On this morning, Captain Coary and Lt. Cdr. Brightfeather were chit-chatting over breakfast in the off-bridge conference room when they were interrupted by the news that a freighter heading for Zenobia was under attack and had only hand weapons. Coary had his communications officer relay the message to Space Fleet Headquarters. They replied that he was the closest Ranger ship; he told them he was on his way.

Edgar Poe dropped into quantum space and headed for the caller's coordinates; it would take six hours to get there. Assault teams and gamma-ray gunnery crews were readied; corbinite missiles and plasma-beam canons were primed.

The name of the freighter was Georgia Moon. Coary knew the captain, Jack Fitzsimmons. They'd gone to Fleet Academy together and served on the same ship that ran into problems attempting to cross the link between our universe and a parallel one. Many crew died. In the midst of mayhem, Coary saved the day by abruptly and inexplicably acquiring the ability to see with quantum eyes. After that trip, his friend quit the service and took a job running freighters until he could afford his own, Georgia Moon, named after the home of his earth ancestors and the full moon he saw on an occasion to visit.

After the distress call, there was no other transmission. The comm officer tried hailing on all frequencies but to no avail; all they got was static. Worried for his friend, he ordered a deep scan as soon as they were in range. He asked Bertha, the supercomputing artifical intelligence that ran everything, for all information on the area they were approaching. There wasn't much. She produced a chart that included the planet Haven.

On Haven, an aptly-named planet on the far reaches of the border in that sector, outside the protected zone, no civil government ruled. It'd been terraformed along with others in the region but its natural resources proved to be so poor that the initial settlers finally pulled up stakes and returned to their original homes, leaving the planet wide open for homesteaders and miscreants alike. Bands of outlaws, highwaymen, and pirates moved in; they didn't care about farming or mining, they made their living off the backs of others.

General statistics on acts of piracy, ships lost, types of ships attacked, and so forth, but nothing Coary could set his teeth into. No news ever came out of Haven; it was isolated and they seemed to like it that way. His exec, Commander Sean Owens, and Lieutenant Commander Aponi Brightfeather, science officer, entered and took seats on either side of him; he was deep in thought. Owens was about to say something when the nav-officer commed that long-range scans had pinpointed Georgia Moon but no other ships. The crew was put on full alert; Coary knew from experience that just because a ship is undetectable doesn't mean it's not there.

When they were within shouting distance, he ordered the ship to emerge into ordinary spacetime. They transited quickly, materializing on the starboard side of the stricken Georgia Moon, a large hole appearing in the hull amidship. Three assault shuttles launched, Coary went with the first, leaving Owens in command. The freighter was a good two-hundred meters long and almost cylindrical. It's plasma-drive engines hung out on either side of the stern; the starboard side one appeared intact but strangely glowing and immobile. The shuttle docked at the portal above the massive hole. They fanned out immediately upon entering. The captain and two men moved cautiously towards the bridge. He could hear the thuds of the other shuttles landing at portals on the opposite side. Black scorches from pulse rifles seared the walls and ceilings.

He arrived at an empty command center, the walls were strafed with black marks and instrumentaion smashed, but curiously, no bodies. They found no one in the crew quarters or eating areas as well, and none of the escape pods had been used. That left two possibilities: either they were tossed out into space, dead or alive, or they were taken onboard the attack vessel. That was a mystery best put on hold for the time being.

He had the computers checked for the current bill of lading. Were they carrying something specific which their attackers knew about and wanted, or had this been an act of random highway robbery? The list of goods included food, equipment, tools, bags of seeds and fertilizer, medical supplies, personal items, and mail--standard fare for a transporter.

After suiting up, Coary and his men walked through the cavernous storage hold where the gigantic hole showed the stars. They checked each item off the list as they went; everything was still here. However, the space across from the gaping hole was empty, but, by the look of it, something had been there that wasn't on the cargo list.

His computer people ran a link to Bertha. She was informed of the situation: Something had been here that was worth more than the entire rest of the cargo. On the ship's computers or the skipper's private one was a mention of it, perhaps in correspondence or in the log, phrased as code, the same euphemism showing up in transcripts and records. He had a hunch the attackers weren't pirates at all. Why leave all this stuff? He could see not taking farming supplies, but the medicine alone was worth a small fortune and food always came in handy.

Forensic examinations revealed that the ragged edge of the hole appeared cauterized, the organic-metal veneer had folded over on itself, forming scar tissue, indicative of plasma or laser weapons, canons possibly, used as cutting tools. Not exactly state of the art, thought Coary. He searched his friend's quarters, looking for anything that might give them a clue. In a dresser drawer he found a stack of pictures, a few from his days at the Academy. There he was: Fitzsimmons, Coary, and another friend standing in front of the science library on campus. And another playing ball at a group picnic. Sitting alone, he prepared himself for the possibility that Fitz was dead; he allowed it to seep into his bones and heart. It stilled him, but only briefly. Anger welled up and along with it the determination to find the attackers; somebody was going to pay.

On Fitzsimmons' personal computer, Coary scrutinized his mail for the past two weeks, the time it takes a freighter to travel between the two planets. There were several directories of protected files as well, he let Bertha handle those.

His messages to his wife, Coary assumed by the content, carried a tone of misgivings. He'd committed himself to conveying an object for the Xavier Prime Museum, clandestinely. At the outset, it was explained to him that they'd made a reciprocal deal to trade artifacts, a common occurrence, with the Zenobia Museum. The two agreed to keep it out of the media so as not to incur disapproval and resistance from the public. That's the reason he was given, but, he'd uncovered other information that shed light on the actualities.

In one, he'd written: "Apparently, this object was a relic highly revered and cherished by the inhabitants of the planet on which it was discovered. Nonetheless, the archaeological team had loaded it and other antiquities onto their ship in the dark of night, and, without notice, left to return to Xavier Prime. The owners want it back, understandably, and had warned the museum that they were ready and willing to go to any extremes to recover it."

The captain read further. More recent messages expressed serious concern and then genuine anxiety. Fitzsimmons was troubled that he'd put his crew in jeopardy. As days drew closer to the present, he spoke openly about the object: "It's a nine-foot long sarcophagus; the material of which it's made has the characteristics of hard metal, and its surface is covered in engravings of images and obscure patterns. Grey in color, it has the relatively fresh look of something having been in the ground, or, at least, unexposed to air. Along with it are various associated items whose significance and utility are unknown. The sarcophagus is crated and the rest of the objects are packed together in a separate container."

Crated, thought Coary. It was concealed and yet he knew what it looked like. He expected pictures to be on the gel-drive somewhere; even if deleted, Bertha could uncover them. This was not an ordinary coffin holding the body of some dignitary or religious leader. Recalling his experience with the Dark Lord, he had a nagging feeling that whatever engravings were on it, their purpose was not simply ornate.

A freighter, accompanied by Ranger ships, was on its way from Zenobia to transfer cargo, if needed. Coary's people were working on navigation controls; the port engine was still functional and with it they could make sufficent headway to arrive at Zenobia in a week or so. If Captain Fitzsimmins was dead, it would be salvaged and the remains scrapped. A sad end to a man's dream. They'd decide when they arrived whether to run Georgia Moon the rest of the way or transship goods and then tow it. It wasn't his call. Edgar Poe would remain on station until they arrived, protecting the ship and studying the situation. They had no idea where the attackers went and so had nowhere else to go anyway. Where are the crew, his friend? What happened here and by whom? The ship's manifest listed twenty-nine crew and officers, and yet, despite clear evidence that a gun battle had taken place, Coary found no bodies or blood or any sign that anyone had been wounded or killed.

Bertha, having decrypted the simple, to her, security block, sifted through all the documents on Fitz's personal computer and flagged those having to do with the museum and the sarcophagus. She searched her vast archives of collective knowledge currently recorded by the Alliance for any reference to them as well. On Fitz's computer, files disguised by misleading summaries contained information describing the antiquities and where they'd been discovered. She found one complete folder of pictures of the sarcophagus with its curious images, ideograms, and designs incised on every side. She downlinked a few to Fitz's screen for Coary to see. Not knowing its origins, it was impossible to distinguish between complex geometric patterns and what were images of actual things, flora or fauna, living or not.

While he was studying the intertwining complexity of lines and curves; the intricate knots of swirls expanding out, then dividing and back eddying into the main field again; the layers of whorls receding into the depth of the material towards a blurry vortex, Bertha announced that she'd scanned all relevant documents, including professional articles and journal entries from those who'd unearthed the find, and had constructed a brief summary of events:

Two solar years ago, as part of a reconnaisance operation looking for prospective footholds in the far reaches of the uncharted territories, a planet had been discovered that was completely barren except for a single structure about two-stories high and ten meters on a side, standing in the midst of a gravelly desert. At each corner, tall cylindrical columns reached another fifty feet or so. No other buildings could be found anywhere else. An archaeological expedition arrived shortly after. They hadn't been working for more than a week when a ship of unknown origins appeared in the sky above. An armed unit, their features masked from head to toe, landed in a small shuttle near their camp. They were on patrol and had detected their presence. The diggers were confronted and, through a translation matrix, interrogated. The team leader explained what they were doing, that they were on an official, government-sanctioned mission from the Xavier Prime Natural History Museum. The planet was uninhabited and they had no idea it was claimed by anyone. This one structure resting on a flat brown plain demanded investigation; could any intelligent species deny that?

She continued:

The folks with the weapons explained that the entire planet had been deemed off-limits for thousands of cycles because of the presence of the structure and what it housed. According to their history, eons ago a ruthless tyrant, known throughout the nether regions of the galaxy, well beyond the limits of his own empire, rose to be ruler of a hundred planets through help from the denizens of the underworld. His reign lasted a thousand years and all who rebelled against him were tortured and killed.

It is recorded by the keepers of the way that he grew in such power and arrogance that he dared to challenge the shadow realm, to dominate their dimensions of time and space, those very same magical beings who had supported him and given him immortality. For that blasphemy, his immortality was withdrawn and his body soon died of old age. But before that happenstance, however, he'd procured the aid of a great shaman with mystical powers. He spent the last days of his life engaged in deep communion with others of the underworld who wished to once more participate, through him, in the lives of those living in ordinary spacetime. He'd learned humility, he said, and would not challenge them again. They promised a return of his immortality in exchange for a seat at the table. After his death, his spirit would be free to once again take on corporeal form and, with their aid, rule the lands as before.

In their culture, burning a body to ashes releases the essence or soul of a being, which is then capable of reincarnating at an opportune time and in a receptive form. In order to eliminate that possibility, their shamans infused the tyrant's body with dimensions of timeless space through the imposition of bondage spells, thus preserving and perpetuating its material form in stasis forever. They buried him on a desolate, unforgiving planet, far from their home worlds, unlikely to ever be colonized or visited, in a structure built of thrice-blessed stone, blinding his presence to all seeking eyes.

It is absolutely imperative that he not be disturbed lest the balance of forces structuring his body's temporal suspension phase-shifts to its minimal energy configuration; thereby, weakening the confining tendrils to the point where their interdependence decoheres and unravels. If that were to occur, his body would be susceptible to decay and eventual dissipation, freeing his frozen spirit. That would be bad.

Bertha couldn't help but comment: "Therefore, what the archaeologists were doing was unwarranted and dangerous in the extreme. Fortunately, at this point, they had not yet broken into the actual burial chamber where the sarcophagus and assorted artifacts lay. If they would stop now and leave, they were told, their lives would be spared." Bertha sounded almost amused by the politeness of the threat. "They could've just killed them all."

"Yes," interjected Coary, "but then a rescue mission would've been launched and the discovery of the structure would become widely known. This way, their way, the team would return safe and sound, no mistreatment, with the message of no trespassing."

Bertha picked up where she left off:

After a week's work, they'd completed preparations. Having loosened the crypt door to the sarcophagus, they were about to enter when the landlords arrived. They were ordered out, explanation given above, but as they were decamping and loading gear into their ship, the aliens, as they are referred to in other documents, letters, and diary entries, became suddenly agitated and talked amongst themselves. Their captain, it was supposed, informed the team that they were being called away on an emergency, but would be back soon. With that, they packed up and left. The archaeologists saw their chance, a chance of a lifetime, something monumental that would make their careers. With all due dispatch, they hoisted the sarcophagus into their cargo bay, gathered up the artifacts, and absconded at maximum speed back to Xavier Prime.

Coary commented, "It sounds to me that Fitzsimmons had it wrong. His email states it was a relic highly revered and cherished. More like it was reviled. And there were no inhabitants on that planet, it sounds dead, a desert world. Which is why, probably, they chose to bury him there."

Coary was joined by chief engineer Finley and science officer Brightfeather bearing much-needed coffee. The captain asked, "Bertha, you stated the armed unit was completely covered, faces unseen. Can you find a reason for that? The archaeology team, were they covered as well? The weather didn't sound like a factor."

"I found nothing to indicate an environmental reason; the air and temperature were within acceptable parameters, magnetosphere intact and protective, no dangerous radiation. Their stature was noted and impressive, anywhere from eight to ten feet tall. An observation by team members concurred that they seemed to be wearing helmets with antennae-like protuberances extending from the forehead. And other comments on movements and gestures--very unhumanoid. So, it's quite possible they were not humanoid and didn't wish to reveal that."

Coary commed his communications officer: "Contact Space Fleet. Request they question the museum curators on both Xavier Prime and Zenobia. Inform them of what has befallen their precious cargo, and find out exactly why it was being transfered and also why they refused to return it to its rightful owners. Besides them, who knew Georgia Moon would be transporting it? Had the museum on Xavier Prime received threats? Lean on them, inform them that they'll be charged with theft and smuggling of another world's treasure unless they come clean. People's lives are at stake and quite possibly the entire crew of Georgia Moon, including its skipper, are dead. This too would be on their hands." He suspected more was going on than a routine exchange of art objects.

