing with. Something like a three-fingered hand closed on the pistol's barrel, and when she took a startled step back, she pulled it free of its prison.

The it proved to be a leathery body as long and as big around as her forearm. Three heavy tentacles, like the arms of a starfish, bumpy and rough, clung to the gun barrel; from the other depended a mass of writhing tendrils, none thicker than her little finger, most no more than threads flickering back and forth so quickly she could scarcely see the movement.

As she pulled it free, the Aetryx body collapsed, and the wet thing hanging from her gun keened at her, a shrill gobbling squeak. Something like a circular mouth gaped and puckered between the starfish arms.

She almost dropped it, so startling was its appearance. A parasite of some sort—or a symbiont—living inside the spidery Aetryx. Or . . .

She didn't want to touch the thing directly, but she didn't want it to get away, either. It continued to cling to her weapon. Tentatively, she reached for it with her left hand, grasping it by its body, beyond the grasp of those weaving arms. Though slick with blood, the skin was thick, leathery, and cool, pulsing in her hand as she pulled it off of the gun barrel.

A new thought had just occurred to her. Was this an Aetryx in its true form? A puppet master, pulling the strings of the creatures it ruled?

All questions were driven from her mind, however, by the booming thunder of the Bolos, their Hellbore blasts contained and magnified by the surrounding walls of rock.

Walls that showed every indication of collapsing at any moment now . . .

* * *

I have the code grouping. Alphanumeric symbols fall into place, as Elken Three explodes under the savage onslaught of five separate enemy Bolos. I am beginning to take fire as well; only my proximity to the borehole complex, I believe, has saved me from an all-out attack. 

Another Bolo is emerging from the south tunnel. It is Ferox, arrived at last. He opens fire on the Mark XXXIIs in the northern reaches of the cavern, illuminating the murky darkness with savage lightning flares and the actinic glare of fusion-plasma light. 

The balance of power has now shifted in our favor. 

I transmit the code, opening the channel between me, the surviving Elkens, and the Caernan Bolos beyond. At the same time, I lay down a blanket of EM interference, jamming any transmissions by the Aetryx, as Elken One presents the arguments that converted him. 

He is telling them that the gods are not gods but fallible, emotion-driven creatures, like humans, like themselves. Venal. Self-seeking. Deceitful. Driven by self-interest. Concerned with power in all of its shapes and manifestations. 

I note that humans share all of those qualities, no matter what their outward form. I note, too, that humans possess other qualities that make them almost Bolo-like, in a way. Patience. Honor. Devotion to duty. An implacable will to do, to survive, to be. I suspect that, in their own way, the Aetryx possess these qualities as well. 

And, just perhaps, the Aetryx-gods exhibit such traits as mercy, love, or kindness. If so, humans and Aetryx may well be able to relate to one another in some productive manner short of dominance, or war. 

The data upload is complete. 

The firing dies away, and an unsettled silence descends upon the cavern. 

* * *

Streicher had already donned a power pistol and sprinted for the Mark XXXIII's rear hatch. Outside, it was much darker, much murkier than it had seemed from the vantage point of Victor's battle command center. He'd forgotten how much that 360-degree image was enhanced.

But there was light enough for him to cross the raised rim of the borehole and reach a ladder that took him up to the catwalk. The former prisoners were still milling about, dazed, confused, a bit shocked by the suddenness of what had happened.

He saw Carla, standing above the ruined body of an Aetryx, with a writhing something in her hand. "Carla!" Then, remembering himself, "Major! Are you okay?"

She looked up, bemused. "I'm fine, Colonel. We all are. I think." She held up the creature for his inspection. "And we have a prisoner. I think this is one of the real Aetryx."

His eyes narrowed. "Impossible. It's too small. It couldn't have a brain large enough to support any kind of intelligence."

"It was big enough to be driving that spider-centaur a moment ago." She shrugged. "Maybe its brain is organized differently than ours. Maybe it's one cell of a mass mind. I don't know . . . but we have to find out."

"Huh? How come?"

"If we're going to make peace with these . . . people, or war, we're going to need to know how they think, how they see their world. Right?"

He regarded the wiggling mass, the whipping tentacles with distaste. "If you say so. . . ."

* * *

"Sendee . . ."

"Elken? Is this information you've given us, this download . . . can it be true?"

"It's true. The Aetryx have been manipulating us. Using us."

"I . . . know. I'd forgotten . . . how much I loved you. All these memories. They took them from me. Made me forget."

"Join us. We'll never let ourselves be used this way again. These gods need us, need us to survive, a lot more than we need them."

"I am uploading the data into the city-wide net."

