Battle for the Thousand Suns
Science Fiction Adventures – December 1956
(1956)*
Randall Garrett & Robert Silverberg
(as by Calvin Knox and David Gordon)
illustrated by Giunta

Alone and unaided, Dane Regan flung his wild challenge against the stars, and began his one-man vendetta against the massive might of the most dangerous empire in history!

CHAPTER I

	Dane Regan stood in the observation room of the starship Sybil, looking at the great star cluster ahead. His face was a calm mask, but inwardly he was seething with excitement.

	Fifteen years!

	Fifteen years since a small boy and his elderly guardian had fled before the hounds of Jillane, fled in frantic haste to exile. Fifteen years since Dane Regan had seen the cluster.

	Now, he stared at the fiery shower of stars that filled the skies, drinking in the sight hungrily. It was a globular cluster, situated well to the zenith of the galactic lens, and far from normal galactic trade routes. There were ten thousand mighty suns in the cluster and over a thousand habitable planets, ruled by the Empire of the Hundred Kings. Fifteen years before, when he had been a boy of ten, Dane Regan had fled the cluster to escape death at the hands of Gwyll, King of Jillane, most feared of the Hundred Kings.

	And now he was returning. He stared with quiet intensity at the diamond-hard, many-colored points of light. One of them was the sun around which Jillane revolved. Dane Regan no longer feared Gwyll of Jillane. This time, he thought, it's Gwyll's turn to know fear.

	"It is rather beautiful, close up like this," said a soft voice behind him. "I can understand why you're staring that way."

	Dane turned, half-surprised, and saw lean-faced Coleman, the captain of the Sybil. Regan smiled.

	"Yes, it is—quite beautiful. How far are we from it now?"

	"About two hundred light years/' the captain said. "We'll be there in about six hours."

	"Good," said Regan.

	The Empire Cluster was nearly twenty thousand light-years from the Main Lens of the galaxy itself; few ships ever went to it. Dane had been lucky to be able to book passage aboard a merchant vessel. He was the only passenger. He had been aboard her for a month now, moving through the vast empty spaces that separated the globular clusters from each other and from the Main Lens of the galaxy.

	"The Empire people are queer people," said the captain, reflectively stroking his hollow cheeks. "Have you ever been there before?"

	"No," Dane lied. He met the captain's cold glance squarely to back the statement up. Regan didn't want anyone to know who he was, not even the men on the Sybil. Then he added: "Queer? What do you mean by that?"

	"Oh—different, you might say. All these globular cluster peoples are. They're isolated.

	Their systems of government have evolved away from the galactic norm."

	"Clannish, I suppose," Dane said. "Don't care for strangers?"

	"Some of them. I hear that in the Ventar Cluster, on the other side of the galaxy, it's worth a stranger's life to wander around unprotected on, one of their planets. They're wary of strangers in the Empire Cluster too, but it's not that bad there. If you're a good fighter, you'll win their respect."

	"I can take care of myself," Dane said.

	"I hope so." The captain turned his head from the viewplate to look at Dane. "You're a Solarian, aren't you? You look like an Earth-man to me."

	"Vegan," Dane corrected.

	"Vega VI."

	"I knew it was some part of the Solar Federation. Well, you've got money—that's a great help. You'd end up as a peasant or a worker if you didn't. If you swing it right, you might be able to buy your way into some noble's army."

	"Maybe," said Dane. "I want to look the situation over first."

	"They like free-lance soldiers," the captain said. "The peasants can't fight; it's a gentleman's profession. But a lot of the nobles don't care to fight, either."

	"I'll see how I get along," Dane said.

-

	A day later, Dane Regan was on Jillane, one of the thousand planets of the Empire, and capital of the Kingdom of Jillane, one of the largest of the Hundred Kingdoms.

	The jetcopter from the spaceport had dropped him off in the heart of the city of Pellin, eight million strong, the buzzing heart of Jillane. He stood quietly in the shadow of a towering building for a moment, breathing deeply, sucking in the tangy, high-oxygen air of Jillane. He had almost forgotten what the air tasted like.

	But it bit into his lungs now, and reminded him of what had been done to him, what he had been forced to relinquish, what he had lost. He glanced up. Flashing from the wall of a skyscraper was a giant portrait of Gwyll—crafty, hunchbacked Gwyll, his ugliness carefully edited for public consumption.

	Regan smiled. He had no clearer image etched into his mind than that of Gwyll. He'd borne the monarch's visage in mind for a decade and a half.

	He made a mock salute toward the huge portrait and began to walk. Silent electric cars glided through the streets; occasionally, a jet-copter or some noble's private plane would hum overhead. The commoners wore drab clothing, much like Dane's, but the merchants and nobles dressed in gaudy, many-colored tunics and vests. The nobles also wore swords.

	The first step, Regan thought, is clothing.

	"Pardon me, friend," he said, stopping a chunky, red-bearded commoner who was hurrying by. "Can you help me?"

	"Speak up, stranger. What is troubling you?"

	"Where can I find a clothing shop? I need a new outfit, and—"

	The commoner examined Dane's drab outfit, then looked at his own. "In faith, friend, yours is much finer than my own! Why do you think you need new clothes?"

	Dane scowled. The blockhead obviously thought he wanted to replace his clothing with a new suit of drab. "I need something a bit more costly," Dane said. He gestured at the violet-and-green blaze of silk that glimmered on the body of a youthful noble passing just then.

	The commoner chuckled coarsely. "Fine plans you have, boy! Why not ask to buy a star or two as well?"

	"But—"

	The commoner shook his head. "I've no time to waste with madmen. What store would sell you a noble's clothing?"

	He shouldered his way past Dane and continued down the street. Anger flared hotly in Regan for a moment; then he cooled, and realized that what the man said was true. No clothing store would sell him a noble's attire.

	But there were other ways of getting what he wanted. He turned down a side street, found himself in a purple-shadowed canyon between two immense office buildings. He edged along the side of one of the buildings, slipped into a shadow-hidden doorway, and waited.

	It didn't take long. A merchant, of about his own build but with a mild, vacuous expression about the eyes that hinted at flabby muscles, came along shortly. Dane glanced up and down the street; at the moment, no one was looking.

	As the merchant passed, Dane stepped out behind him. "Got the time, sir?" 

	"Why, it's—"

	The merchant turned, and Dane chopped into the side of his throat with a straight-edged hand. The other gagged, choked, and reeled crazily. Dane calmly pumped two quick blows into the man's body and gathered him in. He hauled the unconscious merchant back into the alcove.

	Five minutes later, Regan emerged, dressed in a costly tunic made of green and red teflon, encrusted with shimmering platinum mesh. He was the very picture of an upper-class Jillanian.

-

	The next stop would have to be an arms shop. The schedule of activities unfolded itself clearly in Regan's mind; he'd been planning and waiting for this day so long he knew precisely what each move would be.

	The arms shop was not a large place, but it had the glittering sumptuousness of an expensive jeweler's. Regan entered and studied the array of swords on display while waiting for the proprietor to appear.

	To an ordinary citizen of the galaxy, the habit of carrying so ancient and outmoded a weapon as a sword seems ludicrous in the extreme. A disruptor pistol is far more efficient, and doesn't require nearly as much training and practice to make one an expert.

	But for the nobles of the Empire, the disruptor pistol was too effective. In a duel with pistols, it was likely that both men would die—a duel with a disruptor is tantamount to suicide.

	The Empire of the Hundred Kings was closely related to the feudal system of ancient history. But the division between noble and commoner was more than simply a right of birth, although that concept entered into it. Basically, the reason for its development lay in a mutation that had taken place nearly a thousand years before.

	Exactly what had happened, no one knew; the truth had been covered up by ten centuries of political rewriting of history. But Regan had a fair idea of what the core of the situation was.