He brought Finley and Brightfeather up to speed; he wanted their thoughts. They didn't know much yet so speculation could go anywhere. He wanted to discuss how his friend managed to have such revealing documentaion and what seemed to be journal entries from the archaeological team on his personal computer. But for now, he asked, "Who was likely to pull this job, and why?" The most obvious answer was the people who confronted the archaeological team. Finley said, "After examining the hull breach, I can only guess at their weaponry. The edges were cauterized. Both the inner and outer hulls were melted together into a smooth rounded border. They used a plasma beam of considerable strength to surgically remove that part of the hull precisely across from where the crate holding the sarcophagus lay. They had to know exactly where it was before entering the ship."

Brightfeather asked, "If they killed everyone, why take the bodies? And why is there no blood, yet plenty of pulse-rifle marks on the interior?"

"Pulse rifles," Coary said. "Fitz and his crew had the pulse rifles. I walked the ship and the forensics people concur: there is no evidence of whatever weapons the invaders used. First they disable the ship by freezing the starboard engine, then they cut through the cargo bay at the exact location for their objective, and invade the ship, at the same time, afterwards? There's a fight, one hell of a fight, but somehow none of the Georgia Moon crew is killed or wounded. They're taken alive without a shot fired by the invaders? How likely is that? Or they're killed mysteriously and their bodies shunted out into space."

"I don't think so, captain," said Finley. "This group is all about finesse, order, discipline, achieving a goal and then operation over. Besides the time it would take, throwing the bodies into space doesn't fit the profile we have so far. No, I don't think so."

"I agree," said Brightfeather. "I have a feeling,..."

"A feeling?" interjected Finley.

"Yes. An intuition. They rounded up the crew and took them along."

"But why do that?" asked Coary. Even though, for the sake of his friend, at least, he wanted that to be true, he had to probe all possibilities. He was a Ranger captain.

"I don't know why," answered Finley, "but we didn't find any weapons onboard. It would seem their weaponry was superior so, once again, why take the time to gather inferior weapons?"

"But it looks like a war went on in here, even the bridge is trashed. That's completely unnecessary. Why take the time to do that?" The matter of the files on Fitz's computer popped into his head. "Tie this in," he said to his personal brainstormers as he leaned forward, "Fitz, captain Fitzsimmions, had documentation, letters and diary entries from the arch team, on his personal computer. Why? How did he come by them? Surely, if the curators on Xavier Prime wanted it all kept hush-hush, why would they reveal such damning evidence of their theft? The report on the mission by the arch team didn't, and wouldn't, disclose the manner in which the sarcophagus was procured. That came from elsewhere. We have the official version and we have this."

He spun the viewscreen towards them. On it was a text file describing how they stole the antiquities and a detailed account of their encounter with the aliens, as the landlords with the guns were called, but not written in the manner of an objective scientist, but rather more like a journalist. It's what Bertha had relied on in her story of events. Apparently, it had the ring of truth to her sophisticated algorithms, designed to read between the lines and to perceive, weigh, and connect significant dots on multiple levels simultaneously. Also, she'd been programmed with street smarts. When they finished, he repeated, "Why would Fitz have this and where did he get it? His messages to his wife never said anything about it."

"Messages across quantum space are monitored and recorded," said Brightfeather. "Or perhaps it was code. Have you ever met his wife?"

"No," he said, sitting up abruptly. "We haven't been in touch for a couple of years, never in the same place at the same time. But you'd think, if he'd gotten married, he would've dropped me a line, at least leave a message at Space Fleet. I just assumed by the tone and certain expressions, talking about what they'd do when he got home..."

"Designed for that reason, perhaps," finished Brightfeather. "Well then, let's find out where those messages really went."

Bertha was instructed to chase them down. "Another thing," said Coary. "The files of the pictures of the sarcophagus were encrypted, but not his mail messages to his wife. Is that too by design? Make the messages easy to discover and the rest appear classified? Instruments smashed at random on the bridge, but the skipper's personal computer untouched?"

They all sat back and took deep breaths; Coary requested coffee from a crewman passing by the door. Brightfeather stared at the screen. Finley withdrew into that quiet space where his prodigious aptitude for combining mechanics with the forensics experience of a Ranger overlapped. He was thinking hard about the nuts and bolts of it all. Brightfeather was more the meta thinker, the world of multidimensional realities and mathematical constructs were her bread and butter.

"Encrypting the pictures may be innocent," commented Brightfeather. "A matter of protocol from one museum to another, privatizing for their eyes only. On the other hand, suppose the symbols and images on its surface have meaning above and beyond its mummified contents? But if that's the case, what would knowing them accomplish? And why conceal something, why give them an air of espionage, as you suggest, that's probably been on exhibit at this museum for the past two years? There's probably pictures in their online brochures."

"Bertha's report spoke of shamanic spells woven to constrain the body and to keep it from deteriorating. We all remember, I'm sure, the shaman who banished the Dark Lord. His powers were enormous and genuine, shifing his entire world into another dimension and transiting through time and space. His pictographs when spoken were capable of bringing the Dark Lord into our universe as a corporeal being, reversing them sent him packing. Perhaps the symbols have something to do with that."

The lead forensics officer brought in four cups and a pitcher of coffee on a tray. "Fresh made, captain." He poured a round and took a seat next to Finley. Rangers who specialized in crime scene investigation were a curious breed. They tended to see their surroundings in terms of a crime scene, noticing the keystone objects and their relationship to one another, looking for pattern dissonance, an overall impression of something out of whack, then zeroing in on its source. Coary's people were among the best; outworlder duty demanded a keen, disciplined mind, resolute against intimidation by circumstances.

A long, quiet pause fell on the room, the forensics officer leaned elbows on the table and put his fingertips together. Finally, he said, "Something's wrong here, skipper. What I mean is, the absence of bodies is unusual but not unheard of. Prisoners are a leverage against retaliation, hostages, ransom, bargains can be made."

Laying his palms flat on the table, he continued, "Okay, if we extract the telltale signs of a fight, what's left? The hole in the side is between struts. Its replacement would not be difficult, one day in a shipyard. And the damaged equipment on the bridge, all outdated and non-compliant with interplanetary shipping standards. The safety features alone are dependnet on rudimentary mechanical devices, all now officially considered obsolete, the newer superconducting plasma relays are the accepted norm."

Coary was familiar with this man's penchant for laying down the facts before arriving at his conclusion, a process that could not be hurried. He waited. Finishing his list, he said, "Captain, this whole thing is a charade, a staged event for whoever answered the distress call. And it's no great coincidence that you know captain Fitzsimmons personally, lots of retired Rangers run these freighters and colony transports." News travels fast on the Edgar Poe, it was like that.

"What about the starboard engine?" asked Finley. "That's not cheap to replace."

"Your engineers found the source of the freeze-up. The internal dampeners have been disconnected, severed from the ion chamber. Its automatic security system shut it down. Even if we could jury-rig a linkage, the whole unit still needs to be realigned. Unfortunately, we're not equipped to do that."

"So what the hell are we looking at here?" Coary blurted out.

Just then, Bertha commed in, "Excuse me, captain, but I have some information." Told to continue, she said, "I've tracked the recipient of the mail messages of captain Fitzsimmons. They passed through a very complex chain of networks to eventually end up somewhere in the mountains on Hawking-I."

Hawking-I, home of the Space Fleet. "Could you be more specific?"

"The exact coordinates are being blocked by a dampening field. At best I can delinetae an area. Oh, wait. There's this. The field fits the profile of what Space Fleet incorporates when holding secret meetings. Signal-proof. Very sophisticated. If I were to guess, captain."

She always did this when about to drop a bomb; she had a flair for the dramatic. They all knew she wasn't following a hunch; nevertheless, they waited. "The source is a Space Fleet Intelligence facility, out of the way of prying eyes."

Coary said, "Perhaps that explains why there's no messages from his wife. Ordinarily, Fitz would save them as keepsakes, occasionally rereading them like anybody else. So if any were sent, they were deleted prior to this bogus assault and theft. And do we all agree with that assessment? That it was staged for our benefit?"

"It sure looks that way, sir," said Finley, confident that his engineers knew what they were talking about. Brightfeather looked troubled, however. "What's the big picture?" she asked. "Superficially, it looks like the owners made good on their threat. To get it back at all costs. But someone might inquire: why didn't they try normal diplomatic channels?"

"Maybe they did but got nowhere," replied Coary. "And somehow, hypothetically, they found out it was being surreptitiously transfered, again in the dead of night. They had no choice, they were angry, and they and they alone, as guardians, understood the importance of returning the sarcophagus to its home. The danger may have been explained but discounted as mere myth, one among countless others. Considering what Space Fleet has learned about the inhabitants of the multiverse, I find it strange that they wouldn't take their story at face value."

"Maybe they never dealt with Space Fleet," said Brightfeather. "Why should they? Their dealings were probably with the government on Xavier Prime, a not very open-minded or sympathetic organization. The whole planet's like that. Self-centered and distrustful of outsiders, xenphobes. They're among the few planets in the entire Alliance of Border Planets without an extradition treaty, for one thing. I could see them stonewalling the demands of the aliens, dismissing their reasons as superstitious nonsense. I can just see them thinking: they are beings of another species, their view of reality is different and therefore suspect."

"Okay," said Finley, "we're building a case. They have clear motive; all they need is opportunity. Which brings us to the next question: why bother to send it to Zenobia on an undefended transport? Wouldn't it be safer on the planet tucked away in the museum with the military and police to protect it? Who's going to invade a planet just to take back a coffin with a mummy in it?"

"They would," said Coary, flatly. "The government, mindful of its citizentry and political future, had no desire to go to war over a dead person's remains. If that's the case, they may have persuaded the museum to hide it, get rid of it. They in turn couldn't see destroying it and they had little interest in giving it back, the simplest and most ethical solution, so they shuffled it off to Zenobia.

"Fitz's encrypted documents corroborate motive and threat. Could be why they're on his computer. Even his mail supports that. The museum archaeologists would take the hit for grave robbing and the alien protectors the blame for this attack.

"But his mail went to Star Fleet Intelligence, perhaps some renegade off-shoot with its own agenda. So it would appear Fitz has been collaborating with that unit, whoever they are, to the point of allowing his prized ship to be treated as a theatrical landscape."

"Okay," said Finley, "we're back at the original question then: who dunnit? And let's not forget why? Can we say for certain that these guardians are the perpetrators?"

Bertha commed in: "Excuse me, captain, I may have something." She didn't bother to wait for permission to continue this time. "The images and patterns on the sarcophagus cover all surfaces. They were scanned, the resultant configuration inverted and then wrapped around a topologically equivalent sphere. I then placed values on height to form a three-dimensional topographic map. Comparing it to known and robotically surveyed planets, I discovered an M-class in the Centaurus Sector that, with adjustments due to time and likely tectonic and volcanic activity, compares favorably." Momentarily, it appeared on Fitz's screen. It looked quite ordinary: mountains, rivers, oceans, forests.

She continued, "It has one moon and is one of two inhabited planets in a system of twelve. Atmospheric ingredients, air pressure, and gravity very similar to Hawking-I. Sentient civilization and level of technology at the time of the survey categorized as rudimentary. That was 250 years ago. At this time, I see no connection other than the carvings on the sarcophagus represent the topographic representation of that planet, name unknown but catalogued as ZX3-934."

"Could that be the home planet of this former emperor of evil?" asked Coary.

"It would make sense," replied Brightfeather. "The resonance of his birth-world incorporated into the shamanic spells, forces incised pictorially into the material of the coffin, encasing him. Keeping him from disintegrating while constraining his spirit. His own private prison. Very similar to the pictographic effects of the shaman intended to bring forth the Dark Lord. Symbols with more than just meaning, actual alternate-dimensional forces at work."

"It makes me wonder," said Finley. "What would happen if his body were removed from the sarcophagus?"

"It would probably turn to dust once it hit the air," said Coary. "And based on what we've uncovered thus far, that would not be good."

A few of the forensics team moved into the room; it was time to scour the captain's quarters. Coary almost didn't want to know what they'd find; concern for his friend was double-edged. Was he safe and sound, a captive held somewhere, or was he involved in some intelligence mission that intentionally was trying to pin the blame for this attack and theft on those very same people who claimed to own the sarcophagus and were trying to keep it under wraps, literally? What had he gotten himself into? Brightfeather, Finley, and the skipper got out of their way and returned to Edgar Poe.

They went immediately to the brain center, as the forensics/investigative lab was referred to. On the wall-to-wall holoscreen was a three-dimensional projection of the planet ZX3-934, now being called mummyland. Researchers were pouring over documents from the ship's computers as well as captain Fitzsimmons' personal one. Connecting dots, building complex patterns was their pride and joy, and they were uncommonly passionate about it. Sitting around the long conference table, discussing in quick bites, pointing to a word or line or sentence in a document for another to note, heads nodding. And coordinating it all, Bertha, who also conducted her own research by digging up any and all relevant information from her vast archival stores, cross-referencing key components, appraising parallel ideas and concepts, synthesising the common elements as aspects of a whole only she was capable of grasping. This was the brain center of Edgar Poe, a very intense atmosphere, to say the least.

Coary's gut wrenched when he thought of what they might find, but he had to put first things first and forget about it. At present, despite all the flurry and innuendo, they had nothing to go on as far as determining the real culprits in this game. They had two pieces of information so far: the mysterious Space Fleet intelligence operation, a shielded outpost in the mountains of Hawking-I, Coary's home, and the location of mummyland. The possibility of incalculable power invested in the shamanic symbols on the sarcophagus was another matter entirely, something to be considered in its own right.

Coary was commed to the bridge, the transport had arrived.