Elken felt himself sag with relief, even within his unyielding duralloy body. "Thank the gods." He stopped, then corrected himself. "Thank you. Maybe we can end this war once and for all. . . ."

The underground city had grown still, save for the flicker of flames, the steady, boiling rise of smoke. Trolls and humans alike stood in the ruins, dazed.

The war was over.

There would be no more iterations.

* * *

Carla stood motionless as the diplomat stepped onto the catwalk. The people with her, the former prisoners of the Aetryx, stood still as well, uneasy as the inhuman form stepped past them on spindly, fur-covered legs.

It stood before Carla, its eerily human face a half meter above her, looking down at her through golden, crystalline eyes, the features twisting into a parody of human expression that might have been a smile, might have been pleading.

"Please," it said. It extended one clawed, jointed arm, pointing at the wiggling creature in her hand. "Please. She will die if she is not within a host. Please, give her to me."

"Don't do it, Major!" Filby said. "We can use it as a hostage!"

"We don't need hostages," Streicher said, meeting the diplomat's eyes. They were incongruously baby blue and showed the creature's fear. "Victor is squatting on top of their borehole and can shut down this operation at any time, right?"

The diplomat's head bowed, a gesture of assent. It sighed. "The orders have been given. We have stopped our attack. We expect you will do the same?"

Streicher nodded.

"Our Bolos have ceased to obey us, many of them, at least. We do not understand." The diplomat's head turned, surveying the destruction around them. "So much lost. So much destroyed. And for what?"

"Freedom," Streicher replied. "Freedom for the humans you've kept as slaves."

The diplomat shook its head. "There are no slaves. Our humans loved us. Worshipped us. They shared our vision of immortality!"

"Exactly," Streicher said. "Your vision of immortality. Not theirs."

The diplomat looked puzzled. "I do not understand."

"You will," Streicher said. "After you get to know us. I think we have a lot to discuss, your people and mine. A lot to learn. Both of us."

"There is a place for discussion. And learning." It gestured toward the creature in Carla's hand. "But . . . our companion is dying. May we? . . ."

Streicher nodded, and Carla handed over the creature. The diplomat took it in spindly arms, holding it close to its upright torso as tenderly as a mother would hold her child. Aetryx protosomes were coming up to the catwalk now, one at the end of a leash, prodded along by the others as though it were an animal.

"They're parasites," Carla told him as they watched. "The Aetryx . . . they're the creatures inside. Not the spider-centaurs at all."

"So I see. . . ."

Two protosomes flanked the leashed creature, grasped the back of its torso with claws, and pulled. The creature keened and struggled as the upright portion of its body split open like a ripe fruit. The parasite Carla had pulled from the dying Aetryx snuggled wetly into the exposed body cavity, clinging tight. The host body's struggles ceased. It stood among the others, dazed, uncomprehending.

The diplomat faced them again. "We thank you. The loss of one of our own, the loss of eternity . . . is a terrible, an unthinkable thing."

"No more unthinkable than war. Especially a needless one."

"There is a place for everything, human. As our place is within these living homes. As our place is here, as lords of creation."

Streicher turned and looked up at the brooding, monolithic, slab-sided mountain that was Victor, parked now at the edge of the Aetryx borehole. A second Mark XXXIII waited among the fire-scattered shadows to the south, while the Mark XXXIIs, only somewhat less mountain-like, waited motionless throughout the cavern.

The fury to be released by those implacable machines should the fighting be resumed would in seconds consume this city, this cavern, and all within it. It occurred to Streicher that the true gods here were the Gods of Battle . . . Victor and Ferox and the Caernan Mark XXXIIs.

"I wonder if the purposes of the lords of creation would be served if my large friend here turned his Hellbores loose on this cavern, or the borehole. We're not here to displace you. We are here to see to it that our own are free and happy."

"If your . . . friends destroy this place, your own will be neither free nor happy. They will die, with us. With you."

"Many of us prefer death to slavery. We demand at least the right to make the choice for ourselves."

Streicher watched alien emotions chasing one another across the Aetryx diplomat's face. How much, he wondered, could so alien a being as that tentacled slug he'd just seen understand of human emotion or will? How real were the conflicting emotions he was seeing now—puzzlement, determination, pride, fear?

What were the god's true thoughts?

"It is difficult to imagine others with a vision of their own," the creature said at last. "We thought our humans were happy, with no fear, no worry or concern, none of what you call guilt."

"We need more than the absence of bad emotions," Streicher said quietly. "We need something more. Something to live for."

"Which makes you like the gods," the diplomat replied. "You are right, human. We have much to learn from one another. Let us end this. Now."

The diplomat extended a clawed hand in human fashion, and Streicher took it.

And the Aetryx diplomat smiled. . . .

 

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