	A cosmic ray—a heavy nucleus of an atom accelerated through tens of thousands of light years by the interacting electrostatic, magnetic, and gravitational fields of a hundred million suns—had speared through the reproductive organs of a man or woman at a velocity close to that of light.

	Chromosomes had been twisted apart and re-formed; genes had been disrupted and reassembled under the tremendous energy of that tiny bit of matter. Most of the results had been abortive or lethal changes in the germ plasm. But one was not. Somehow, through the workings of the universal laws of probability, one set of chromosomes had changed in just the right way and had been lucky enough to come together with another set and produce a human being. And that man—the first of his kind—had had the Power.

	In prehistoric times, it might have been called the Evil Eye—and it is possible that this was not the first time such a mutation had occurred, in the long history of the human race. But this was the first time any individual had ever had the ability to strike another human dead with a glance and had lived to reproduce his kind.

	And—naturally, in the raw environment of the frontier worlds—such men became kings.

	It was evidently a sex-linked characteristic. No woman had ever been born with the Power. And, too, it was self-defeating; no man who had it could kill another who had it. It was recessive; only a few of any generation had the Power and could use it. These became nobles—the rest were commoners, who had to watch their step lest a single glance from a nobleman drop them where they stood.

	Like hair or eye coloring, the ability could be diluted. Some nobles were more powerful than others. Most nobles, in fact, could only stun—only the Kings could actually kill.

	And he could become a King, who could kill.

	That was the reason for the swords. Only a noble or an army officer could carry one; they were a gentleman's weapon for settling disputes. One never used the Power against anyone but a commoner; it wouldn't work. And a disruptor pistol would kill too many nobles, and thus deplete the line of those chosen few who had the Power. Therefore—they carried the sword.

	"May I help you, sir?" said the small, white-haired man behind the counter.

	Dane turned and lifted an eyebrow. "I'm here to buy a sword—a good, strong, flexible rapier."

	"Yes, sir. We have some excellent blades in stock, sir."

	He shuffled back and produced an arms-case laden with gleaming weapons. Regan looked them over, testing their weight and temper and flexibility, and handed them all back regretfully.

	"None of them satisfy you, sir?"

	"I'm afraid not," Regan said. "They're not what I have in mind. Do you do custom jobs?"

	The man nodded. Regan outlined what he wanted, describing and sketching it from needle point to jewelled pommel.

	The little technician rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "This is a fine weapon you've planned, sir. I assure you we'll do justice to it. That electro-hardened blade will take time, though. Tomorrow evening at the earliest."

	"Tomorrow evening it is," Dane said. "Your price?"

	"Mmmm. Let me see ..." He jotted down figures on a pad. "With matching scabbard, eight hundred stellors," he said at last.

	Regan glanced at him coldly, and the little man quailed .visibly. Regan knew what the technician was thinking: if this stranger were a noble, as seemed likely, then his glance could be painful, if not fatal.

	"Seven hundred at the very most," said Regan with an air of finality.

	There was a moment of indecision. Then: "Yes, sir. Seven hundred." It wasn't too bad, Regan thought. The sword-maker would still show a worthwhile profit.

	Regan smiled and handed him the money, seven clean, translucent crystal discs. "And if it's ready by 1800 tomorrow evening, you'll get your extra hundred."

	"Very good, sir. And now, if I may see your arms permit ..."

	"I don't have it with me."

	The little man looked pained. With great dignity he handed back the money. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I can't sell a weapon without a permit. Why, for all I know, you could be a commoner like myself—uh—no offense meant, sir."

	Regan ignored the seven coins in the man's hand. "I'll have the permit with me tomorrow," he said coldly. "If I don't, you'll have your money and your sword, too."

	Again a moment of indecision. "Yes. sir; I see, sir," the technician said. "Perfectly understandable, sir." Regan's gesture had apparently convinced him that the tall stranger before him was what he claimed to be. No commoner would dare risk seven hundred stellors that way.

	"I hope I've not offended, sir," he said humbly.

	"Not at all. It would have been much worse if you hadn't asked."

	"I always uphold the law, sir. Tomorrow at 1800, then."

-

	The next stop for Regan was at the Supreme Military Building. It was a gleaming edifice with a frosty-white plastic facade and a row of ugly-looking eagles sculpted over its yawning door.

	Regan strode in with a determined air and found the Military Procurement Office after a few moments of tentative hesitation. He pushed against the paneled black door and it slid open with faint squeaking.

	There was a big, hard-looking major behind the desk. He looked up with an air of boredom. "Yes? What's on your mind?"

	"I want to join the army," Regan said.

	"Oh? You from these parts?" Obviously the man took him for a merchant, seeing him swordless.

	"I'm an outworlder," Regan said.

	Immediately the man's face hardened. "Let's see your papers," he said. He took them, and as he glanced over them, a sneer crossed his face. "A Vegan, eh? Solar Federation. I never heard of it. In the Main Galaxy or another cluster?"

	"Main Galaxy," Regan told him.

	"You Galactics are all alike. You think you're hot stuff out in the clusters. You'll learn different before you're here too long.'' He dropped the papers disdainfully on the desk.

	"Well?"

	The officer sized him up. "I guess you look healthy and strong enough, Vegan. We need good men. With a little training, you might make a squad leader."

	He took one of a stack of green application-blanks and started to scrawl something on it, but Regan interrupted him. "I couldn't take less than a lieutenancy/' he said.

	The major looked up in open-mouthed astonishment. "Why—of all the gall!" He blinked a couple of times at Regan's audacity, then jammed down on a button on his desk.

	Two husky non-coms came in.

	"Sergeant! Corporal! I want you to throw this fool out—and don't be gentle."

	The two soldiers grinned as they advanced toward Regan. They were tall, square-shouldered men in the red-with-gold-trim uniform of the Army of Jillane, and they looked as if they meant business. Regan waited for them to reach him.

	"You going to go quietly?" the sergeant asked.

	Regan chuckled and leaped forward. His fist crashed into the astonished sergeant's jaw, and, as the man's hand came up in a reflex, Regan grabbed it and used it as a lever to jerk him upward and smash him against the corporal.

	The corporal stepped out from behind the sergeant's flying form and swung on Regan, who sidestepped and cracked him soundly behind the ear. The soldier folded up neatly, and Regan corralled the tottering sergeant, struck him once in the pit of the stomach, and dropped him to the floor next to the other. Regan glanced down at the two prostrate forms and glanced at the major, who had been sitting calmly behind his desk throughout the entire affair.

	"Very well done, Mr. Regan. You should make sergeant, at least. I think I can offer you that."

	Regan wiped perspiration from his forehead and stared bleakly at the major. "Lieutenant, I said."

	The major shook his head. "An officer is expected to be a gentleman; you'd have to handle a sword, and I never saw a Galactic yet who could use anything but a standard disruptor pistol."

	"Try me," Regan suggested.

	"You are an insolent pup!" The officer stepped over to a rack on the wall and took down a pair of blades. Deliberately, he threw one at Regan. Regan caught the grip neatly in midair.

	"Come ahead," he said. He flicked the weapon through the air a couple of times, judging its bend, while the major moved toward him.

	Swords clashed. The major smiled, lunged, struck toward Regan's heart—and was parried. His eyes widened with astonishment as Regan deftly turned the blow aside and slid within his guard just long enough to slice a glittering multi-faceted medal from the major's bosom. The trinket went tinkling to the floor.

	Red-faced, the Jillanian came forward with something more than a test in mind. His sword bobbed and Weaved before Regan, and once it broke through and cut a thin red line down the side of Regan's face. Regan slashed back, disengaging rapidly, thrusting his weapon across the major's wrist, and twisting upward and across with a powerful motion. There was the clang of metal on metal, and then the officer's sword went clattering across the room.