Accompanied by two Ranger patrol ships, an empty freighter pulled alongside Georgia Moon. After careful consideration of the damages, in particular, the gaping hole in the starboard side, for insurance purposes, the skipper of the freighter decided to transship all cargo to his transport. Georgia Moon could then limp in on one engine or be towed; they'd decide that later.

The Poe's forensics teams and engineers had finished their jobs and returned to the ship, handing off their reports at the brain center and staying to be debriefed by the researchers, offering on-sight corrections. Coary conferenced with both captains of the patrol ships, bringing them up to speed with the gist of what they'd uncovered so far, the belief, and evidence supported it, that the attack was staged. For the sake of the investigation, they were to keep a lid on it. Coary didn't want to tip his hand, such as it was. He had no problem revealing what they knew to the Ranger captains. A blood-bond existed among Rangers who plied the open seas that trumped allegiance to the landlubbers and harkened back to the wild frontier days when they were little more than outlaws themselves and made up their own rules.

He wanted them to question the skipper of the transport, find out if he knew of any threats made to captain Fitzsimmons, something heard in a bar or the shipyard passed among the captains of other freighters. It was a close-knit community, people hear stuff. He instructed his communications officer to send Space Fleet Headquarters only documentaion supporting the contention that the aliens had indeed made good on their threat and attacked the freighter, Georgia Moon, and retrieved the sarcophagus. All hands are either dead or been taken captive. He had no idea who to trust and until such time, they were on their own.

He and commander Owens retired to the off-bridge conference room, Coary requested a yeoman bring coffee and a light breakfast. The skipper was not one to sit on his hands and wait for circumstances to dictate his next move. Nonetheless, they had very little choice at this time. As a show of force and additional protection, they would remain until the transport and escort were ready to go. They needed time to think, anyway. They weren't going anywhere until they had a destination and a damn good reason to go there.

Summary reports--speculations--from the brain trust trickled in:

One noted that as the day of the attack drew closer, Fitzsimmons became more agitated as witnessed through both his mail and diary entries. Indicative of someone who knew the attack was imminent, but not with an emotional tone of anticipation but rather as a person deeply concerned over possible miscalculations that might cost lives. Another one stated that--based on documentation--there was no sense that the Natural History Museum on Zenobia was aware that the sarcophagus and assorted additional artifacts were on their way. They were trying to contact the curators for questioning, but thus far were unable; indeed, the Museum was closed indefinitely to the public for reasons undeclared.

Space Fleet also reported that Rangers on Zenobia could find no museum administrators to question. A third stated that one message on the day of the attack sent to what is suspected as Fitzsimmon's intelligence contact included the coordinates of a planet he wished to visit with the recipient, deliberately masked as his wife, but no planet exists there. All permutations pointed to empty space save one--the coordinates of their present location. As all messages from freighters and cargo vessels are monitored by each sector's traffic control as standard security protocol, it would be on record and accessible to anyone capable of hacking into their poorly defended computer system. Meaning: knowing the code, a third party could have discovered the plot. But, first they would have to know it was being transported in order for it to occur to them.

The other reports were set aside for the moment. Over breakfast, he and Owens discussed the situation. They had two options as they saw it: go to mummyland for no better reason than to inquire or find out what Fitz was involved in. "We don't know yet if the intel operation is legitimate or not," said Coary. "Returning to Hawking-I without informing Space Fleet Headquarters of our intent, we could pinpoint the locale of Fitz's contact and confront whoever's in charge. It might get us nowhere, if legit; if not, our meddling might launch an internal investigation that could screw up the entire operation, whatever the hell it is, jeopardizing the lives of Georgia Moon's crew, assuming, of course, they're still alive."

"We need to know the degree of his involvement, Fitz's," said Owens. "It might help us determine who the attackers are. Are we looking at Space Fleet covert operatives? Renegades? Hired mercenaries? What's the motivation for each? We need to know."

A perfunctory knock preceded the entrance of Brightfeather. She sat down, poured a cup of coffee, and said, "Bertha hacked into the diplomatic network on Xavier Prime. The aliens identified their planet, a word that translates as Land of Peace, and its position. It lies in the Centaurus Arm past the outworlds of the border planets, a zone that has yet to be officially surveyed.

"The archaeological team must've been near it without realizing. That region is completley unknown, rumors only of strange beings who didn't much care for outsiders. Do we know why they were in that area? The official report states that the building was spotted by a robot-recon probe. And as a result, the archaeologists descended. It sounds perfectly innocent in the beginning. But, for them to decide to steal it with the serious prospect of being caught doing so and properly killed for their effort, they had to know its value as something more than just another mummy. They went right to that barren planet, found the crypt, and proceeded to open it. Like it was a job and not a scientific mission. Grave robbers with foreknowledge of what they were about. They spoke of it making their careers. But what kind of careers, where and with whom?"

He commed Bertha and requested she dig up the members of that archaeolgical trip. Search journals, archives, news reports, the Net. Find out who and then try to locate where they are now. Coary suspected they might've been more than just greedy, self-centered opportunists. Possibly, they knew something that could shed light on this whole thing.

The officer of the bridge commed the captain that the transport was ready to leave; they'd opted to tow Georgia Moon to Zenobia where it would be held in a shipyard. If captain Fitzsimmons is verified as dead, it would then be open for salvage by the transport that brought it in. That was the way of the sea, Coary knew, but he didn't like it. He had to find his friend, alive.

Brightfeather picked at Coary's unfinished breakfast and said, "You know. The people who did this might be from the evil overlord's birth planet. People who've searched for him over the millennia and eventually gave up. But after the find, articles were written and spread all over the Net. Pictures in journals and textbooks. They could've found out it was at the Xavier Prime Museum simple enough, they advertise their exhibits. They wanted his body in order to perform some ritual designed to bring him back to life, perhaps in a different form or as a living spirit. That may sound farfetched, but we've seen some pretty queer things over the years and experienced forces unknown to our science that could classify as wizardry. We've seen the impossible."

"Okay, for the sake of argument," began Coary, "assuming they know about the interplanetary information network of the border planets and therefore knew where it was, Space Fleet intel would have to be aware of them in order to make contact. More than likely, headquarters was aware of the potential trouble on Xavier Prime over a claim by an alien group to ownership of a certain sarcophagus unearthed by archaeologists on a barren planet in the middle of nowhere. To them it may have been just another dispute over who owned what.

"Would they try to contact Space Fleet Headquarters seeking help? I don't think so. Space Fleet would then have to know their intent, why they wanted it. And then would Intel collaborate with them, hand him over, go to all the effort to fake an attack and make it look like the guardians did it? Those aliens over at Xavier Prime making all the fuss? What possible advantage would that give the Alliance? What agenda would it serve? They retrieve their hometown boy for what purpose? To bring him and his tyranny back into the world? No, I don't think so. Even if we're dealing with an intel renegade faction up there in the mountains of Hawking-I with their own private agenda--world dominance--they'd be gobbled up in the bow wake; it'd be self-destructive."

"Well, maybe that's it," said Owens. "They were the ones threatening to do whatever it takes to get the sarcophagus back. The people on Xavier Prime knew this, had been approached by them, had their lives threatened. In an effort to conceal it, they secretly attempted to send it to Zenobia."

"But Zenobia supposedly knew nothing about it," said Coary, "but on second thought, they're in hiding themselves, so they know something."

"Or maybe the Zenobians were whisked away by the same folks who brought us this charade," added Brightfeather.

"Even though they might know nothing?" asked Coary.

"No loose ends," she replied, "the motto of the intelligence service."

"And how would the people on mummyland find out about the transfer without the help of Space Fleet intel? Unless someone at the museum informed. But let's take the opposite tack. Suppose they don't monitor or use the Net or bother to find out what other civilizations are doing. Couldn't care less. If that's the case, they would've had to have been told where the sarcophagus was in the first place? But how could that be accomplished? We just found out ourselves, thanks to Bertha, that the designs on the sarcophagus represent his home planet; otherwise, who knew? And besides the aliens whose shamans created and inscribed the images on the sarchophagus, no one else knows what they stand for, not even the people of the overlord's planet. I doubt the museum people had a Bertha to figure it out. That's another piece of information we know that Space Fleet doesn't. So, as much as they would like to have him back, I don't think the hometown folks are involved in this. They didn't know where he was buried all this time; had they, I'm sure they would've scooped in there and grabbed him."

Clasping his hands together on the table, Coary said, "We began with three suspects: the folks from mummyland, the alien guardians and rightful owners, and the mystery actors, looking a lot like an intelligence operation, legitimate or not, rogue or not. The first two, I believe, we can cross off." He looked at Owens and Brightfeather, they nodded assent. "The aliens are going to be blamed for it, that seems to be the plan."

He knew it wasn't them; they were being used for some purpose, good or bad, without their knowledge or consent. They couldn't know. Why willingly implicate yourself in an act of piracy by a foreign government, an act of war? Even if all the crew are safe and sound. Maybe they just didn't care, after failing to achieve the desired end legally, through diplomatic means, they decided the hell with it and waylaid Georgia Moon. But after being stonewalled the way they were, how could they have found out about the transfer? On the other hand, that information as well as the attack coordinates were coded in a message to the mysterious intel operation on Hawking-I. To have been the attackers, they would've had to have been in collaboration with the same people Fitz was. The attack and theft were staged and evidence pointing to the perpetrators as the aliens laughably plentiful and easy to access. Would they have willingly agreed to this?

He wondered again about his friend, Fitz. Was it by accident that he'd been contracted by the museum to transfer the sarcophagus off the books? Smelling a rat, having once been a Ranger, did he then contact Space Fleet who, after establishing his participation in a scheme of their devising, sent him encrypted documentation on the real skinnies? Did they then set up this elaborate hoax, complete with coded messages to the wife and the coordinates where he'd be waiting? But for what purpose?

They sipped coffee; Edgar Poe sat motionless, without a heading. Coary had a feeling the sarcophagus was on its way to a secure location on Hawking-I. If that was the case, its true nature and unpleasant potential was probably known, but blaming the aliens for the attack made no sense. Not unless whoever's orchestrating this wants certain actors to think the sarcophagus has been retrieved by its rightful owners and is most likely headed to its ancient prison.

He commed the nav-officer, told him to acquire the coordinates of the alien planet, Land of Peace, from Bertha and plot a course. He wanted to know how long it would take to get there. And to do the same for planet ZX3-934. He would much rather go to the mountain outpost on Hawking-I and ring it out of somebody, put them in the neuro-modulator chair. But would that screw up some larger picture? He needed more information, and sitting here on his hands wasn't getting it.

The nav-officer informed him that each planet was approximately five days away from their present position. Curiously, the officer volunteered, they were the same distance from us as they are from each other. Probably meant nothing, but Coary's people were ever on the lookout for strange coincidences. He and Owens agreed that it was too far just now. By the time they got to either world, whatever was going on might be over, while they ran off on a wild goose chase.

Bertha commed that the names of the leaders of the archaeology expedition had appeared prominently in several academic and professional journals. The rest of the team consisted of student volunteers plus one historical journalist. The significance of this discovery, she proposed, was sufficient to warrant chronicling. But for what purpose was open to speculation. Through the intertwining communication networks on Xavier Prime, she was able to ascertain the address of the last remaining lead author, the other two were dead, causes unknown.

Coary stood to pace the private conference room, coffee in hand. What could he tell us? he asked himself. Was he an innocent scientist who got greedy and took a chance with his life over a mummy? Or was he part of a covert operation to obtain the sarcophagus by any means possible? What had he been promised in return? Money? Position? A house on the hill? But if that were the case, what was being done with the sarcophagus and its contents all this time, these past two years, while it dwelled in the museum? Did it just sit, collecting dust? Who wanted it and why?

The captain was informed by the bridge that a ship of unknown origin was approaching. Within moments, he was in his command chair and the Poe was put on alert, weapons ready, magnetic enclosure field at full. Ordinarily, he wouldn't raise an eyebrow; they were in the freighter lanes, after all. But, now was not all that ordinary. And he didn't like coincidences.

A thousand kilometers away it stopped and hailed Edgar Poe by name, requesting to speak to captain Coary. Everyone on the bridge turned to look at him, surprise and concern on their face. Caught off-guard, the captain sat motionless. He glanced at Owens sitting next to him and then at Brightfeather on his left. The deep voice repeated, "Captain Coary?" He waited for effect. "I am Xankou Vendor, ambassodor of Emperor Shian-Malin, ruler of all inhabited star systems joining both the Centaurus and Norma Sectors, as your people identify them. We wish to speak; may we come aboard?"

"Who?" whispered a dumbfounded Coary. He leaned forward to stare at the viewscreen; the unusual lines of Xankou's ship made him nervous by their simplicity. Its nondescript character lacked attitude; its primary intent could be anything. His weapons chief reported that the alien ship sat defenseless, or so it appeared; no weapons or shields were online. Coary ordered a stand down and to drop shields, but to be at the ready. He looked at his executive officer, Owens, who spread his hands and shrugged with that familiar trace of a smile on his face that meant why not?

Coary addressed Xankou, "For what purpose? Could you explain yourself?"

"Captain, it's imperative that we not say too much using these means; we could be monitored and probably are. If you harbor doubts, perhaps speaking with someone you know may put your mind at ease."

"Captain, Brian, we need to talk." It was Fitzsimmons, he knew. He was alive.

"Jack, is that you?"

"Yea. We have much to discuss. How 'bout we come over for a drink?"

"Certainly, by all means, permission to come aboard."

He watched as a small transport left the alien ship, heading for the Poe's shuttle bay. Coary left Owens in charge and made his way there, excited and pleased but also strangely annoyed and indecisive. At the bay door he was met by a handful of security personnel, standard procedure ordinarily but especially necessary under the present circumstances. Fitzsimmons could've been coerced. The lesson of the Trojan horse was still taught at the academy. Over the years, Coary learned to expect the unexpected and to consider all possibilities for the sake of his crew and ship; this qualified as one of those times.

