By the time Rian reached the transporter room with M'rray and Eontril, Saran had attached an anti-grav unit to the large bundle he'd wrapped in a thermal blanket from one of the survival kits. Rian wasn't watching him, though. She was much more concerned with Christy's still form, lying face up on one of the transporter discs.

Christy was bleeding profusely, and a purplish pool of blood was spreading on the floor. One shoulder was shattered, a large bone protruding from it, her right arm broken in several places. Her right hip was nearly as bad off, and both legs were broken, the knees bent in impossible directions, one leg crushed to a pulp from mid-calf down.

"Oh, goddess," said Rian.

Eontril gagged, clapped his hand over his mouth, and ran from the room.

Saran glanced up from his burden. "M'rray! It is good you are here. Please remove Christy from the transporter disc, as we have need of it. And Rian, please attend to her immediately. She is not breathing, and brain damage will begin within minutes."

Rian nodded, shaking, as M'rray stepped forward. The Caitian didn't particularly like Terrans, but he had no reason to particularly dislike Christy. As a matter of fact, her playfulness reminded him more than anything else of the cubs that grew up on Caitian colony worlds.

He gingerly lifted her from the disc and stepped back. "Where?" he asked Rian.

The Antari gestured toward the conference table, and M'rray tenderly deposited Christy there, and moved out of the way. He glanced down, and saw that his forelegs and chest were covered with blood. That didn't bother him much; he was a hunter by instinct, and he'd been bloody before. What had surprised him was how light she was, how little she weighed. Less than a young Caitian, certainly.

He watched, feeling helpless, as Rian stepped forward and gingerly began to straighten Christy's mangled limbs. "Can you mend her?" M'rray purred.

Rian didn't look up. "I can try. We're both lucky that I'm well rested." She closed her eyes and gently placed her hands on Christy's shoulder.

Tharas paused in the doorway, glanced at the conference table, and closed his eyes for a moment. Rian seemed to have things under control. If she needed help, he would know.

Saran had moved his large bundle to one corner of the room and was just lowering it to the floor. "What's that?" Tharas asked.

"A curiosity, perhaps," Saran answered, and he started back toward the transporter controls. "We will examine it later. It is an object I beamed aboard from the remains of the comet," he added, attempting to forestall any further questions.

Tharas studied the transporter readouts. "We're within range of the needles."

Saran nodded and began adjusting the controls. "Here's the first one," he said, and the transporter began to hum.

The creature that appeared on the transporter disc was fairly humanoid in general body shape, and perhaps only a shade taller than an average Terran, but the details were all wrong. It had a long, thin, flexible snout, a pair of eye-stalks that waved back and forth, taking in the room, and huge ears. Its hands had at least a dozen fingers each, long, thin, and incredibly flexible. It was sitting on the floor, arms and legs extending forward, in the same position it had been in the needle.

The creature leapt to its feet in a graceful, fluid motion, and with impressive speed, and it jumped forward, straight toward Saran and Tharas. The Andorian held a phaser at ready, though, and the alien fell to the deck with a dull thud.

Saran raised one eyebrow. "Fascinating," he said, and beamed the second pilot aboard.

This alien bore no resemblance, not even superficially, to the first one. Again, it was in the typical sitting position, arms and legs stretched forward. But whereas the first alien had been tall and thin and flexible, this one was very short — not much more than a meter tall — and disproportionately wide, with stubby arms and legs. It had virtually no neck, and it had a hard bony shell on its back and shoulders and the back of its head, with the same kind of bony material on the outside of its arms and shins.

It looked about the room with huge, round, dark eyes that seemed to grow even larger, and then with an audible snap! pulled in its arms and legs and curled up. The separate pieces of shell on its back and limbs fit together perfectly, forming a hard, featureless, protective sphere.

Tharas gave the sphere a once-over with his hand phaser, and strode up to it. "I can't tell if the phaser even had an effect," he said.

Saran shrugged, and Tharas rolled the creature off the transporter disc. He stepped back next to Saran and stole a glance at the conference table as the Vulcan readjusted the transporter controls again. Rian was on the table next to Christy, her face contorted in pain, her arms wrapped around Christy's bloody shoulders.

Sweet child, can you hear me?

It hurts! Oh God, it hurts!

I know, child. Let me help you, give me your pain. I am strong.

Mother? Mother, where are you?

I am not your mother, child, but I am strong. Give me your pain.

It hurts! Good God, it hurts!

Tharas was aware of M'rray looking at him, the Caitian's eyes wide and almost pleading. "Can you help them?" he purred.

"I? Andorians are not telepathic healers. The Antari knows what she's doing."

Saran said, "Here is the third one."

This alien wore a tight-fitting leather jumpsuit, and whereas it had been impossible to tell the sex of the first two, the third one gave a definite impression of masculinity. He was very heavily muscled, and had a short, prickly beard and bushy eyebrows. His hands were huge, the size of dinner plates. He stood, and towered even above M'rray, and roared, and took a step toward Tharas and Saran.

The Andorian fired the phaser, and the alien paused, shook his head, and took another step. Tharas twisted the power level up a couple of notches and fired again. The giant fell to his knees, roared once more, and groggily tried to stand. A third phaser blast, set one notch below kill, and the alien finally fell to his face, unconscious, his breathing deep and labored.