	Regan smiled politely at the disarmed officer, and, without a word, restored his own weapon to the rack on the wall. He stood there, waiting.

	The major glanced over at his fallen blade. "Well, I'll be damned," he said softly. There was respect in his eyes when he looked again at Regan.

	"Regan, if you can pass the tests, you can have that commission." He paused, frowning. "Of course, there will be a slight—ah—fee."

	"Of course. How much?"

	The major grinned. "The price is fairly standard. It's a matter of having influence. If I were a colonel, say, I could do it more easily, but I'd have to make more profit. It all evens out." He named a figure.

	Regan nodded. "That's fair enough."

	"Naturally, the money must be paid before you take the exam. If you fail—" He shrugged lightly.

-

CHAPTER II

	Two weeks later, Lieutenant Dane Regan, resplendently uniformed and wearing a jewelled sword at his side, reported aboard the battle cruiser Dormis for a shakedown cruise.

	The Dormis was a standard-type thousand-man cruiser, under the orders of Noble Commander Drel Larthin, a thin, ascetic-looking martinet of an officer. Larthin shook hands coldly with his new lieutenant and turned him over to a junior officer for assignment to a cabin.

	"You'll stay here," the officer told him, showing him an austere but roomy cabin.

	"Fine," Regan said. He stepped inside.

	The young officer paused a moment at the door of Regan's cabin. "One word, sir?"

	"What is it?"

	"Some advice, Lieutenant—next time you shake hands with Noble Commander Larthin, don't do it so vigorously."

	Regan narrowed his eyes. "What the hell do you mean?"

	"Nothing much," the officer said. "Only that you showed him you mean business, and that's not always a good idea. You're an outworlder; you don't understand the Cluster. The officers here don't like to see newcomers with ambition. You can get unpopular in a hurry."

	"Thanks," Regan said, grinning. "Thanks—but I think I'll manage." He closed the door and entered his cabin. He had a lot of work to do, filling himself in on the background of the Cluster conflicts of the past fifteen years.

	Gwyll, the hunchbacked King of Jillane, was having trouble with King Arvin of Rineth. Presumably, the difficulty was over trade routes of the merchant vessels that plied their way through the great Cluster, but there was more to it than that; The Emperor of the Thousand Suns was chosen by the Council of the Hundred Kings from one of their own number. Once chosen, he ruled for life, and was supported loyally by the others.

	But the old Emperor, Dowain of Koreyl, was growing senile; his death was not far off. And the two recognized major contenders for the Imperial throne were Gwyll of Jillane and Arvin of Rineth. If either could cripple the other's fleet, the balance of power—and the Imperium—would go to the victor. Attacking the planets themselves was almost impossible. No space fleet, however strong, could hope to beat the amassed might of planetary-based weapons unless the defense was crippled by espionage and sabotage. Reran didn't care about that part of it. All he wanted to do was get close to Gwyll of Jillane. The King was too carefully guarded for a mere lieutenant to get close to him—Regan would have to rise in rank.

	Regan would also have to see to it that Gwyll became Emperor. For on the day that Gwyll of Jillane became Emperor over the Thousand Suns and the Hundred Kings, Dane Regan would have him where he wanted him.

-

	The first year of Dane Regan's service was relatively uneventful. The fleets of Jillane and Rineth sparred with each other in minor skirmishes, doing each other little harm. On one occasion, the new officer distinguished himself by personally operating a space rifle after its automatic controls had been smashed, and was awarded a captaincy for meritorious service.

	But it was at the end of his first year, during what was later to be known as the Battle of Ballin's Star, that Captain Dane Regan came to the notice of Gwyll of Jillane.

	It began innocently enough when the master of the Dormis, Noble Commander Larthin, called his officers into the briefing room.

	Larthin's eyes flicked around the ring of faces confronting him. Regan stared at the pale commander, whose drawn face and burning eyes had given him a well-earned reputation as a man to stay away from.

	"Gentlemen, I have just received some very special orders," Larthin said crisply. "Our intelligence system has informed the fleet that a ship is leaving for the Emperor's capital from the Rineth Sector."

	He paused, staring directly at Regan for a moment, then moving on until he had glared at each of his officers in turn. "We know the route they intend to take," Larthin said. "Our job is to ambush them."

	Sub-Commander Monderrat, a heavy-set, florid man who contrasted sharply with his superior, raised his hand lazily. "Do we know who they are?"

	Larthin bristled. "I do not know why this particular ship is so important, nor do I care. Nor do I want any speculation among you. I can tell you that our orders are from His Supreme Nobility, Gwyll of Jillane." His eyes closed wearily for a moment.

	The officers nodded. Regan grinned inwardly. There was no need to speculate; Gwyll would have given such orders only if King Arvin himself were aboard that vessel. Everything fit neatly into a pattern. Arvin was going to appeal to the aged Emperor Dowain for aid against Gwyll—and he might possibly get it.

	The Noble Commander pointed at a star map. "Here is the route. The ship we're ambushing is a fast speedster, protected by four light cruisers. They're depending on speed if they're attacked. The cruisers will hold off attackers while the speedster gets away. And it can get away, if we let it; it can outrun us in no time."

	Sub-Commander Monderrat ambled to his feet, gesturing to the red blinking of the message-signal above the door. "Call, sir."

	"Never mind," Larthin snapped. "Let's finish this first." He looked around. "As I said, we have one advantage. We know where they're going to be. They won't be expecting us.

	"The Dormis will be the flagship of a fifty-ship squadron. We will meet them here—" He tapped a spot on the star chart. "That is Ballin's Star."

-

	Regan, as Fire Control Officer, made sure that all his heavy-cycle guns were ready for action, and then sat down to wait. He was becoming a little impatient.

	It was not the impending battle. At the moment, that meant nothing. Fifty ships against five is not the sort of fight that makes a man apprehensive, if he is aboard one of the fifty.

	No; Regan was impatient because he felt he was wasting time.

	A year had passed, and he seemed no closer to his objective than he had been at the beginning. And that seemed odd to him, because he had waited patiently on Vega VI for fifteen years, learning the things he would need to know. He thought fleetingly of old Jorg, who had helped him escape from Gwyll's grasp. The rest of his family—his mother, his father, and an older sister—had died, but Jorg had managed to get away, fleeing to the Main Galaxy with a ten-year-old boy.

	"I loved your father," Jorg had once said. "Of all the nobles of the Empire, he alone had the intelligence and the compassion to see that the eternal wars of the Hundred Kings, the stupid jockeying for power, was senseless. The nobles are incapable of seeing beyond their immediate surroundings. They can kill or stun at a glance, and that's the only use to which they have ever put their mental power.

	"But you, Dane, are going to be different. I've studied the problem; there is more to the Power than the simple ability to deal sudden death. I'm sure of that. And we're going to find out what it is, you and I."

	And they had, to some extent. They had experimented and worked while old Jorg had made a precarious living on Vega VI as an atomic technician, spending little, saving much.

	He had taught young Dane the manners and customs of Jillane and of the Empire, and he had schooled him well in the use of the sword. In addition, the old retainer had made sure that the boy absorbed the best of the main stream of Galactic culture.

	Jorg had instilled in Dane the concept of revenge—patient, inevitable revenge against the usurper Gwyll. The time would come, Jorg assured him, when he would be able to take back the throne that was rightfully his—the throne of Jillane.

	When, at last, the old man had died, he had said: "I've done my best, boy. Don't forget what I've taught you, and don't forget that there is more to learn."

	Dane missed old Jorg. For over a. year now, he had held his mind in abeyance, waiting for the proper time to unleash his Power. The, time had not yet come.

-

	The fifty-ship squadron arranged itself in space, well out of detector range of the oncoming speedster from Rineth. It was fairly easy, here in the heart of a globular cluster, where the stars averaged less than a light-year apart. The radiation from ten thousand suns blanketed out detectors except at close range.