His security chief standing next to him, Coary waited for the unmarked alien transport's door to open. Out stepped a smiling Fitzsimmons and two of his crew; behind them, an elaborately bedecked alien a good eight-feet tall exited as well. Tentacles protruded from his forehead, his elongated arms ended in a hand of four fingers arranged like a scoop. His eyes were pale yellow and cat-like; his ears recessed into his oblong-shaped head; his skin a vivid green and smooth in appearance. His entourage of four were similarly dressed but not as ostentatiously; it was clear who was the ambassador.

Coary and Fitz hugged, then held one another by the shoudlers. Coary, smiling deeply, said, "You better have a good explanation for all this shit. I thought you were dead, you son-of-a-bitch." They laughed but then a serious look came over Fitz.

When the alien spoke, something akin to a smile on his wide rubbery mouth, it was in articulate, non-accented english. "Captain Coary, I presume," said Xankou. No attempt to shake hands was offered. "May we engage in conversation in a suitable place?"

"Of course," said Coary, "follow me, please." He proceeded to lead them to a private conference room next to the brain center. The passageway had been cleared, no need for an incident with an unknown; their appearance might set off an insulting reaction. Coary still didn't know who he was dealing with. He hadn't taken the time to have Bertha find out whatever she could about this emperor and his kingdom. He was completely in the dark. Could that be the why of his annoyance? He felt guilty, his excitement at seeing his friend overrode his common sense and professionalism. He could've put them off for a time, until he knew something. Now, he'd find out the hard way. He had Brightfeather and Finley meet him; on the way she grabbed an exobiologist and an astralinguist from the brain center, still working on available documentation, which now, it would seem, was about to become a moot project. Others were told to be available if and when needed.

They took their seats around the elliptical table, the aliens along one side, Coary next to Fitz in the middle of the other. Fitz's two men sat beside him and Brightfeather and Finley beside Coary. The two scientists sat against the wall, observing and listening. Coary asked Xankou if he'd like anything to drink, water perhaps. He nodded. Coary commed for a yeoman to bring it. The guards remained outside. They sat quietly for a bit, taking each other in. Coary looked for body language in a species he'd never seen before or knew existed. He'd seen aliens, but they were, for the most part, humanoid. This was new and he commended himself, and his shipmates, for taking it in stride.

A guard brought in the water and placed it in the center of the table, then left. Coary gestured to the amabassador. One of his assistants reached for the pitcher and poured water for Xankou, then proceeded to fill all the glasses. Coary was impressed by the dexterity of such strangely formed hands. He and Xankou eyed one another as they both sipped simultaneously. That over with, Xankou said, "Captain, you're probably wondering what's going on." The understatement of the century, thought Coary.

"Where do I begin?" Xankou asked.

"Perhaps with who pulled off what looks like a staged fight and theft. And where is this sarcophagus, by the way?"

"Why, we did, of course. We monitored your transmissions so knew you had remained after Georgia Moon left. Your presence was not part of the plan, but now that you're here, we must take advantage of it."

"Advantage?"

"Two of your solar years ago, a plot to overthrow the emperor was discovered, quite by accident, but that's another story. Yes, plots to overthrow in an empire as great as our lord's are almost commonplace, many star systems, many planets and border colonies. They are routinely dealt with through negotiation and exposure of the grievances, as by our lord's command. Thugs and the disgruntled are dealt with accordingly and have never been a real threat to the empire's stability and governance. But this plot was of another sort altogether. The denizens of the underworld, and by underworld we mean the inter-dimensional beings who dwell in the interstices of ordinary spacetime, are once again scheming to enter the material domain and impose their will onto the inhabitants of the empire, and, you should note, beyond."

Coary reflected back on those similarly cat-eyed beings who assisted the Dark Lord. But similarity of eyes is where the resemblance ceased.

"They do not possess material form on their own but are capable of projecting their image onto the stage of mortals. What connects their worlds is unseen by us. Most are content to live in their own universe of forces beyond our ken, forces we are unable to know or withstand. But there are those who crave conquest for its own sake and who wish to enter our world to dominate and control it. Dark spirits with evil intent. The plot to overthrow the emperor was theirs. Our shamans had visions, entered their dimensions, and discovered the plot. One we had to take seriously. But for them to wield influence with their magic, a material conduit must be found who is of this spacetime, giving them access. A being who shares their will at root. A being part of the underworld and part of spacetime. That is the tyrant who is contained within the spell-bound sarcophagus."

Brightfeather asked, "Well, if that's the case, why not just leave it where it was, in the crypt on the nameless desert planet?" She was making the assumption that they had something to do with the archaeological team's theft of the artifacts.

"Our souls resonate throughout the cosmos, on every level, and his strikes a particulary deep chord. It penetrates into their world as a throbbing dark desire. The underworlders knew of it, have known for some time, but were unable to act on their knowledge. They are unable to break through the shamanic barrier infused into the stone of the crypt. Only material beings can do that, beings of ordinary spacetime, they are immune. Our ships patrol that region and keep constant watch for the tyrant's homeworld followers. But it was only a matter of time before they found it."

"Well then, why not just move it to another planet"? Brightfeather continued. "Surely, there must be lots to choose from."

He tried to ignore her prodding insistence by bringing the conversation back on point, his point. "The spells in the stone of the crypt keep out the underworlders; the crystals of the rock are locked in time with that of the tyrant. Besides, it is long overdue to rid the universe of his essence. Then, there will be no more need to guard the crypt and no more threat from his homeworld."

"So the field trip by museum personnel was intentional," Coary said. "The story about a structure spotted by a robot survey probe was hokum. That means bullshit. It was part of the plan to have them take it and bring it back to Xavier Prime. Why? Why not just bring it to your homeworld and barricade it, hide it?"

A pause ensued, a sense of urgency was pushing the pace. Not good, Coary knew; that's when tempers are apt to flare and things said that can't be unsaid. Important details can also be overlooked. Everyone took a deep breath, so to speak, and relaxed. Coary commed for coffee; this might take some time.

"Once it leaves the crypt, it's vulnerable. It's presence in our home capital would have been found out, secrets of that nature are impossible to keep. Palace politics being what they are. As a source of trouble, the people would not stand for it. That's one of the reasons it was located where it was. A suicide assault intended to destroy it, also not good. If successful, his body's destruction would release his spirit-self which would then become a portal for the underworlders. The bondage spells are all that's keeping him together. And the shamans who conceived them and inscribed them into the coffin are all long gone, phase-shifted when their time came, when they'd grown beyond the constraints of ordinary material spacetime."

Coary reflected on the shaman who vanquished the Dark Lord, sending him into that void of nothingness. If he was around, this whole plan might just implode itself. The coffee came, he poured himself and Brightfeather cups, took a sip, then asked, "What's your relationship with Space Fleet Intelligence?" He couldn't help but glance at Fitz to see his reaction. He wasn't surprised, he'd left a trail wide enough to follow.

"We contacted Space Fleet, told them of our predicament, and together we hatched this plan."

Coary turned to Fitz and asked, "How are you involved in this?" Mincing words was not in the captain's playbook.

Captain Fitzsimmons explained, having been a former Ranger and the owner/operator of a freighter, that they requested his help. The museum folks were aware of it; they were contracted to retrieve it. The emperor's people told them where it was. At the dig site, the whole operation was almost blown when the patrol ship reported they'd found people, humans, at the crypt of the tyrant. They were subsequently directed away on a bogus emergency.

"The evidence all points to those people as perpetrators," said Coary. "They were trying to get it back through diplomatic means and are on record as making threats to retrieve it, if legal means failed. Why go to such lengths to blame them?"

"They are our people," Xankou said. "We are them. They come from a planet of the empire, the closest inhabited one to the crypt planet. They guard the crypt, it's a responsibility they hold sacred and take very seriously. When their leaders were informed of the plan, they acceded to be cast as the attackers, pirates. It was their mission to make their displeasure at the theft widely known; the museum curators would refuse to comply. As you say, all evidence points to them. This will become known to the underworlders and to the tyrant's homeworld. They will assume it's to be taken back to the crypt." Xankou looked at his fellows and said, "In a sense, the evidence points to the real thieves." He and the other aliens rumbled like thunder; Coary took it for laughter.

"You base this entire complicated web of lies and intrigue on an assumption?" asked Coary, incredulous. "What the hell for?"

"In two days time," began Xankou, his voice expanding as though to an audience, "a counterfeit sarcophagus will be on its way to the crypt, which is no doubt under surveillance by the followers of the tyrant. After our people leave, they will come and take it back to their home to perform an underworld ritual with the intention of bringing the tyrant back to life, corporeal, immortal and with the powers of the shadow people of the underworld at his disposal, as before. What they don't know is, the images and pictographs inscribed on its surface, though similar to the real ones, have been imbued with a different assemblage of spells, by shamans descended from the line of the ancients. When their underworld wizard reads them in their proper sequence, under a spell of renewal, the portal between the plane of the underworlders and our reality will open, but not to infuse the tyrant's dead body with the life force he hoped for, rather it will draw him into that world of darkness and close forever. The threat from the tyrant and the dwellers of the dark zone will be no more."

"But his body is in the real one; what's in the fake?"

"Mineral crystals possessing unusual characteristics capable of capturing the essence of his elemental properties, found on his planet, its vibrational patterns designed to resonate with the symbols holding his body between life and death. His dark-matter spirit will be drawn at the incantation from wherever it resides, overriding the bondage spells, and what remains will be no more than an empty husk."

"You keep calling him the tyrant, what's his name, anyway."

"The story of your dealings, captain Coary, with the Dark Lord are wll known in our quadrant. He was a creature of dark matter. When in a corporeal state, though not of ordinary spacetime but a facsimile only, he impregnated a humanoid. The woman died giving birth to a being half of each realm. That is who the tyrant is, his name is not important. No one of our empire knows of it by now, we were forbidden to speak it and no written work contains it. But if our plan is successful, he will be banished to the dark realm he so loves.

"Then, the real one we possess will no longer have meaning, except as a reminder of what we overcame."

"So far, so good," Coary lied, having difficulty reconciling all the pieces. Not that the general picture was beyond his intelligence, but rather something integral was being overlooked. Perhaps, if the larger frame were known. After all, he knew only what he just heard about this far away empire or its Emperor, Shian-Malin. According to Bertha's far-ranging vision, there were no recorded encounters with this civilization, supposedly spread out over an unknown number of star systems in the outer Centaurus Sector, off the beaten track. But until he learned more, he couldn't put his finger on it. "You mentioned earlier that we were an advantage. How so?"

"Your ship, sir, is a combat vessel, a fighting ship. Our presence in the area, if detected, might encourage those seeking the sarcophagus to attack, believing, understandably, that we might be the ones reported as the thieves. By the time Georgia Moon reaches Zenobia, it will be all over the airways. If we were to transfer the sarcophagus and assorted artifacts to Edgar Poe, they would be safe; no one would attack a Space Ranger ship, not a cruiser with sophisticated weaponry, unless they knew for certain the sarcophagus was onboard. And even then, they'd have to consider your firepower plus committing what amounts to an act of war on Space Fleet."

"What would we do with it? Take it where?" Coary was getting nervous. He didn't like being dumped with the source of all evil; until the plan came to fruition, it was still volatile. Edgar Poe was never read into this by Space Fleet Intelligence; he had no idea what he would be getting into by taking on such a responsibility. If they were going to assent to carrying this thing somewhere--yet to be determined--he wanted corroboration from headquarters. By regulations, he would have to inform them beforehand to get their go ahead anyway. Xankou's reason was perfectly valid, but too expedient. It was time to take a seat at the table. Xankou's or even Fitz's word would not be sufficient authorization.

"I first must contact Space Fleet, they need to be informed and I need their permission, standard operating procedure."

In spite of his alien anatomy, it was easy to see that Xankou became visibly nervous. Fitz said, "Any transmission to my contact, even on a secure channel, could be intercepted."

Coary protested, "I'm not interested in your contact. How do I know who he is or what he's up to."

Fitz reacted, the offence was unexpected. "I'm not involved in anything underhanded, Brian. What we're doing is sanctioned by headquarters. But because of the secrecy necessary, only a small group of intelligence people are involved."

"But don't they report to someone at Space Fleet? Feed them updates? If the mission fails, if this tyrant is reborn, if the wizard is smart enough to see what the glyphs on the coffin will do, if he switches to another chant, something he knows, if, if, if... Don't you see? They'll know a plan had been set to trap them to send their overlord back to the bushes. How long before they tie Space Fleet into it? Figure that out? Then declare war on us in retaliation, the Alliance of Border Planets, billions of people over a vast range of star systems. In jeopardy, not given enough warning, or any warning, of an attack, of terrorist action."

"That's always been how it is, Brian," Fitz said, regaining his composure. "Covert operations, awareness of what is actually transpiring, must be kept secret; otherwise, they can be compromised and become ineffective." He sounded like a brochure for espionage, tinny, and a little patronizing. That, in itself, didn't sound like Fitz.

Brightfeather fidgeted in her chair. He could tell her body language easy enough: something was bothering her about this whole thing. Finley had yet to say anything; he sat stone-faced, unreadable. That too was telltale; he saw something that made him freeze, and it wasn't the appearance of the aliens.

Fitz continued, "I know we're putting you in a situation, captain, but, I'm certain headquarters would approve. Your presence here is serendipitous. We came back to see if the rescue and cleanup had taken place; we never expected anyone to be here."