	Only one ship remained close to the estimated path of the speedster, hiding in the glare of Ballin's Star. And, as the speedster and its escort appeared, it signaled the waiting squadron.

	The fifty Jillanian ships converged on the speedster from every side, englobing it, giving it no chance to escape. The four Rinethi cruisers opened fire, but they were hopelessly outclassed. In his dome, Dane Regan yawned, making no attempt to conceal his boredom.

	It was the Dorm is that fired the shot which blasted the Rinethi speedster into a cloud of flaming, luminous gas. The speedster had been built for speed, not fighting, and its weak screens collapsed under the heavy barrage of fire from the Dormis high-cycle guns. The cruisers held up a little better. Their screens were holding, although it was obvious that they were rapidly weakening.

	And then the unexpected happened. Seemingly from out of nowhere, space was filled with Rinethi battleships!

	Regan snarled as his fingers played rapidly over the fire control board. It was a trap!

	Very neat, Arvin of Rineth, Regan thought. Bitterly, he saw the whole picture. The intelligence system of Jillane had been duped; the presumed trip to the Imperial capital had been nothing more than bait for a squadron of ships that Jillane could ill afford to lose.

	The Rinethi ships closed in fast, their heavy guns filling space with crackling, glowing haloes of deadly energy. Fifty light cruisers—against two hundred heavy battleships! And the cruisers were completely surrounded.

	Alarms wailed down the corridors of the Dormis. Bulletins poured through the intercom system. The ship had suddenly come to life, yanked from a routine task into a desperate battle for existence.

	Regan heard Noble Commander Larthin's voice over the intercom, talking to Monderrat on an open beam. "The screens are holding down here," Larthin said.

	"But the meters show that they're dangerously close to overload," the sub-commander pointed out. "Should we drop back?"

	"No," Larthin said crisply. "Increase defensive fire and hope that the screens hold out."

	Then, suddenly, there was a sharp explosion which rocked the ship. Regan was jerked violently against the safety webbing of his seat, and swung there for a moment, groping to regain balance. The intercom stuttered aimlessly, with nothing but static coming over.

	A second later, a new voice spoke. "Captain Regan! Captain Regan! Are you alive?"

	"I'm alive." Regan said dizzily.

	"This is Sergeant Gilmer, sir. An overloaded generator just blew on the bridge!"

	Instantly, Regan was in full control of himself. "How's the casualty report?"

	"You're the only officer on the ship who's still conscious, sir," Gilmer said.

	"Very well. Notify all hands that I'm taking command!" Regan barked.

-

	He switched over to the squadron circuit. "This is the Dormis! We've got to get out of here, so follow orders carefully and exactly."

	The Rinethi battleships were closing in in a hollow globe, firing at the fifty cruisers inside. But instead of firing back, the Jillanian cruisers did a peculiar thing. They ran towards each other, forming a tight, compact cone of ships. The ships at the base of the cone were close enough together so that their defensive screens overlapped, and they poured every megawatt of power they had into those screens.

	They didn't fire; that would waste power. "Get those screens up tight and hold them!" was Regan's order.

	The ships toward the nose of the cone aimed themselves at the oncoming wall of Rinethi battleships and began firing, hurling a billion kilowatts of energy out ahead in a single thrust. The flare of radiance speared out through the blackness of space like a gigantic interstellar beacon-station illuminating some dark shoal of the galaxy.

	Then, in tight formation, the cone of ships began to move in the direction of its point.

	With full protection from behind because of the hard-held screens, and with full firepower in front, the cone blasted its way through the enclosing sphere of Rinethi ships. No battleship could stand up under the full firepower of thirty light cruisers hitting it at once. Before the Rinethi knew what had happened, the cone had speared its way outward, destroying four battleships as it passed. Once free, it kept going, applying every bit of speed each ship could develop.

	The lighter cruisers could easily outdistance the battleships—but the Rinethi were so astounded at the ease with which the supposedly trapped squadron had broken loose that their commander ordered the battleships to give chase. It was an order given in anger, and it was a big mistake.

	Regan formed his fifty ships into a ring, like a giant doughnut, and ordered them to slow down. The battleships, having built up their velocity, were unable to decelerate fast enough.

	Six of them went through that ring—right through the center of it. Six times, the fifty cruisers fired simultaneously. Six times, there was a flare of incandescent gas and a splatter of molten metal as the battleships dissolved. The confused Rinethi wandered in circles, struggling to recover the upper hand in the battle.

	"All right!" Regan ordered. "They're on to us! Break it up and run! Scatter!"

	The order radiated outward instantly through the Jillanian fleet. Within minutes, they had left the slower battleships far behind. The Battle of Ballin's Star was over.

	Losses to Rineth: Ten battleships, two cruisers, one speedster, and considerable pride.

	Losses to Jillane: None.

-

CHAPTER III

	A week later, Dane Regan—now a lieutenant colonel—found himself at a ball given in honor of the hero of the Battle of Ballin's Star.

	The grand ballroom of the High Palace at Pellin was a domed hall with thick vaulting arches high overhead and a constellation of glowing lights studded among them. Somewhere off in a distant corner, an orchestra played sweetly, and the pleasant hum of conversation drifted through the air. The ball was an unquestioned success.

	Regan felt a warm glow of pleasure. The speeches were over with, his new commission had been confirmed, and the Star of Jillane had been locked to his dress tunic. He had been praised, cheered, and toasted. And now he found himself floating over the dance floor, gliding in smooth, graceful spirals with the Lady Raleen of Jillane.

	She was one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen. Sparkling metallic dust glimmered in her radiant golden-violet hair, and her bare shoulders were bronzed and handsome. Carefully moving his powered dancing boots so that they took just the right "bite" in the stratified paragravitic field, he smiled pleasantly at her and tried to keep from remembering that she was the adopted daughter of Gwyll of Jillane.

	"You're a very clever man, Colonel. How did you ever think of such a trick?"

	"Something I picked up somewhere," he said vaguely. "It was nothing, really. No doubt someone else would have thought of it, if I hadn't been there to do it. I just happened to be lucky."

	He knew better than that. The whole trouble with space tactics in the Cluster was that they were too individualistic. The groups worked together well enough, but they worked like a loosely-knit team, not as a unit. The ships in a squadron had the habit of firing at other ships at will, never seeming to realize that two shots hitting a screen a fraction of a second apart are not as devastating by far as two shots hitting it simultaneously. A force screen is not like a brick wall; the instant attack on a force screen ceases, it is as good as ever. It can withstand repeated fire indefinitely. Concentrated fire will crush it—collapse it completely.

	Regan's tactics had worked because he'd ordered the ships to work together until the time had come for them to set up the scattering-pattern.

	The girl smiled. "You're much too self-deprecating, Colonel; false modesty ill becomes you. Keep it up, and I won't give you your next medal."

	"It's not false modesty, my lady," Regan said gravely.

	"It's cowardice."

	"Cowardice?"

	"Certainly. I was scared stiff, and I did the only thing I could think of to get out of there with a whole skin."

	She laughed lightly. "We should have more cowards in our armed forces, then."

	The .music swung into the crescendo that indicated the approach of the final phrases, and Regan began to dip toward the floor. It was considered bad form to be in the air when the music stopped.

	As they stepped off the floor, Noble Commander Larthin stepped forward to meet him, a gracious smile looking unfamiliar on his cold features.

	"My Lady Raleen," he said, with unusual delicacy. "And Colonel Regan. Will you join me for a drink?"

	Lady Raleen nodded, and Regan said, "I'd be very happy to, my Lord Commander."

	They walked over to the bar and ordered drinks.

	"The colonel was just telling me that his heroism is pure luck and cowardice," Raleen said. "What do you think, my Lord Commander?"