Serendipitous? Coary thought. He quickly reflected on the flow of events beginning with the distress call by Fitz. Space Fleet informed him they were the closest Ranger ship. He went to the rescue. He remained on station after Georgia Moon and accompanying Ranger patrol ships had left. He wouldn't have gone anywhere without first notifying Space Fleet. They knew he was here and anybody listening to their transmissions. So, were they part of the plan without knowing it? Brought in at the end because the opportunity presented itself?

Coary shook his head and asked, "Where is this sarcophagus supposed to go?"

"There is a planet in this sector around a star with four others," said Xankou. "None are inhabited. The one we've found, though barren, has a dense core, its gravity is slightly less than that of the crypt planet. Its atmosphere is thin and poisonous, no microbes exist capable of transforming it. It is truly a dead planet. We have the coordinates."

Coary leaned back. He was getting mixed mesages and he didn't like it. "You say, that after the plan is successfully completed, the sarcophagus and the body within will no longer be of any value; meaningless, I believe you said. Then why bother to drop it off there? And where on it, exactly? Just anywhere that looks like a dumpyard? Why not just shoot it off into the nearest star and be done with it?"

All the aliens reacted strongly to that suggestion. "That particular planet has been chosen for a reason," said Xankou, emotion coloring his voice. "Its star lies at the epicenter of four star systems, on the other side of the empire near what you call the Sagittarius Arm, and the planet itself lies in the middle of the habitable range. Though empty of living things, it nonetheless contains all the inorganic ingredients for life. Geologically, its highly active; water forms on its surface; it has rivers and oceans and mountains and volcanoes. The bondage spells embodied by the symbols and images on the sarcophagus will be released when the ancient tyrant is sent to the beyond on his homeworld. The freed energy will act as a trigger, a generator of life in its most primal form. That is our reason and intention. To create a living planet from the ultimate death of one so hostile to life."

"That's very commendable, you must be very pleased with yourselves. However, why don't you do it?" Coary asked, a little perturbed. "What was your plan if we hadn't been here?"

Xankou eyes blurred momentarily. "We were going to take it there. We've constructed a site, not as elaborate as the crypt, but serviceable. The possibility of our ship being seen entering that star cluster is not negligible. We feared if we were seen and followed and watched, the plan would be jeopardized. But a Space Fleet cruiser traveling through, on an exploratory mission, perhaps, wouldn't receive much attention. It's not on any traffic route; it's in the wilderness, unspoiled as yet. But getting there, we must travel through the Genara system, on the very outskirts of the empire. Its inhabitants wish to break away and would surely notice any Alegorian ships in their neighborhood, even in hyperspace. News would reach the homeworld of the tyrant, people sympathetic to their cause, not very far away. Suspecting trickery, they would send a ship to investigate."

For a long instant a memory from Coary's childhood flashed through his mind. He was at the beach, standing in the water up to his chest, enjoying a wave crashing over him. He'd never went out that far before, it was exhilarating. However, when the water rushed back, the sand under his feet dissolved away and the undertow was almost too much. That's how he felt now.

Xankou had an answer for everything. Now, after all this talk, he hears about the magical, life-giving ability of the sarcophagus, which Xankou had already cast as little more than trash to be taken out. Coary's listened to a lot of stories over the years, chasing down pirates and traffickers, smugglers and thieves and murderers. He thought he heard it all, but this was of a complexity that seemed to have a life of its own. And still, he knew nothing of this empire. He told Xankou he needed to consult with his team, to come up with a plan agreeable to all. Without pausing for comment, he, Brightfeather, and Finley left.

In silence, they made their way to the bridge. The captain told Owens to keep an eye on the alien ship; any strange activity, notify him immediately. They then entered the private conference room. He commed Bertha, "Were you listening?"

"Yes, captain, I always eavesdrop."

"Okay, search the archives for anything on this empire of Shian-Malin, now and in the past. And, if you would, locate a chart of that area they spoke of, maybe it's been surveyed by robot-probes."

He then said to the room, "What's wrong with this picture?"

Brightfeather erupted, "Would the bad guys, who had to know from the publicity surrounding the discovery of the sarcophagus where this crypt planet was located, would they think the Alegorians--I believe that's what he said--are dumb enough to put it back in the same place, unguarded? Wouldn't they suspect trickery? Are they that stupid?"

"Well," said Finley, "they want that bastard back, so, how smart can they be?"

"We're supposed to accept all the history and character descriptions," stated Coary, "the shamanic spells, the science and magic, without any background information. I would really like to get in touch with Space Fleet Headquarters on this, but that might be like dropping a rock on a card house. How many people there know about this? Suppose it really is off the books, a supersecret op only for certain eyes and ears. Especially, if there's a hell of a lot more to it.

"I have an idea," he said, his eyes mischievous. "Why don't we send a message to Fitz's wife? Tell her the package is on its way. See what reply we get."

They both concurred, why not? Fitz's mail messages were still on their computer. Brightfeather wasted no time in firing one off. Through quantum space, it would take minutes to reach the intelligence outpost in the mountains on Hawking-I. Assuming they were in charge of this covert operation, they'd know the intended destination of the sarcophagus.

Bertha commed in, "Captain, I regret to inform you that no record or reference or anecdote evidence exist in the collective information of the Alliance. To all intents and purposes, there is no empire of Shian-Malin."

They sat still as stone. "It's possible, I suppose, that this is the first contact between our civilizations," conceded Brightfeather. "But would Space Fleet get so heavily involved in such a complicated subterfuge without first checking the validity of the claims by these people? Not just what they're trying to do, but who the hell they are? I mean, our first contact is over the theft of artifacts, a magically-endowed sarcophagus of a serious bad guy? Before that, we 'd never heard of them. And, excuse me, but we've done some traveling around this old galaxy. You'd think we'd hear something, especially on the outworlds and the mining colonies."

"You'd think so," said Finley. "Supposedly, this project began two years ago. That's plenty of time for Space Fleet to check their bona fides. And plenty of time for the tyrant's followers on mummyland to find out about the museum taking the sarcophagus. The signal goes everywhere. Did you notice they never mentioned the name of that planet?"

"Commander Finley," said Coary, "you had your thousand parsec stare on during some of that conversation, or most of it. Why? Did you see something?"

"Well, I was leaning back, taking them all in. Xankou in the middle, two guys on either side. Their elaborate clothing, jewelry, and rings on those bizarre hands. Abbout a year ago, I was vacationing on Rigel-Prime, attending a play. It was set in Earth time, during the reign of kings. And there was this scene where the king, with two ministers on either side, all dressed in robes and chains of gold, were trying to convince a group of knights to go on this quest. A quest that was phony, as it turned out. Their real intention was to start a war, and the knights were merely sacrificial fodder.

"I'm not saying that's what this is. But I couldn't help feeling they were acting."

"But would Fitz be into that?" asked Coary.

"Maybe he doesn't know?"

"I think Space Fleet, somebody there, deliberately set this up so we'd be the closest ship to the Georgia Moon attack. They know our patrol schedule, and we call in regularly to give our status. Would they be involved in using us to start a war? What would they have to gain?"

"This wouldn't be the first time a government," Brightfeather began, "or some right-wing faction thereof, instigated a war with a fraudulent attack. Earth history records plenty of such instances. In this case, an independent interplanetary security force would be blamed for entering someone else's sovereign space to deposit a known, by then, and potentially volatile, underworldy time-bomb."

"And let's say it's true," said Coary, as he poured yet another cup of coffee, "that this dead planet will be given the genesis of life when the bondage spells break free. What kind of life are we talking about? Those symbols and images, all the stuff engraved on the surface of the sarcophagus, represent the homeworld of this tyrant-underworld character. He's supposedly part dark matter and part ordinary spacetime. What life would be created and what would it evolve into?"

"It would be tainted," said Brightfeather, a dark cloud crossing her face.

Bertha commed in, "We have a reply to your message, captain. I'll send it to your screen."

All three stared at the message: "I await its arrival. I have just the place for it. Love,"

Coary said, "That doesn't sound to me that this other planet Xankou speaks of is the intended destination."

A knock on the door preceded its opening. In walked captain Fitzsimmons. He sat down quickly, in his hand was a star chart. "I only have a few moments. I told Xankou I was going to give you the coordinates and this chart and try to talk you into it. Brian, it's not part of the original plan."

"It doesn't sound like it. We sent your contact a message saying we had the sarcophagus, and this is what we just back." He showed him the brief message.

"Right. It's supposed to go to Hawking-I. The Council of Scientists want to study it, and an arm of Intelligence that deals with such unusual items, items that may contain unknown dimensional forces, has been running the show. Space Fleet Headquarters handed it over to them at the start, they're not involved--plausible deniability. Your presence here was intentional; we and the sarcophagus were supposed to go with you to Hawking-I, to a lab in the mountains, secluded, out of the way. But Xankou and friends changed that plan at the last minute."

"What's this planet, show me." Fitz spread the chart on the table and poined to the star system. "It's just beyond the fringe of the empire. A group of independent systems and planets. Only an hour ago did I find out about this, so I haven't had a chance to familiarize myself with the area. I don't know who lives there, if they're aliens, probably are--it would explain why we never heard about them--and, of course, we know nothing about their technology, ships and weaponry. Could be the empire is interested in expanding in that direction, closer to the Perseus and the Outer Sagittarius Sectors, where most of our border planets reside. If you look at our galaxy, these independents lie on the other side of the Alliance near the Sagittarius Arm, a beach head and a stepping stone through the backdoor from the empire to us."

"However," Coary said, not willing to accept such war-mongering speculation empty handed. He couldn't let himself be persuaded to adopt any particular point of view, yet. "If genesis is their unselfish desire, why not plant it on some barren world closer to their homeworld? Surely, there must be plenty of those. Once the stellar neighborhood has been declared safe, what difference would it make?"

"Obviously, they have an agenda, a motivation for choosing this particular place. It could be seen as a provocative act by the local residents in the surrounding star systems. Or have physical or psychic properties the nature of which only they know. Although they appear up front, they play with their own deck, and close to the chest."

"Our collective archives have nothing on them, their empire, no interactions; at least, none recorded. Yet, they seem to know a great deal about us."

"They've been monitoring our communications networks for years, they know our business and languages. They're very curious about the border planets, the Alliance; something I don't find all that comforting."

"Why did he let you come here alone? Isn't he concerned you might spill your guts?"

"No. He thinks I swallow his story about the genesis planet and agree that it's a loftier purpose than scientific dissection. He made a good case for it, it sounded so right, a higher spiritual priority. How could I say no? Right then and there, my Ranger training kicked in. The status quo had changed, so for my own sake and that of my men, I played along. It's his sarcophagus, after all, but he's pulling a fast one on Space Fleet, it was part of the deal that they get it. And what he wants to do with it doesn't sound all that altruistic. You know what I mean, Brian? Something other than seeding a planet is going on.

"He thinks I wouldn't dare say anything; he doesn't know humans as well as he thinks he does, and he certainly doesn't now Rangers." Coary saw that pride in him that he once knew, in the academy and when they shipped together. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.

"We set the whole thing up, from the archaeological team supposedly stealing the stuff, right up to the faked attack and theft. This spiking of that planet with questionable life energy wasn't something he just thought of; I'm convinced it was part of their plan from the get-go. And even if his intentions were laudable, I don't buy any of that genesis crap, as a possibility even, but stranger things have happened.

"His idea is to pass the sarcophagus off to you, pat you on the head and wish you good journey, while taking me and my crew to Zenobia. That's what he said, but I don't think so. Once he's set you on your way, he'll hold onto us as insurance, so you'll go through with it. He probably won't come right out and say that, but reading between the lines was always your forte, captain.

"It'll take four days for an Alegorian attack ship at max speed to get to the crypt planet from here. Even if they're a stone's throw away on their own planet, the guardians can't afford to show up too soon. It'll only take Xankou's ship one day to get to Zenobia. He can't afford for us to blab. The authorities will question us about the raid and what was stolen and why just that and how come it wasn't on the bill of lading--customs problems I don't need. Space Fleet is supposed to intercede and clear all that up, but not until the job is done. So I don't think he's going to take us to Zenobia and he's not going to hang around waiting for time to go by. At this point, he doesn't need us anymore; we're expendable."

"What's the situation over there?" Coary asked, his voice gravelly.

"It's a small assault ship, a police boat, well-armed but not as heavily as Edgar Poe. There's more of them than us and our weapons are locked up."

Brightfeather and Finley, sitting on either side of their captain, stared at him and waited for what they knew from experience was about to happen. He stood and, as he turned to leave, said, "I'll handle this." They followed. Before entering the conference room where Xankou and his entourage sat cooling their heels, he told his chief security officer standing guard to assemble an assault team and to beef up security around the Alegorian shuttle.

He opened the door to find the exobiologist engaged in earnest conversation with one of the ministers; Xankou glared his disapproval. Sharing physical and cultural information was apparently not something he was willing to extend. Coary stood behind his chair; the others took their cue from him and did likewise. "Xankou, sorry to keep you waiting. But, here's the deal. You tranfer the sarcophagus and the rest of captain Fitzsimoons' crew, and we'll go to this planet and deposit the sarcophagus in the structure you built. We have the coordinates of the planet; you just need to tell us where this structure is."

Like a strong gale cleaning a dirty street of trash, all the debating and analysing and maneuvering and deception was wiped away. The situation was crystal clear: Captain Coary had had enough; it was time to take the helm. He didn't know anything about this empire or its emperor Shian-Malin, and he didn't care. If necessary, Edgar Poe would speak for him.

Xankou sat speechless, his face twisted as though tasting something sour, sour to him. "I believe captain Fitzsimmons is anxious to get to his ship before it's declared a salvage vessel. And the crew, they'd like to go home. It's a long trip to this planet. If you ask them, they probably won't want to waste their time." His face changed shape to what Coary assumed was a smile.