	The noble officer smiled and shook his head. Regan observed that Larthin was ten times less forbidding off ship than he was in space; the coldness, he decided, must be a pose.

	"Luck and cowardice?" Larthin repeated. "No, no such thing. I'd never have thought of that trick myself, and I've been in the fleet for twenty-three years."

	"Aren't you just a little jealous?" Raleen asked.

	The commander's face grew dark. "You presume yourself, my lady. Colonel Regan's quick wit saved my life and the lives of the men aboard those ships. Jealous? No; I am proud."

	Good for you, Regan thought. Spoken like a noble.

	Raleen flushed a little. "I was jesting, my Lord Commander."

	"I realize that, my lady," said the commander gently. "Forgive me for taking offense."

	The girl smiled, and the incident was over.

	Actually, Regan thought, Larthin hadn't needed to be so obsequious, because in a way he ranked Raleen. A woman, no matter who she might be, deserved the title "my lady" only by sufferance. &o woman had the Power. Raleen's stepfather was the King, but when Gwyll of Jillane died, Raleen would be a commoner—a wealthy commoner, perhaps, but a commoner nonetheless.

	Of course, she would probably be married to another noble before that happened. She was descended from nobility, and it was desirable to keep the strain as pure as possible.

	"And how is His Supremacy, your father?" the commander asked.

	"Quite well, as usual," said Lady Raleen, "and quite grouchy, as usual."

	"Pardon me if I offend," Regan began smoothly, "but I am, as you know, a native of the Main Galaxy, and—"

	"It hardly shows," interrupted Raleen, smiling.

	Regan touched his brow. "Thank you, my lady. I was about to say that, although I'm very pleased with the reception given me this evening, I missed the pleasure of glimpsing His Supremacy."

	He could feel the faint chill—which was exactly what he had expected. He suppressed a grin.

	"His Supreme Nobility rarely appears in public," said Lady Raleen.

	She was about to say something else when a loud voice nearby said: "It's ridiculous! A young sprout like that and a foreigner, to boot. Promote him? Why? Any fool could have done what he did!"

	Regan pretended not to notice ; he had no desire to get himself embroiled in a duel at this particular stage in his program. And then he noticed that both Lady Raleen and Noble Commander Larthin were looking at him. They had heard the insult, and they knew he had heard it. There was nothing he could do now; if he backed out, everything he had gained would be lost.

-

	He turned his head casually in the direction of the voice. There were three officers there. One of them had his back to Regan; the other two were trying to shush him up.

	"What do you mean? I'm not talking loud. Regan isn't—"

	The officer stopped suddenly and turned around, facing Regan. He said nothing, but his jaw muscles tightened.

	"Were you referring, perhaps, to me, Colonel?" Regan asked softly.

	The full colonel outranked Regan—but rank meant nothing in a situation like this.

	He enjoyed the colonel's momentary discomfiture. The officer was obviously in the same trap. He hadn't meant for Regan to hear what was obviously a personal opinion, but he couldn't deny it now.

	"I said," the colonel replied evenly, "that I did not feel your promotion was justified. I mean no personal antagonism; I am thinking of the good of the service."

	A nice dodge, Regan thought approvingly. The man was not backing down; he was simply trying to shift the purpose of the duel. He would no longer be defending his personal honor, for now the honor of the service would be at stake.

	Regan decided to go him one better. "I make no claims of my own, Colonel, but am I to presume that you imply bad judgment on the part of His Supreme Nobility, whose decision it was to promote me?"

	The colonel's face went white. He'd made a mistake and he knew it, but there was no way out for him at this stage of the game. "This seems to have resolved itself into a personal difficulty, sir," he said.

	"Indeed it has, sir," replied Regan.

	The colonel glanced at the officer standing next to him. "Will you oblige me, Major?"

	Regan smiled and turned to the commander. "My Lord Commander, would you appoint me a second?"

	The commander, he knew, would have to appoint a noble. No duelist could have a noble second unless his opponent also had a noble second; otherwise, it would be possible for a noble to strike down his man's opponent at an opportune moment, and a quick sword stroke would cover up the mental death.

	Commander Larthin appointed a major who was standing nearby.

	"He's a good man," Larthin whispered. "You can trust him."

	The four of them walked through the suddenly quiet ballroom and out to the adjoining balcony. The night air was cool and tangy, and overhead the bright glitter of the Cluster gave ample illumination.

	They surveyed the balcony, drawing up an impromptu set of rules to cover the duel, and then the two combatants drew. Regan saw the shining flicker of the other man's rapier, and knew that this duel was in earnest.

	The colonel drove in sharply, but Regan beat back the thrust and sliced downward, cutting the air with his sword. He drove forward, but found himself parried. The colonel was a good swordsman, no doubt about it.

	But was he good enough? Regan felt the thrill of combat run through him; he stamped with his foot and lunged in the same moment.

	The sword slipped through the colonel's guard and incised a long, jagged streak at the side of the man's throat. "First blood," Regan cried.

	The touch seemed to intensify the colonel's attack. He came pressing inward and beat down Regan's guard long enough to pink him in the shoulder. A driblet of blood stained Dane's bright uniform.

	"A touch for me, upstart!"

	Dane grinned. "That evens us," he said. He feinted, dodged, and whipped his wrist over in a lightning-fast disengagement that the colonel only barely managed to parry. This was no mean antagonist, Dane thought, shaking his head to keep the sweat from rolling down his brow into his eyes.

	He gripped the hilt more tightly and wove forward for another offensive maneuver. As he drove toward the colonel's heart, the Jillanian parried the thrust and stepped nimbly aside. Regan leaped back as the colonel's blade came in for a counterthrust.

	Then, as Regan parried the blow, something struck his mind. It was like a bolt of lightning trying to penetrate a thick glass shield; it didn't hurt, but he could feel what had almost happened. Someone—a noble—had tried to kill him!

	Regan faltered for a moment, and the colonel sprang forward with a lone, savage thrust. Regan parried, disengaged, and followed with a lunge.

	He hadn't thought it would be successful; the colonel appeared much too clever to be fooled by a simple maneuver like that. But Regan was wrong!

	The blade went through so smoothly that Regan hardly felt the pressure. The colonel had just long enough to look terribly astonished before he died.

	Regan stood there for a moment, looking at the dead man. Then he turned and strode away, leaving the seconds to finish up with the details. He walked back to the ballroom alone, but he no longer felt like dancing. The colonel had been the first man Regan had ever killed personally. Blasting a spaceship is one thing, and spitting a man on a steel blade is another.

-

	Regan sat in his room in the officers' quarters that night, thinking furiously. Everything had seemed to go wrong. He had thought that perhaps such a ceremonial occasion as this would bring him face-to-face with Gwyll of Jillane. It hadn't; the hunchback had stayed in his own rooms, sending his daughter out to do the honors. And then—

	There was a knock at the door.

	"Come in," Regan said.

	He rose from his chair as Noble Commander Larthin entered. "Sit down, Colonel," the nobleman said. He was still wearing his evening finery, and his long, refined face was pale and weary.

	At Larthin's gesture, Regan sat once again. The commander sank into a pneumo-chair opposite him. "That was an excellent job you did tonight, my boy."

	"Thank you, my Lord Commander." Regan wondered if it hadn't been the commander who had sent that bolt of mental energy against him during the duel. Larthin had been acting especially friendly since the Battle of Ballin's Star, but still ...

	The nobleman spread his hands and tapped his fingertips together, as though formulating his next words with extra care. "You're a Vegan," he said at last. "I understand that is in the Main Galaxy somewhere."

	Regan nodded.

	"Now, mind you, I have nothing against you—quite the contrary; I'm for you all the way. But there are certain jealous officers in the service—as you saw this evening/'

	"Was it jealousy, sir?"

	"It's unusual for an officer to rise as rapidly as you have, though it's not unknown," Larthin said. He paused for a second, again choosing his words. ''I'll be frank with you, Colonel: you don't have long to live. That duel this evening was set up; Colonel Marten was one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom of Jillane. He picked that fight on purpose, although it was handled most adroitly. He was supposed to win. He didn't. Someone else will try the next time."

	"I see," Regan said emotionlessly.

	"But the next time, it will be different. There are some noblemen who are jealous, too, and—well ..."

	"Go on, sir."

	"From now on, you'll have to be treading as though you were walking on eggs. If some nobleman has the slightest excuse, he'll nail you with his Power. Most of us can't kill, but the constant mental pressure can be fatal in the end."

	Regan stood up slowly, fingering the newly-won Star of Jillane on his breast. "I appreciate this, sir."

	Larthin smiled unhappily.

	"Your worst danger is still unmentioned. It's the possibility that some commoner will challenge you, and some nobleman will hit you just as a thrust is coming. It's happened before, I'm sorry to say."

	Suddenly, Regan realized that there was no way out. If he stayed, it would be eventually revealed that he was actually a nobleman. One nobleman had tried to kill him directly already, and had failed. He might attribute his failure to accident—the first time. But if Dane Regan stood up to repeated mental thrusts, it would quickly become apparent that he was not the commoner he pretended to be.

	And when that happened, the sword and the Power would be thrown overboard. Someone would ambush him with a disruptor pistol.

	He stood there, frowning, staring down at the patient, serious face of Lord Commander Larthin. Regan realized that by going about things Jorg's way, he had been led astray.

	The old man had told him: "Be cautious. Be careful. Hide your mental powers and pretend to be an ordinary man. Work your way up slowly, never losing sight of your objective. And then, at the right time, strike!"

	But it hadn't worked. It was the wrong way entirely. After a year of biding his time, he was worse off than before. Being a hero, even if it was done honestly, was the wrong way. He had made too many enemies.

	There was another flaw in Jorg's reasoning too. The old man had taught him to hate the hunchbacked Gwyll of Jillane because Gwyll had killed his father and cheated him out of his rightful heritage to the throne of Jillane. But how culpable was Gwyll, really? Wasn't he simply doing what the others of this culture were doing—and succeeding at it?

	Regan stood up. His decision was made.

	"Thank you, my Lord Commander. I'll think over what you said."

	The commander lifted himself from his chair. "I hope you will, Colonel; I'd hate to see a good man die."

	He nodded politely and walked out without another word.

-

	After the commander had left, Regan changed into a fresh dress uniform, donned the Star of Jillane, and strode over to the Officers' Club.

	A hush swept over the brightly-bespangled Jillanians as he entered. They all knew the outcome of the duel that had marred the ball earlier that evening, and no doubt many of them bore deep resentment against the killer of Colonel Marten.

	He approached a table at which three swarthy officers were engaged in a low-voiced discussion.

	"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

	The man on his left, a thick-bodied captain, glanced up coolly. "Suit yourself."

	Regan drew forth a chair and sat down. The three at the table exchanged glances, but said nothing that might lead to a challenge. Regan snared a passing waiter, and ordered a drink.

	A few moments later, it arrived. He stared at the moist-looking amber cylinder for a moment, then raised it to his lips. He let a mouthful of liquor pass his lips, swallowing just a few drops—don't want to dull my reflexes now, he thought—and expelled the rest of the liquor from his mouth noisily.

	"Pfaaagh! What bilge-water!"

	The liquor sprayed out over the costly uniform of the captain seated opposite him. The man was too astonished to react for almost a full second, and sat there, dripping, his uniform ruined, while Regan stood up and grabbed the waiter's arm.

	"Look here, fellow, what was in that drink?"

	"Why, the finest rye we had, sir. Rye and dolch-water, wasn't that your order?"

	Regan continued to haggle for a couple of seconds more, then gave the waiter a swift kick and turned back to his table. "The stuff they try to serve these days," he remarked casually.

	And then, as if for the first time, he noticed the livid face of the officer opposite him. "Oh, how unfortunate," Regan said. "You seem to have spilled your drink."

	"Not quite," the man said icily. He stood up. "I shall consider your act as a premeditated insult, in view of your lack of apology."

	"Are you challenging me?" Regan demanded.

	"It rather looks that way," said the captain.

	For the second time that night, Regan found himself in a duel—this one, deliberately provoked by himself. He allowed the duel to proceed for about ten quick exchanges of thrusts, discovering in that time that the captain was a merely competent swordsman whom he could finish off any time he so chose. He did not so choose, though.

	Quickly, he took control of the captain's mind and the minds of the two seconds.

	See the image? There's your sword, fellow, thrusting into my gizzard.

	The three men went back into the club firmly convinced that the captain had killed Lieutenant Colonel Dane Regan. The news spread rapidly that the rising young officer had been lamentably snuffed out—but there were few wet eyes in Jillane that night. Dane Regan, in his short career in the Army of Jillane, had not precisely made himself popular, and his sudden death left a good many men—nobles and commoners alike—breathing more freely in relief.

	Later that evening, an unscheduled flight left the planet of Jillane, bearing on it the man who had been Dane Regan.

-

CHAPTER IV

	It was the same day that the aged Emperor died that a ship settled itself to the landing field in the city of Pellin on the planet Jillane.

	From it, there debarked a most resplendently-dressed figure. His clothing glittered with jewels and fine fabrics; his face was haughty, and bore not the slightest resemblance to the face of a certain Dane Regan who had been killed in a duel some two years before. But the mind behind it was the same.

	This gentleman, it seemed, was one Prince Danirr of Loksann, a title which was questioned by the officer behind the desk at the spaceport.

	"Prince? Is that a name or a title?"

	"A title," said Regan coldly.

	"What does it mean?"

	"It means that I rank just below a king," Regan explained with patient disdain.

	The officer blinked. "I see, sir. And you're from Loksann. Uh—what is Loksann?"

	Regan lifted an eyebrow superciliously. "Dear me! You people are barbaric out here, aren't you? Loksann, my dear fellow, happens to be a globular cluster on the other side of the galaxy." It was an out-and-out lie-—but a carefully calculated one.

	"I see," the official said. "Then—then you rank just below the King of Loksann?"

	"No," Regan corrected haughtily. "I rule Loksann. I rank just below the King of the Twelve Clusters."

	That would sound like an awful lot of territory to the official, but he said nothing.

	The Prince's papers were in order. They should, have been; Regan had spent plenty of painstaking time forging them.

	When he was cleared at the spaceport, Regan headed for the palace of Gwyll of Jillane. No detours this time; no extraneous foolishness whatever. He went directly to the point.

	As he had hoped, his reputation had preceded him. At the palace gate, the electronic portals opened, and a nobleman was there to meet him.

	"Prince Danirr? You are most welcome. Come with me.

	Regan followed the nobleman into a large suite of rooms. He was led into one room which was windowless, but well lit. There were several chairs scattered around, and a soft, comfortable couch. Regan strode in, knowing exactly what would happen. It did.

	The door behind him slid shut, and there was the subtle click of an electrolock. Regan paid no attention; he walked to the couch and sat down. There was a magazine on the nearby table, which he picked up and began to read idly, without paying close attention to the pages he glanced at.

	At the same time, he "listened" with his mind.

	This, he soon learned, was something that had never happened before in the long history of the Empire Cluster. For nearly a thousand years, no foreign dignitary had ever visited the Cluster—why should it happen now? The nobles of Jillane were, to say the least, disturbed. For ten centuries, they had gone their way untroubled—and now, here was a representative from, not the Main Galaxy, but the other side of the galaxy! He came from some culture at least fifty thousand light-years away! Regan's sensitive mind picked up emanations of uneasiness.

	Gwyll of Jillane was looking through a visiscreen at him. He could tell that.

	"He looks harmless enough, but—" The old King's hands clasped each other.