"No." said Coary flatly, his voice had a sharp edge; Xankou's smile evaporated. "That's not what's going to happen. We transfer the crate and Fitz's men; otherwise, no deal."

Xankou stared, incredulous, "What's to stop us from leaving with the crate and the men; I'm sure captain Fitzsimmons won't abandon them and elect to stay here?"

Coary bent forward slightly and said, "Me."

After a shocked pause, Xankou erupted, "What insolence! How dare you insult an emissary of the great Shian-Malin? Are you mad? What you do to me, you do to him."

Abruptly, Coary's shoulders relaxed and a smile crept over his face. "Communicate with your commander and tell him to send over the box and the men and don't forget their weapons."

"What if I order them to be killed unless you release us?"

The stakes were getting high. Coary couldn't afford to slip or appear unsure. "You do that, your royal emissary, and what's to keep us from blowing your ship to smitherenes and taking you and your friends back to Hawking-I for mass murder?"

Surprise shown on Xankou's face. His cat's eyes narrowed. "But what of the sarcophagus? That too you would blow up? Free the spirit of the evil one into the ether?"

"I'm not sure right now just who the evil one is," rebutted Coary. "You're the one worried about that bag of bones; I couldn't care less. If you want us to take it to this planet of yours, fine, I'll do that."

"How can we know?"

"You mean, will I do it without leverage? Of course. Trust is fundamental in any relationship. We were trusting you, and look how that turned out." Human sarcasm seemed to be lost on the ambassador.

Time stood still, everone except Coary held his breath. Reluctantly, in an effort to save face, Xankou pushed something on his robe and gave the order to transfer the crate and Fitz's men.

"Don't forget the weapons, it'd be difficult for you to explain keeping them to your newfound Space Fleet friends. They are theirs, after all."

Xankou didn't have to inquire; they were to stay where they were until the tranfer was completed. Coary offered food; they refused, citing dietary differences. Other than that, they had nothing to say. Coary, Fitz and his two men left for the bridge. In passing, he told his security chief they were to go nowhere without his permission. Finley peeled of to the engine room. If there was going to be any trouble, he wanted to make sure everything was running smoothly. The exobiologist and astralinguist did as well; they weren't going to get anything else out of these guys. The captain relieved his exec and informed his weapons officer to keep close tabs on their systems and to keep ours at the ready. He focused on the viewscreen, watching the transfer. What could they pull? he thought. And why? These were genuine aliens, he reminded himself, who knows how they think?

The crates containing the sarcophagus and assorted artifacts were stored in a special enclosure reserved for toxic or unstable items. Any explosions would be contained, or, if something had to be snuffed out, it could. After the security chief gave the ok, he and Owens escorted Xankou and his entourage to their shuttle. Arrogant to the end, he disdained all attempts at conversation. When back on his ship, he had one last word for captain Coary, "I hope when I present my report to the emperor, I don't have to tell him that Space Fleet failed to live up to its word and refused to honor Shian-Malin's fervent wish to plant a garden in an empty desert."

Captain Coary didn't reply. If that was the best he could do for leverage, he was talking to the wrong guy. Within minutes, the Alegrorian ship was gone; ostensibly, back to their homeworld. He conferred with his nav-officer. It would take the Alegorians four, maybe five days to get home. The planet where Coary was supposed to plant the emperor's garden seeds was a good three days in the opposite direction. The galaxy was huge and the transit, empty space, for the most part; the chances of being spotted by anyone were negligible, a long-shot at best. The Alegorians weren't worried about that, he was sure; if that was the only problem, they could've disguised their boat or used some nondesript ship from one of the many worlds controlled by the empire.

If Edgar Poe were indeed being set-up to provoke a conflict between that neighborhood and Space Fleet, while the Alegorians sat back and waited for the outcome, whoever devised that part of the master plan was long on hope and short on practicality.

Brightfeather, sitting next to the captain, read his thoughts. "You think there's another reason they want us to take it there. And maybe even another reason for it being there."

He turned to her and said, "It doesn't matter, commander; we're not going in any event." He commed his security chief, "Lieutenant, I want armed guards on that storage room around the clock. Expect anything." He then ordered his nav-officer, "Set a course for Hawking-I, quickest route outside the traffic lanes. Drop into quantum space and engage at max speed as soon as you have it."

It would take three days to reach it. And at least four days, probably more like a week, for this master plan to trick the source of all ancient evil into oblivion. Assuming the whole delicate deception goes off without a hitch. Coary shook his head. He couldn't believe Space Fleet Intelligence put this together. But on the other hand, he'd been on other missions that blew up in his face due to faulty intelligence or a lack of appreciation for the intracies of fieldwork. The people sitting in the action rooms, in front of computer screens, didn't understand the vagaries of real spacetime. Simulations could play out nice and neat on screen, but as soon as unanticipated circumstances force you down the wrong fork in the road, chaos takes over. Then, you're on your own.

Owens was given the wheel while Coary and Brightfeather went to the brain center. He spoke with the exobiologist who seemed to have struck a rapport with one of Xankou's retinue. He described the one he talked to as "friendly but wary of too much openness, glancing at Xankou occasionally whenever I'd ask a particularly sensitive question. Like, how is your society structured? Do females have equal political stature? Are people allowed to speak freely? But others, for example, what kind of animals live on your world didn't raise an eyebrow.

"I suspect, my summary, based on answers to key questions--a report should be on your computer by now, skipper--that their empire is not all peace and harmony. I sensed and interpreted repression and an almost religious devotion to their leader. It stands to reason; shamans and wizards possess real supernatural powers on their world. When he mentioned that, it wasn't in hushed tones as though it was nothing more than a belief, like a cult. To them, there's no difference between science and magic, what we call magic, at any rate. And this Shian-Malin character, he has a background but no one's allowed to speak of it. I felt he wanted to say more about how they live, but, there's a good deal of fear there but also a sincere committment to a purpose."

Coary thanked him and moved on through the room. The group of investigators and scientists milled about or sat drinking coffee. The only thing worth considering was this empire, but other than the scant amount they could garner from the recent, and extremely brief, encounter, it was a blackbox. And they knew nothing of these independent star systems either. Was the empire interested in taking them over? And if that's the case, did they now think they had a plan in play that might facilitate intrusion? But only if he played along. Questions without answers.

Fitz had never been to the home of the empire or on any of its planets. All he had to go on for knowledge of their existence was the stories told to Space Fleet during the beginning stages of this whole thing, and what he learned from being on their ship. And all Coary had to go on were the words of Xankou. The genesis planet. An empty gesture for an empire holding itself together through repression. But, if that's not the case, if they are a peace-loving people, then why would the followers of the old tyrant prefer him? His exobiologist smelled fear but also friendliness. Without sufficient information in either direction, Coary decided not to waste time thinking about it. As it was, he had a feeling the empire and the Alliance would some day bump into one another.

The scan of the surface of the sarcophagus was still hovering on the holoscreen. He gazed at the lines and curves of varying thickness and arc, blending into one another and then branching out to join with other figures, an interconnected field of patterns standing for, embodying, shamanic spells of which he was quite familiar, both in power and meaning, pointing to mysterious forces both of this universe and within it. He was trying to see something other than the obvious, but nothing emerged.

The job was all too pat now, too straighforward. Take the sarcophagus to the location in the mountains of Hawking-I--Fitz knows it--and drop off the crates. Then find the person or persons responsible for this whole tangled web of bullshit and give him hell. But wait, he thought, trying to remember all the scattered details: the empire sought out Space Fleet; it was their idea in the first place. Space Fleet was persuaded into organizing this haywire plan in order to thwart the rebirth of our nameless tyrant, for fear he might be a problem for the Alliance one day. That was the rationale behind it, at any rate. A spectre of future danger dangled before the eyes of Space Fleet Command, encouraging a preemptive strike. How often in his academy readings of warfare on old Earth had that occurred, had been the policy of the most domineering governments? Plus, they'd be in our debt. I doubt that anyone in Intelligence bothered to travel to the homeworld of this empire to discuss it. I'll bet they never even heard of this empire before contact. Coary himself had traveled far and wide in the galaxy and didn't remember anyone ever mentioning a vast empire bridging the Norma and Centaurus Arms.

At these times, he let his intuition wander, let his mind feel its way around his subconscious. A quote popped into his head, the truth lies within. Where had he heard that before? Was it a line from a poem? Philosophy? Had he read it on his back porch overlooking the lake one summer evening?

He had an idea. "Chief," he commed, "when the crates were placed in storage, did you notice if the one holding the sarcophagus had been tampered with?"

"No, sir, I didn't scrutinize. But I'll get a forensics team down here right away."

"Okay. Find captain Fitzsimmons--he may be in engineering--have him look it over too. And some of his men might have seen it before it was moved. Have your people inquire, wherever they may be. Have they found lodging yet, by the way?"

"Yes, sir. It seems so. We had some spare crew quarters and these guys have no problem bunking up. They're glad to be off that Alegorian ship. I was talking to a few of them. Seems their hosts and co-conspirators treated them with disdain, like they were inferior."

"Well, get back to me on this as soon as you find anything." Coary closed the comm; he never bothered to officially sign off or wait for one. It was his style and nobody complained. Brightfeather was standing by his elbow. "You suspect hanky-panky?"

"I don't know, something's fishy. Xankou's smarter than he let's on; he's not just an arrogant court jester. You don't get to his position unless you're better than anyone else at manipulating and conniving. With a little ruthless treachery thrown in. He must know I'm not going through with this seeding project. What reason would I have?"

"Uh, you gave your word?"

"So did he, makes us even."

"What were you staring at so intently," she asked.

"Those images on the holoscreen. The flat one is the surface of the sarcophagus laid out, and the sphere is the same thing inverted for topographic effect. That's how Bertha was able to track down the planet of the tyrant's homeworld." They'd dropped into quantum space where Coary's gift of quantum sight emerged. "Even though the hologram is static, I can see traces, like grain on wood, entanglement among symbols and patterns behaving separately as one. Where they interface, a porous barrier blocks penetration from surrounding others, like a cell with a membrane."

He commed Bertha and told her to reexamine the combined image of the symbols on the sarcophagus at maximum resolution through a quantum filter. Piece together the sets of entangled symbols and analyze for effect.

"It would be better, captain, if I could see the actual sarcophagus, the fourth dimension would then be accessible. And the material itself has pits and holes, a picture with the resolution I've had to deal with is just, inadequate."

"That might happen soon, Bertha."

"Sir," commed the security chief, "you might want to come down here; we found something."

"That was fast. On my way."

At a superficial glance, the ten-foot long wooden crate looked fine. The forensics people didn't have much to work with, it was a long narrow box of heavy sheet-wood. The only place to examine was where the separate pieces fit together. The lead man showed Coary the fasteners that secured the top; they'd been expertly removed and then refastened. Brightfeather watched the captain as he backed up to take it all in. She could tell he was pursuing a hunch. She asked the group, "Has anyone any idea about this other crate, the one with the assorted artifacts?" No one had. She commed for the top archaeologist to come down; she wanted to open it up.

Coary had no objection, it was time. As the hinge-like fasteners were being tightened down, he said, "Okay, that's it, stop what you're doing. Let's pop the lid on this sucker and see the cause of all this trouble."

Within moments, they'd unceremoniously removed the lid; there was enough irritation at being part of a covert operation without prior consent to go around. Coary leaned over a side and peered at the nine-foot sarcophagus, heavily incised with bizarre images and geometric patterns. Bertha was right, the pictures didn't do it justice. She was linked to the ongoing inspection by a vehicle cobbled together by the engineers. It included several different eyes capable of seeing across the electromagnetic spectrum, along with a quark-generated tunneling microscope able to focus on and below the atomic level. The static pictures were only of the topmost surface; if there were layers adding depth, dimension, and nuance to the symbols, and therefore meaning, one device or another on her carriage should detect them. The elaborate coffin was the shade of burnt pewter and just as sturdy looking.

Coary had his men run a quick scan for radioactivity or any other emanations from the metal. The all-clear given, he reached over the four-foot side and touched it. He didn't know what to expect, but couldn't resist. He willed to see quantumly, exposing the inner workings of the material. What he saw on the holoscreen--traces and pathways of quantum particles--now vibrated in a vivid dynamic dance, individual symbols entangled with two or three others as one. And then, in real time, the sets would break apart to form new allegiances, new configurations, but always as subsets of the whole, integral and separate, looping for a time, then going through the same splitting again. Each separate symbol may have joined with all the others in pairs and threes, he wasn't sure, there were so many and the process so fast. What he felt he could say with certainty was that the entirety repeated, looping both within and as a whole. Suddenly, his senses overwhelmed, the impression rushed him; he backed a step but still kept the undulating surface in view. As he was about to tell Brightfeather, who was busy examining the small burial objects, what he saw, Bertha commed in:

"Captain, I've worked out all possible permutations of sets of two or more as they appear to interface. Speeding up my neuroreceptors to near Planck time, I can see stills of sets and subsets contained within, forming perfect symmetries, then instantaneously digintegrating into separate components, only to interlock with others to form new patterns. Each symbol, to be general, takes on different identities when interlocked in a set, revealing a faceted nature to their meaning. Layers of forces each momentarily taking precedence over the others when joined in a collective. And yet, they all are real. As an analogy, considering the general configuration and quantum nature of the rapid interconnectivity exchange, I hazard a guess that what we're looking at is..."

"A brain," Coary interrupted.

"Yes, captain. The sarcophagus is thinking. But restricted to the terms of its bondage spells. Its vocabulary. But who is doing the thinking?"

"Could this have been initiated recently, or do you think it's been going on for thousands of cycles, since it was put in that crypt?"

Seconds went by, a lifetime for a vast supercomputing artificial intelligence running in a DNA-gel environment. Finally, she said, "Right down the center, approximately one point five meters from the top edge, are signs of organic contact, very recently. And based on the normal dissipation rate of organics, the perceived activity has been set in motion some time after we arrived at the site of the attack. As for your other question, because of the material's crystal alignment and resonating properties, present activity would not have lasted more than a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty cycles, even imbued with other-worldy forces. "

"Thanks, Bertha. Keep working on the patterns. Any insights or conclusions or guesses, let me know right away."

"Sounds obsessive," Brightfeather observed. "Thinking the same thoughts over and over again. Why set that in motion, and how?"

"That's what we have to find out and turn it off. They did this, the Alegorians. For a reason that can't be good." He and his chief investigator examined the spot where Bertha had pinpointed organic contact. It was in the middle of a shape that looked like a simple set of concentric circles ending in a flourish. The circles thinned as they receded into the metal. "Maybe it's not obsession," he said, while they positioned a quark microscope linked to Bertha over the sight. "Maybe our guest is trying to figure a way out."

He had materials specialists on the payroll, but he wanted Finley to examine this and requested his presence. Through her extended instruments package, Bertha reported a below-audible humming sound coming not from the material, but rather from the resonating activity on its own, apart from its conductor. Finley arrived and let out a whistle when he saw the sarcophagus. "Better than the pictures, huh? What do you want me to do, boss?"

"We have enough eyes on this right now, what I'd like from you is to examine this thing for an alien mechanism of some kind. Microscopic, seamless, masquerading as something else. I don't know. But something's kicked this thing in gear; that takes a power source and a mechanism. Consider nanites, molecular machines altering something. Think, Finley."

He nodded and then just stood there staring at the coffin. Finley in overdrive.

Bertha had aleady taken in a sufficient amount of information through the quarkscope. She reported that there was no sign of molecular machines at work. But what she saw was far worse. At the very center of the spot was a micro-black hole near the limit of Planck area. The organics detected are not the result of lifeform contact, not a fingerprint, but rather are infused in the hole itself, as microbes are in the organic-metal sheathing covering the ship's hull. This hole was once much larger, relativley speaking, as indicated by the depressed directionality of the surrounding molecular cloud.

"Estimate time hole will shrink to below Planck scale," ordered Coary, his sense of imminent catastrophe rising in his chest. For a spacer, black holes had a way of doing that, regardless of size.

"Difficult to say. The compaction or compression rate may not have been continuous. Probably, its progress is dependent on the activity of the sarcophagus. When a critical arrangement is realized, it triggers a jump."

"Speculate, if the micro-hole falls below Planck diameter, what could happen?"

"Another dimension of space will open, orthogonal to ours. It would probably be a specific one based on its apparent dependency to the sarcophagus activity. As they, collectively, represent a topographic map of the tyrant's homeworld and embody the bondage spells keeping his spirit from escaping, I would speculate that whoever intitiated the thinking processes had found a way for the tyrant to free himself from his prison.

"Another thing that could happen is that the hole could blossom to the size of a small moon and we'd be sucked in and crushed to tiny particles and radiation."

"Thank you, Bertha, for that assessment," Coary said dryly. "What do you recommend we do to curtail either of those choices?"

"Turn it off."

Brightfeather said, "We need to look at this from another angle. Why would they do this? If they knew, or suspected, that instead of going to the genesis planet we'd head for that outpost on Hawking-I, could they have set this up so the source of all evil inside this thing emerges there, at the heart of the Alliance, the headquarters of Space Fleet? And if we did go to the genesis planet, he'd emerge there, on a desert world, lifeless. Either way, it would have to happen before the ceremony with the fake one on the tyrant's homeworld, a good week from now, if you just count travel time."

"Yea. If the followers are dumb enough to believe the Alegorians would put it back in the same crypt, knowing that they must know where that is. They've probably been waiting there since news of the archaeological discovery hit the Net, worshiping the crypt. If we can believe that story. I believe Xankou had no doubt that I wouldn't be attending a planet seeding. He knew we were going home."

Finley turned to them and said, "I've got an idea. Let's pop the lid. The underside might reveal something."

"But won't that be bad?" mouthed Coary as though to a child. "Remember, contact with air, turn to dust, release the spirit? Remember that?"

"Captain," blurted Brightfeather. "The seam. Opening it will cause the symbols to break connectivity, disrupting the process."

"Have we X-rayed this thing? Do we know what's inside?"

The chief forensics officer said they tried every form of intrusive radiation, but were unable to penetrate the surface.

"Well then, how do we know he's even in there? Could be explosives, high yield explosives, could be a dangerous pathogen, could be anything."

Brightfeather, Finley, and the chief investigator all looked at Coary inquisitively. He had a style, timidity wasn't part of it. "Okay," he relented, smiling at their disbelief. "Let's seal this room off, at least. Bertha, I want a filter on this room and an enclosure field ready, but keep the air flowing. Okay, pop the lid, if possible."

The sides of the crate were taken apart and leaned against the wall. The seam, sealed for thousands of cycles, supposedly, had already been found by the forensics team. Finley and his engineers took charge. Anticipating a long ordeal with a laser knife, severing the marriage of metal to metal, he was surprised at how easily it cut. Within minutes they had the lid separated from the coffin itself. "Skipper," Finley said, "I don't know what they told you, but this thing is at most a few years old. The micro-corrosion is negligible."

Coary let that slide, for the moment. The lid was a nine-foot-by-three-foot slab of engraved pewter-like metal. They lifted it with a hoist and moved it off to one side. Anticipating anything, a mummy wrapped in ancient bandages suddenly sitting up flashed through Coary's mind, they were surprised to find it half-filled with ordinary-looking rocks of varying shapes and shades of reddish brown.

"Bertha," Coary commed. "Check to see, if possible, through the museum documentation if they ever opened this sarcophagus, or has it always been sealed?"

Once the lid had been severed, all activity ceased. The magnetic filed lines connecting sets of symbols across the seam were broken, without mishap, confined within the bondage spells. The black hole was gone, evaporated away without the sustaining energy of the sarcophagus. It'd been only on the surface, apparently, the underside seen when in the air was smooth and free of any apertures. "The tyrant is the sarcophagus itself," said Coary. "Is that possible? Then what is the point of the rocks?"

After testing for harmful radiation and alien microbes, the forensics team went to work, carefully examining the raw sandy-colored stones. They were of regular shapes: cubes, spheres, tetrahedrons, and most were intact, no sharp points broken off. "Their crystal structure is of an unknown mineral, captain," said an investigator who had a few pieces under an electron microscope. "The lattice system doesn't fit any classification. I believe, however, we've found the power source." Coary grabbed one and stared at it quantumly. Waves of energy undulated from its surface spherically downward towards some center point, shrouded by tightly-packed rotating quarks, matter units that smeared out as they accelerated into an oblivion, a locale hidden by nothing. The lattice arrangement of the crystal spiraled down towards it, an organic mineral without consciousness, shifting transitions by scale.

"What the hell is going on here," demanded the captain, to no one in particular. "Is this the fake? The one Xankou and his boys are supposed to bait the followers with? Did he switch 'em? Where's the body?"

Bertha commed in, "Sir, exhibits at the Xavier Prime museum were conducted with the casket closed. As far as records show, it never has been opened. It would seem that was part of the arrangement. However, a body could still have been within at that time."

Captain Coary stood staring at the open sarcophagus half-filled with strange rocks, clearly not randomly-chosen for weight. All the stray facts, implications, and inferences concerning current events flooded his mind, seeking affinity, association, a train of reasoning to align with. He was about to ask Brightfeather about the black hole when the comm called. "Captain, Space Fleet Headquarters would like to speak with you, in private." He replied with a thank you and, along with Brightfeather, headed for the off-bridge conference room. When they entered, coffee and sandwiches were waiting; the sight of this consideration by his crew calmed his nerves and cleared his head. As usual on Edgar Poe, everybody knew what was going on.

He sipped coffee and, addressing his computer, requested his private security channel. The face of the head administrator, Admiral Rodrigues, sitting behind a desk with the flag of the Space Rangers behind him on the wall, poked out at him. He was not smiling. On either side sat two other high-ranking officers. On his left, Commander Roberts, Chief of Intelligence, and on his right, Admiral Kablinski, Head of all Ranger Operations in the quadrant bordering the outer Centaurus Sector.

"Captain Coary," Rodrigues began, his voice tired but firm. "I first must apolgize to you and your crew for putting you in the position we did. At the time, it was deemed better, for security reasons, if you didn't know your part beforehand; else, you may not have exerted your normal forensics effort. That could've tipped our hand."

Coary was fuming. How could he imply that he and his crew would not play their part, if given the mission and not tricked into it? And what about his encounter with Xankou, was that planned? He had a lot of questions, but out of deference, waited politely.

"Admiral Kablinski has recently returned from a reconnaisance mission into the Centaurus region. His fleet scoured several star systems composing the empire of this Shian-Malin before converging on his homeworld and that of the Alegorians. I'm assuming familiarity with this name and people."

Coary nodded.

"Now, commander Roberts has informed me that his staff were contacted two years ago by the Alegorians. An official group arrived on Hawking-I and spoke to him. He turned the details over to a select number of agents who set up shop at our outpost facility in the mountains, for security reasons, once again. Unfortunately, corroboration of their story and feasibility of their plan was not properly researched, contrary to the custom of Space Fleet. It was accepted at face value and an elaborate deception put in place. The opportunity to score points with this vast empire was not overlooked by the agents involved, so they avoided probing too deeply. However, discrepancies began to show up, information requested was not forthcoming, meetings with the Council of Scientists missed. Attempts to arrange a joint conference between Alliance representatives and the Empire were ignored. We now know why."

He paused to sip water; Coary wished he had a shot of bourbon in his coffee. Brightfeather had a familiar look on her face; he'd seen it before when something she'd suspected was about to be revealed. His mind raced trying to beat the Admiral to the punch, to make sense of it all, but the facts were looped and intertwined in so many places, he didn't know where to begin, or what constituted a fact.

"Based on admiral Kablinski's extensive report, reconnaisance found no evidence of such an empire and when the admiral's flotilla descended on the Alegorian planet and confronted the leaders of the government, it was ascertained that no one named Shian-Malin had ever existed. All together, there are four planets forming a regional union, two in each star system, separated by a system of thirteen, all dead, but including this so-called crypt planet. There are no followers intent on freeing this tyrant from his bondage spells and no wizard ready with the incantation and no duplicate sarcophagus. I'm sure, knowing your reputation as I do, that you're aware of all these details by now." A cursory smile appeared on his face, then died instantly, a hollow gesture.

"According to their records and historical accounts, which they were more than happy to show us, this tyrant did once live and rule over a vast domain, but that time is long gone. His empire gradually fragmented and fell into disarray and crumbled. What's left are separate clusters of community worlds, some isolated and reclusive, others loosely bound together by trade and tourism."

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the captain, annoyed by the admiral's tone. "Can you tell me who this Xankou character is then? Was he involved in the beginning setting this up?"

"The people were not unfriendly; they spoke freely when interviewed about their culture and social lives. Xankou, it turns out, is a consummate actor on their planet, famous, in fact. He and his theatre group had an opportunity of a lifetime playing their parts. Someone wrote it, they acted it out."

"But what about these bondage spells, admiral? We opened the sarcophagus Xankou gave us; it's filled with some weird unknown mineral, rocks, lots of rocks. I could see the surface of the sarcophagus going through processes that compare favorably to thinking. Was there never a body and only this one sarcophagus?" Questions, he had questions and he wanted answers.

"Xankou's ship was intercepted enroute to his planet by one of our patrols. Admiral Kablinski has established a security barrier between the Border Planets and the outer region of the Centaurus sector, separating us from the Alegorian community. He and his people will be brought back here to face charges. I don't know, at this time, what those charges might be, except, most assuredly, fraud. Impersonating an empire is not only difficult to pull off, it requires the collaboration of many people including the Alegorian government.

"I have Captain Ojeebwa's report on my screen--no other sarcophagus was found. You have the only one."

"A micro-black hole appeared on its surface, decreasing in area based on, we believe, the activity of the spell-forces. They are real, admiral; I know that from experience. I'm sure you're familiar with the incident last year with the Dark Lord, are you not?" Coary had his back up and wasn't going to let the admiral brush it all aside. "The minerals inside were somehow creating it. We broke its concentration when we removed the lid, inside were the stones. Was there ever a body and what the hell do we have here? A bomb set to go off when we get to that outpost in the mountains? What good would that do?" Coary was on a roll; he noticed the admiral was now sitting back a little.

"There may have been a body at one time," the admiral said, not quite so casually. "But what we can garner from their historical accounts is that his body was incinerated in a special shamanic ceremony. According to them, these so-called underworlders were then and are now blocked from our universe."

"Oh, sir, they're not so-called. Believe me. They're as real as you and I. But what was the objective? The Alegorians and the followers are one and the same. What they gave us to bring back isn't a gift for playing our part. They set it in motion somehow before transfer. It was activated towards a specific purpose and it isn't fireworks. A portal could be opened with the underworld beings on Hawking-I. They're conning you into thinking it was all some harmless, elaborate prank, but the sarcophagus is real. It's only as old as when this whole circus started, but the tyrant of long ago was real and his essence could be in the stones, his consciousness, his psychic identity. If he were to emerge on Hawking-I, we'd have our hands full, leaving some planets defenseless for the Alegorians to prey on.

"Farfetched?" Coary realized at that moment that the admiral didn't know what it meant for underworlders, a general term for other-dimensional beings with super-ordinate powers, to invade our plane of existence. Creatures controlling powerful forces for which we have no experience or knowledge and against which, no defence. Attacking the Alliance at its heart. Considering the disparity in forces, a quite ambitious aspiration. The remnants of an empire long ago runs through their veins; perhaps, for them, it's now or never.