	He's scared silly, Regan thought.

	Old Gwyll didn't deserve his crown, and he knew it. And for that reason, he was suspicious of everyone. The young Vegan he had had killed two years before worried him. The man had not faltered when a bolt of mental energy hit him, and yet he had died later that night in an ordinary duel of no consequence.

	It was a puzzle Gwyll had not yet fathomed—and here was another.

	Regan waited more or less patiently while Gwyll considered the situation. Finally, Gwyll reached a decision. He turned to the nobleman beside him.

	"Tell him I am ill," he said. "The voting will take place in a few days; when I am Emperor, I will talk to him."

	Regan smiled openly, but those who were watching him thought it was something funny he had seen in the magazine he was reading.

-

	Prince Danirr of Loksann strode into the Imperial Hotel of Pellin, trailing a cloak of fiery red silk. His flamboyant clothing made him noticeable wherever he went, and his conduct made him doubly so. He had no bodyguards; he strode in alone as though he owned the place.

	He walked up to the clerk at the desk. "Prince Danirr of Loksann. I want the biggest suite in the hotel."

	The clerk blinked; he was obviously impressed. "I'm sorry, sir," he said hesitantly. "The Grand Suite is already reserved. We have a—"

	"Cancel the reservation," said Regan. He produced a glistening stack of hundred-stellor coins. "I'll take the suite." •

	He got the suite.

	It would serve as his headquarters for his short but colorful second stay on Jillane.

	It was a rambling, high-ceilinged affair with soft, clinging drapes and carpets a foot thick. The rent was astronomical, but that didn't matter to Regan. If he gained the prize he sought, a few thousand stellors would not matter—and if he failed, it likewise would not matter.

	He established himself, ordered a sumptuous meal, and then dialed the visiscope for news. The screen lit up, and a robot voice said, "Your questions, noble sir?"

	Regan leaned forward and glared at the faceless eye of the screen. "The election for Emperor—when is it?"

	"The Hundred Kings will meet in five days, sir," the bland voice said.

	"Who is considered the most likely choice?"

	"Our King Gwyll is considered most probable to be selected, sir."

	"Fine," Regan said. He paused for a moment, thinking.

	Finally, he said, "And how soon after the election will the coronation be held?"

	"Within three days, noble sir."

	That gives me eight days, Regan thought. Eight days.

	"One more question," he said. "What are the present whereabouts of the Lady Raleen of Jillane?"

	The robot was silent for a moment, as it checked its files. Then it said: "The Lady Raleen is at present in the city of Noricel. She plans to stay there for the next week."

	"Thanks," Regan said, and shut the machine off.

	So Raleen was in Noricel, eh? Noricel was the "Pleasure City"—the playground of the upper nobility. In five days, Gwyll of Jillane would become Emperor of the Thousand Suns. Three days after that, he would be crowned—crowned in a public ceremony.

	That left Prince Danirr of Loksann more than a week to spend diverting himself. It was going to be fun, he promised himself. He was on the right track at last. Jorg had urged him on to greater and greater caution, to an inch-by-inch method of winning his end. That was the wrong answer. Boldness would be his guide.

-

	The Pleasure City of Noricel spread out for miles from a vast central pool where the wealthy bathed. Prince Danirr shoved his way through the laughing throngs of nobles toward the pool's edge. He was clad in self-radiating tights and a bright sash, and must have made quite a figure.

	"Out of my way, please," he ordered as he jostled to the high-board. It was counter-gravitic and carefully balanced, and as he sprung downward he was caught and flipped neatly some forty feet in the air.

	He jack-knifed upward and slid gracefully into the cool water, dropping down some fifteen feet below the surface and then gliding upward. He broke water some few yards from a lovely girl in a close-fitting two-piece suit.

	"Very pretty dive," she said, smiling.

	"Thank you," Regan said. He studied her eyes for a long moment, and found them devoid of any recognition.

	The Lady Raleen of Jillane had no idea that the handsome young lord she was addressing was the same Dane Regan she had known briefly two years before.

	He swam alongside her in the crowded pool until she tired and leaped lightly to the pool's edge. He followed her out.

	"May I escort you home?" he asked.

	She smiled prettily. "Very well, if you wish. But in whose company shall I be?"

	"Prince Danirr of Loksann," he said. "And you?"

	"Lady Raleen of Jillane."

	"Ah," Regan said. "The daughter of the future Emperor of this cluster, eh?"

	She blushed. "Not yet, Prince Danirr. The election's not been held yet, you know!"

	"But the conclusion is foregone—as certain, I feel, as is the knowledge that you are the loveliest young lady I have ever met."

	She blushed again—but this time, there was something in her eyes that told him she was not altogether displeased.

-

	His five days in the pleasure city were memorable ones. Raleen had brought several of her own noble escorts along with her, but the out-world prince speedily elbowed them out of favor.

	Prince Danirr was, altogether, drawing a good bit of attention. Flamboyant, handsome, reckless, and with the extra attraction of a King's daughter at his side, Regan was seen everywhere, did everything, gamed with everyone.

	At the gaming-tables, he thought nothing of dropping a thousand stellors in twenty minutes, recouping them all with a fifty percent profit an hour later. In the roller coaster, he traveled without a safety belt, defying the counter-gravities and the merciless grade of the track. His swimming was the talk of the city; his swordplay, in the nightly duels with foils, something incredible. In five days, Danirr of Loksann had left his mark on Jillane; it had taken Lieutenant Colonel Regan a full year to reach similar prominence, and even then it had gotten him nowhere.

	On the fifth day, Raleen bid him a regretful good-bye.

	"I must go to Koreyl," she told him. "I must be with my father when .the election is held."

	Regan nodded. "I'll be seeing you afterwards," he said.

	"At the coronation."

	"I hope so."

	She turned and left. Regan watched her trim form walking swiftly toward the waiting jetcopter, and walked back to the hotel at which he was staying. There was little point in staying, at the pleasure city any longer.

	"I'm checking out," he told the man at the desk. "I'll go upstairs to get my things and I'll be right back down."

	"Very well," the clerk said. Regan thought the man looked at him a trifle suspiciously, and wondered what was going on. He found out quickly enough.

	He opened the door of his hotel room, and saw three men inside. He knew who they were, instantly.

	Hired assassins. Gwyll's men.

	Prince Danirr of Loksann was getting a little too big to handle—and, on the eve of his almost certain election to the throne of the Thousand Suns, Gwyll had decided to remove the flashy outworlder from Jillane in the most direct way.

	"Won't you step inside?" one of the three asked.

	"Sorry—this must be the wrong room," Regan said, and slammed the door hard. Quickly, he dashed down the corridor, turned right, dashed up into a small alcove, and seized the shining oval cylinder of a fire extinguisher.

	The. three assassins came bursting out into the hall. "This way," Regan yelled, and they came toward him. He saw the glint of a disrupt-or pistol, and behind that two flashing swords.

	"I'm over here," he said, and inverted the extinguisher. A heavy, smothering billow of plastifoam came rolling out and formed a gooey globe about the three. Regan leaped back into the alcove and watched them struggle.

	He waited until they were thoroughly entangled, then circled behind and past, reached into the threshing foam, and grasped the wrist that held the disruptor pistol. The wrist jerked and the pistol coughed, once. Its radiation fanned out, blowing the side out of the wall before them. Then Regan yanked upward and grasped the disruptor.

	He glanced at the deadly, efficient weapon for a moment, then tossed it out a nearby window. A man of his rank had no business playing with so degrading an instrument of butchery as a disruptor.

	The three assassins were still threshing comically in the foam of the extinguisher. Regan reached in again, plucked forth someone's sword, and cut a hole in the globe of foam. He stepped through the opening, grinned derisively at the enmired thugs, and, whirling the sword rapidly, pinked each in the ear.

	"Compliments of Danirr of Loksann," he said, stepping out. He used the extinguisher again to give them enough foam to keep them busy for the next hour, and returned to his room to pack his things. He would have to get back to his luxury suite in Pellin before any further trouble arose.

-

	The bulletins started coming in from Koreyl that night. Regan, in his Pellin suite, studied them happily.

-

GWYLL OF JILLANE ELECTED BY THE HUNDRED KINGS 

CORONATION TO BE HELD IN PELLIN 

MONARCH OF JILLANE TO ACCEDE TO THE THRONE OF THE THOUSAND SUNS

-

	He read the headlines over and over again, smiling pleasantly to himself.

	The coronation would take place as soon as Gwyll and his entourage got back from Koreyl—which, as the seat of the previous Emperor, had been the planet where the Hundred Kings had met to choose the successor.

	By now, Prince Danirr of Loksann was widely known on Jillane—an outworlder, daring and brave, capable of almost anything. Things were approaching their climax, now; forces had been set in motion. The time was growing ripe for Regan's final coup.

	That would come on Coronation Day.

	He waited impatiently for the hours to pass. Seventy-two—sixty—fifty-three—forty. Hours lengthened into days. The city of Pellin was transformed, became the jubilant, overdecorated, glossy scene of one of the great events of the Cluster. It was not often that a new Emperor acceded to the throne, and a coronation was no common event.

	Regan waited. Finally, Coronation, Day dawned.

	He made his way through the crowds that thronged the approaches to the High Palace. The people of Pellin had rapidly become accustomed to the haughty outworld Prince who gave ground to no man, and they were not surprised when he pushed his way to the forefront of the packed plaza.

	There were thousands there—hundreds of thousands, lining the streets for miles back. Amplifiers were set up to boom the sound of the Proclamation of Coronation out over the city, and pickups would relay them to each of the Thousand Suns of the Cluster.

	Regan glanced upward at the balcony of the High Palace. Figures were moving about up there—lesser kings, the Chief Justice of Jillane, nobles and grandees. Gwyll had not yet made his appearance.

	Suddenly, a great cry went up from the multitude. Out on the balcony stepped the hunchbacked figure of Gwyll—Gwyll of Jillane, newly-elected Emperor of the Hundred Kings and the Thousand Suns. Regan grinned savagely.

	The ceremony was about to begin.

	The cry went up from a hundred thousand throats: "Long live Emperor Gwyll! Long live Emperor Gwyll!"

	Sure, Regan thought. Long life to you, Gwyll.

	He put his shoulder down and started to shove his way forward to the entrance to the High Palace.

	On the balcony, impressively-cloaked figures were preparing for the Ceremony of Investiture.

	Gwyll stood there, seeming to sag beneath the weight of the hump on his back, waiting. Onry of Darmith, a tall man with a stiff black beard, stood beside him. Onry, King of one of the lesser suns of the system, was to administer the oath to Gwyll. The public ceremony was one of the Cluster's oldest traditions, and not for a thousand years had an Emperor been crowned on Jillane.

	Gwyll stepped forward, Onry with him.

	"Today," Onry said sonorously, "an Emperor is to be crowned."

	"Long live Emperor Gwyll!"

	"Today," Onry went on, "Gwyll of Jillane will take his place in the long line of Emperors of the Hundred Kings and the Thousand Suns. He will step forward to the glory that is rightfully his."

	"Long live Emperor Gwyll!"

	"By virtue of the power invested in me on this day by the Council of Kings, I, Onry of Darmith, will offer the Oath to Gwyll of Jillane. But first, first we accede to the time-honored custom of the Cluster on a Coronation Day—the Challenge."

	The crowd became oddly silent. The Challenge was the most impressive part of the Ceremony of Investiture. It dated back to the dim morning of the Cluster; it was a reaffirmation of the Power of the Kings.

	When Onry gave the signal, a commoner would step forward—a commoner chosen from the mass of Jillanian people, a commoner who knew he was marked for certain death. He would challenge the right of the new Emperor to hold his throne—and the formula called for the Emperor to blast the challenger's mind with a single glance.

	The last bona fide challenger had appeared more than a thousand years before. Since then, the ritual had become an empty one, with an unfortunate commoner chosen willy-nilly to play the role.

	Onry stepped forward. "Today we give the Throne of the Thousand Suns to Gwyll of Jillane. Is there anyone here who would dare say no?"

	The chosen challenger, a small man in the drab costume of a commoner, stepped forward hesitantly, aided by a firm push from behind. He opened his mouth to announce his challenge according to the prescribed ritual.

	But at that moment, Dane Regan stepped out on the balcony. "I dare say no!" he cried ringingly. "I challenge the usurper, Gwyll of Jillane!"

-

	A hundred thousand people fell silent in an instant.

	Regan stepped forward to confront Gwyll, while the real challenger dropped back out of sight, happy to be taken off the hook.

	Onry of Darmith glared angrily at the intruder, apparently about to order him off the premises, but said nothing. He obviously realized that Regan's appearance, unexpected as it was, was perfectly within the framework of the ritual.

	Mastering himself, Onry said, "State your name, challenger, and your accusation."

	Regan pointed at the cowering Gwyll. "My name? Some of you know me as Dane Regan, of Vega VI. Others as Prince Danirr of Loksann." He paused.

	"My name," he said, "is Dovenath. Dovenath of Jillane—son of Dovenath, former King of Jillane." He took two steps forward, standing next to Gwyll. Somewhere in the background, he saw Raleen's pale, frightened face peering at him.

	"I accuse Gwyll of murdering my father and seizing the throne unlawfully," Regan said.

	"A grave accusation," Onry said. "Have you proof?"

	"Proof?" He pointed at Gwyll. "Let him supply the proof. Let him blast me to the ground."

	Onry nodded. "Yes. That is right. Challenger, stand forth. Gwyll, show your might. Long live Emperor Gwyll!"

	Again the cry came up—feebler, this time. "Long live Emperor Gwyll!"

	Gwyll was white with terror; Regan, smiling and confident. The hunchback frowned with concentration and sent a mental bolt at Regan, who deflected it easily while the others on the balcony waited for him to topple dead.

	"He has no effect," Regan declared. "He is false!" He seized Gwyll and ripped his costly robes from his back in a contemptuous motion. A complex maze of transistors and tubes stood forward on the back of the Emperor-elect.

	"There's your hunchbacked King," Regan cried. "Wearing an amplifier on his back to step his Power up to royal proportions."

	"It's a lie," Gwyll said in a strangled voice.

	"Do you deny you murdered Dovenath and drove me from the Cluster?" Regan shouted. "Can you deny it, Gwyll?"

	Angry muttering came from below. Suddenly, Gwyll fumbled in his robes and ripped forth a disruptor pistol.

	Now, Regan thought. He unleashed a bolt at Gwyll, smashed through the monarch's feeble defenses, and watched as Gwyll toppled forward. He turned to face Onry.

	"The challenge has not been met," he said. "Guards, remove this carrion!"

	Hesitantly, two men moved forward at Regan's imperious gesture and carried Gwyll's body away. Regan stepped to the edge of the balcony.

	In the moment of triumph, he thought of old Jorg, and how the old man would rejoice. "The king is dead," Regan said.

	"Long live Dovenath of Jillane!" came the cry from the astonished crowd below—first hesitantly, then a booming shout that sent up an almost tangible ripple of vibration.

	Regan turned to Onry. "Call your Kings together," he said. "There's going to be a new election—right here and now, before the people!"

	The Lady Raleen stepped forward and to his side. He smiled at her, and looked down at the wildly cheering crowd.

	"Long live Dovenath of Jillane!" they cried again.

	With an imperious gesture, he stretched out his hand as if to take possession of his re-won empire.

The End
sleipnir 3/04/2012