The admiral looked uncomfortable. He'd only been in his position for a year. And although he'd read all the reports concerning sentients like the thought beings, lifeforms that existed between dimensions of space and time, the reality of what we normally consider magic as mastery of forces accessible to these, although he'd read it all, until you experience it first hand, in the field, it's difficult to swallow.

Nonetheless, Coary was determined to convince him that the Alegorians were not the innocent, though fanatical, pranksters he was trying to make them out to be. He was trivializing the significance of the sarcophagus despite the fact that it was the centerpiece of this vast interplanetary charade, and in spite of the incredible lengths they went to in order to convince Space Fleet of its importance at the onset. The whole rationale pivoted on it. Coary was convinced they were attempting to use shamanic wizardy and black magic to begin a war of conquest with the Alliance with the help of the underworlders. They represent a real threat, to be taken seriously. This was not just a highly theatrical game played by eccentrics. Who in his right mind would go to all this trouble? Why? Just to prove they could do it?

Bertha commed in: "Excuse me, sirs, but I have something curious you might find interesting." Permission was given. She spoke, "The three-stranded genetic code obtained from the water Xankou and his compatriots drank resembles in configuration that of the crystal's atomic lattice structure when all permutations are superimposed. Connections between spirals is accomplished virtually, utilizing the void's energy."

"Thoughts?" Coary asked.

After a pause of several seconds, she said, "A quintessential affirmation on the information basis of all life in the universe. Some assembly required."

Coary knew what that last part meant without having to think about it. "Sir, as I understand it, our part in this,..., plan was to be handed the sarcophagus and bring it to this outpost where there's facilities to examine it. Is that correct?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Are you aware that Xankou at least pretended to be insistent that we drop it off on some barren planet? Something to do with releasing the energy in the bondage spells to bring about life, a genesis effect? To happen when the counterfeit coffin had been used to send the tyrant into oblivion? Are you aware of all that or any of it?" Coary's voice rose in pitch unintentionally but, as he saw it, not without justification.

"Okay, they probably received word that the jig was up, they'd been found out. Xankou had been monitoring our transmissions and knew we didn't know that. He stalled for time with our meeting while his people did something to the sarcophagus. Why add a trip to some desert planet in the middle of nowhere at the last minute?

"And admiral, why didn't you contact us, why not call this whole attack off when you found out there was no empire and the story was phony? You didn't bother to inform captain Fitzsimmons. You put his whole crew in jeopardy for no reason. Didn't you think Xankou might suspect that he knew and simply destroyed the entire ship?" Captain Coary was aware of his impudence and insubordination, but his good friend and a willing crew of merchant spacers had risked it all for apparent nothing.

The admiral squirmed visibly. "Two reasons, captain: If we'd informed captain Fitzsimmons of the current situation, he would've called it off and rightfully suspected that the Alegorians onboard the attack ship knew also. Why let his ship get torn up for no reason? The Alegorians, with or without the pretense of an empire, were intent on getting that sarcophagus and Fitzsimmons might have seen fit to resist. The result would've, could've, been a real attack with lives lost."

"But weren't they going to give it to the Council anyway? Wasn't that part of the deal?"

"Yes, but only in the imaginary world of the nonexistent empire. After helping them rid their world of the tyrant, we were supposed to take possession of the sarcophagus for study, that was the arrangement. But, once again, only in the world of the empire. In light of present, real events, I don't believe they ever intended to honor that."

Coary ignored that last statement; the admiral was missing the point of this whole Alegorain exercise. "I don't understand, sir, why do you say they were intent on gettting it back if they already possessed it in the first place? Why all this effort to procure it again?"

"We picked up transmissions from Xankou to his homeworld; admiral Kablinski's operations group are monitoring all communications in that area. He was told, by someone running the show--we're working on finding whoever--that it was imperative he retrieve it, if possible. And something cryptic about it being useless the way it is. Translations are not precise; we've only recently been able to accurately replicate ideas; an alphabet corresponding to their ideograms is in the works. It could've also meant without purpose or meaningless. Not knowing its true age at the time--and I really don't know how that got by the museum people--we presumed they meant its religious significance."

"Useless the way it is? It's not the ancient infamous artifact they were pretending it to be; my chief engineer tells me it's only a few years old. Useless, in what way? Why would something deemed useless warrant the risk of a hostile attack? Xankou knew time was running out. Of what real value could it be to them? We have to ask that question.

"The plan and deception fell apart. Initially, they let Space Fleet, through the archaeological intermediaries, take it freely; that was in the beginning. Then, after two years of loudly attempting to retrieve it from the museum, publicizing their grievance and the location of the crypt planet for all to see, not just the imaginary followers, they decide to put this leg of it together. Why wait two years while it sat in some obscure museum collecting dust? Was it only one facet of a larger program happening on their homeworld? After all that time, had they feared discovery? They were screwing up, it sounds like.

"But the question remains, the fake attack no longer meant anything, to either party. So why did they really want it back so bad? The whole plan with the news pointing towards the Alegorians as the perpetrators so that the followers would confiscate the fake one at the crypt and so on and so forth, that rationale evaporated along with the story. Why then go through with it? The sarcophagus has purpose, admiral, but not what you think, I'm afraid."

The admiral had nothing to say to that. He looked confused, but, being the commander, continued on another tack. "We knew Georgia Moon's captain and crew were on the Alegorian ship and we knew Xankou possessed the sarcophagus. The safety of the men was paramount. Capturing Xankou with the stolen antiquity would be key evidence in this conspiracy."

"Evidence? You knew the empire was phony, what more evidence did you need? You knew it was an illusion, yet you didn't tell us. We could've called off the charade and gone after Xankou."

"Xankou had been pacing the freighter Georgia Moon since it left Xavier Prime over a week ago, before admiral Kablinski's discovery. We contacted him through our secure channel, as per agreement, so, he, more than likely, would've picked up the transmission. Then he might've attacked Georgia Moon for real."

Coary paused and slumped back. "Sounds like you handed him the whole store, admiral. Just out of curiosity, sir," an undertone of mild contempt in his tone, "what prompted Space Fleet, after two years, to finally visit the empire?"

"Clasping his hands on the table, the admiral replied, "We weren't invited and we didn't suspect anything. Their emissary came prepared, plenty of background including a picture of Shian-Malin. Who it really is doesn't matter, a face in the crowd. It was well-orchestrated, in the beginning. All requests to send a diplomatic mission were rebuffed citing the danger of revealing the plan. People would be suspicious, word would get out, the palace was filled with spies, they said.

"Nonetheless, without asking their permission, we sent a contingent of ships from admiral Kablinski's command to that quadrant to covertly monitor the ritual of the tyrant's homeworld, name unknown, designation ZX3-934. What they found was an orderly society going about its business, not fanatical followers of some evildoer, and no news on their airways about an upcomng ritual to rid the universe of so-and-so. Consequently, we decided to investigate, canvassing the supposed range of the empire but, like I said, we couldn't find anything resembling the description--no evidence to support the existence of any empire.

"So, we've only known ourselves for that long. Since then, it's been very busy here, regrouping and redefining actors. We thought it best not to inform you; otherwise, captain Coary, you may have behaved differently. As long as he was convinced you had no knowledge of their deception, he could play out his role."

"Xankou must've found out you knew about the con job. At any moment, the rug could've been pulled out."

"Balsy, that's for sure," interrupted the admiral. "You don't present yourself as official representatives of a vast empire and make it work without extreme nerve."

Coary was getting fed up, he went with his gut: "We believe the sarcophagus was set to open, at a strategic time, a breach in space, a portal to another dimension. You were told his body was cremated long ago; if that's the case, why have this sarcophagus at all?

"It's only a few years old. Why stuff it with minerals that have dynamic properties of an unknown and highly suspicious nature and then try to pass it off as a genuine ancient coffin containing a mummified body? We don't know what they're capable of.

"I believe it's a device intended to afford the Alegorians the opportunity to launch an invasion. And it may be only a prototype. If this one is only a couple of years old, they could turn out more with similar crystals designed to open doors in other dimensions. Using the tyrant's underworld signature as a lever, but possibly learning how to generate portals by crystal design alone. I don't know. What they have amounts to a technology."

Before the admiral could respond to any of that, Brightfeather piped in, "Admiral, a micro-blackhole had been initialized by someone on the Alegorian craft, evidence suggests. This was done for a reason." She almost lost her patience, but willed herself to focus. "Microholes open orthogonal dimensions of spacetime. Orthogonal means perpendicular." She felt annoyance at his obtuseness overwhelming her, but, once again, pulled back. "The source of its energy was coming from the minerals, not radioactively, but through the complex, calabi-yau resonating vibrations the atomic lattice produces naturally. Because of the directional constraint imposed by the shamanic forces imbued in the symbols on the sarcophagus, or of it, that orthogonal dimension, that portal, would specifically allow the ancient tyrant's spirit to emerge onto our plane of existence. And with it, access to our world by another realm of unimaginable creatures with indefensible powers."

The chief intelligence officer, commander Roberts, as though waiting for the opportune moment, handed the admiral a sheet of cream-colored plastic and pointed to a paragraph. The admiral's eyebrows arched. He read: "Special Intelligence Unit - Mountain Outpost: To express their good-will and hope for reconciliation and understanding, the Alegorians gifted the Council of Scientists with a duplicate sarcophagus. It arrived early this morning, spacer time, by special envoy. It's in our lab now." He looked up into captain Coary's eyes. Understanding finally seeped in, hardening his face; the smile lines around his eyes vanished.

"Admiral, I recommend placing it within an anti-grav bubble as soon as possible. Don't let anyone touch it; contact may be all that's needed," he said, recalling his impulse to do just that.

The admiral spoke to someone off-camera, giving the order, then said to Coary, "What about the one you have? What can you do with it? Have you disarmed it by opening it? Should we do that?"

Brightfeather said, "Although the microhole seems to have evaporated, the minerals are still active. They could've upgraded on that; it's a possibility. In other words, attempting to remove the lid to sever the magnetic lines may now be booby-trapped. If, instead of shrinking, the black hole expands when it reaches a critical point, it could implode the planet while simultaneously opening a door to another dimension. That's worse-case scenario, admiral, but it's on the table."

Coary said, "I have an idea, just came to me. Let me get back to you, admiral." They both nodded and signed off. Coary went back to the storage room to talk to Finley. "Remember that invention of yours that got you promoted?"

"Yes, captain, and a glorious day it was for Space Fleet."

Finley had many inventions under his belt, so, to make sure they were on the same page, Coary refreshed his memory: "In order to escape the thought beings? Inverting the crystal in the quark drive and shrinking us to below Planck size so that we'd drop through ordinary spacetime into the formless void? I think now would be a good time to use it. I know it's designed to surround the ship, but, can we alter it somehow to encase the sarcophagus only?"

"As long as we remain in quantum space, the topological properties hold sway. I hadn't considered applying it locally." He stood still, his eyes glazed, working out the practicalities. Finally, he said, "If we first put it outside the ship, we can reconfigure the tractor beam to project an inverted quark bubble that will enfold the space around it. Once that happens, it should vanish momentarily, into the primordial nothingness."

Coary told him to get on it and use anybody he needed. He told the team to replace all the rocks and put the lid back on, but don't reseal it. Returning to the bridge, he reconnected with the admiral. He explained what they were going to do, knowing that they had the means at Space Fleet to accomplish the same thing. A complex procedure invented by Finley that no one ever wanted to use in the field, but you never know. It worked experimentally. Matter could be reduced, dimension by dimension, to a size capable of falling through the pores in the fabric of the universe, and theoretically, if it was a ship able to reverse the flow, return in one piece. No, no one ever wanted to use it. As a weapon, it was kept under serious wraps, but now was a good time to unwrap it and show the Alegorians, and anybody else paying attention, that Space Fleet was not helpless in the face of their dark magic.

Captain Coary oversaw the dissipation of the sarcophagus; the crew erupted with cheers and pats on the backs of the engineers. They were Rangers, that's how they acted. The captain handed the bridge over to Owens who handed it off to the nav-officer; they were heading for Hawking-I at max speed.

Standing on the bridge, staring out at the viewscreen of the ordinary spacetime they were quantumly transiting, Coary asked Brightfeather, "What would they have gained if they'd never been found out? If this deception continued? They would've started a war under the guise of a vast empire. Until we attacked them, anticipating a mighty aramada, there would've been confusion at the outset, giving them an edge. Maybe they thought we'd be intimidated. Like Fitz said, they don't know humans as well as they think they do.

"And the Alegorians would've been blamed for it. Empire or no, they weren't even trying to hide that."

"Perhaps, said Brightfeather, "that's exactly what they wanted. To take credit for it, take responsibility. An act of terrorism followed by an invasion."

Coary saw her off at her quarters, she was exhausted from the ordeal. In his, Coary collapsed on the bed, too tired to eat. He managed to get his shoes off, but that was all. Thoughts of the day drifted through his mind, none did he bother to pursue. Eventually, they died out from lack of attention and he thought instead of a time in his backyard when he was child. He'd dug a tunnel under an overpass for his miniature cars to drive through. Roads, driveways, bridges, all his construction and his to roam. He wished he was there now, playing in the dirt. Momentarily, he fell fast asleep.

Entering dreamland, he heard a familiar voice say, "Captain, we were watching. You did well. However, it seems you've antagonized the offspring of the Dark Lord and his followers. When the opportunity arose, the organizer of this attempt to invade your world saw the poetry of it. Becasue of the part you played in vanquishing the Dark Lord, it seemed only appropriate that you be the bearer of the portal-opening device to the heart of the Alliance and Space Fleet. But, don't worry. How many kids could he have? Time to rest, captain. Rest."