"How likely is it," Tharas asked, "that there would be three intelligent races, so dissimilar, in the same stellar system?"

The Vulcan was readjusting the transporter control. "The odds of it happening naturally — that is, without conscious interference — are very small. The odds of there being exactly three, and of us finding one of each out of an apparently random sampling, are even smaller."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I expect another surprise," and he activated the transporter once again.

Two individuals appeared on the transporter disc, seated next to each other. They were both very small; when they jumped to their feet, the taller stood little more than half a meter in height.

They looked similar to each other. The smaller one was obviously female, with delicate fingers and facial features, and a generous hourglass figure. She had long, snowy white hair that flowed loose about her shoulders, and hung down her back well past her tiny waist. She wore golden bands around her breasts and hips, and over that a translucent, shimmering silver gown.

The taller one, the male, had the same long white hair, pulled back into a pony tail, and a snowy beard that reached halfway down his naked chest. He wore tiny, skin-tight briefs, and a wide metal belt. They both had knee-length black boots, and the male reached down and pulled a small pistol-shaped weapon out of one boot and slid his arm protectively around the female's waist.

Tharas had been ready, though, whereas the tiny aliens had been surprised, and he paused only long enough to reset his phaser to its lowest setting. He fired, and the two aliens crumpled to the deck.

"Let's get them all securely bound," Tharas said. He glanced doubtfully at the bony sphere. "That one, we can maybe wrap a net around."

Saran nodded, and went to look for some rope.

Rest now, Christy, Rian whispered, deep in her mind.

How much longer? Christy asked.

Not long now. See? Your shoulder is mended, your leg is healing. There are still scars, but I will heal them, once we are rested.

I had a strange dream, Rian –

Tell me later. Rest now.

We almost died, didn't we?

Yes, child, we almost died.

Rian? Are you as old as you feel to me now?

I am old, child. And very weary. Let us rest.

Mok stepped into an already crowded room. Rian and Christy were lying on the conference table in a pool of blood. M'rray was helping Tharas and Saran to bind up a curious collection of vaguely humanoid creatures. "Need any help?" Mok asked.

"I think we can handle it," Tharas answered.

"What happened to Eontril?" M'rray asked.

"He's talking to Kila," said Mok. "Apparently, Christy's condition was a bit too much for him. He's calming down." He gestured at the large bundle Saran had moved into the corner. "What's that?"

The Vulcan finished the last knot and stood. "We'll examine it in a moment. I trust the High Stakes is sufficiently far from any inhabited bodies?"

Mok nodded. "We're almost fifty million kilometers from the ecliptic. I finally put up a tie line from the bridge to the sensor pod, something I should have done right away. The computer will let us know if anything bigger than an outsized gnat comes at us."

Saran looked satisfied. He started toward the large bundle. "I discovered a source of extremely weak life readings from within the comet, so I — "

"Life?" Mok asked incredulously. "From inside a comet?" Was Tharas shuddering?

"I thought it unusual also," Saran continued. He began unwrapping the thermal blanket. "I beamed aboard this small piece of the comet." Small it may have been, in relation to the rest of the comet, but it took up a large corner. It was a block of ice three meters tall and nearly two meters thick, and almost as wide. The water and other ices were beginning to melt, leaving a spreading puddle on the deck. "We'll have to get this into a refrigeration chamber quickly," Saran finished, and pulled off the rest of the blanket.

Buried deep within the block of ice was the figure of a man. He was naked, and looked quite Terran, with only a few minor differences. His hair was very white, and his skin was so pale that it seemed to glow. His physique was so perfect, such precisely formed muscles and underlying bone structure, that he seemed more like an idealized model than a real being.

Saran waved a tricorder at the block of ice. "What faint life readings there were," he said, "are fading rapidly."

"I'm not surprised," said Mok, "encased in a block of ice like that. What's the temperature in there?"

"In the center," Saran answered, "where the figure is located, the temperature is only a few degrees above absolute zero." He shook his head. "You are wrong, Mok. If it were the cold or lack of air that is killing this creature, he'd have been dead long ago. On the contrary, I believe it is the cold that has sustained what little life there was, and the slow warming that is killing it." He sighed. "However, I do not think we have time to again cool this being, and in any case, the readings were so weak even at their strongest that — "

He was interrupted by a sudden scream from the conference table behind them. The four spun around to see Christy sitting up, the tattered remnants of her clothes falling away. Rian reached up, trying to hold and comfort the youngster, but Christy shrugged her off, shook, and stood unsteadily next to the table. Her eyes were wide and staring. She spoke, but surprisingly, her voice sounded strong and full, not weak as one would expect. Her voice was strong, but her words were confused and confusing.

"My children... lost. Alone. Rainen, do you hear? Save them. I am lost, I have been defeated. They torture themselves, they cannot look beyond, they are without... guidance... Rainen... I am... gone... I...."

Her eyes closed, and she sank to her knees. Mok ran to her, slid his arm about her waist, and glanced up at the others. "What the scab — " he began.

Tharas had stepped back away from the others, and was leaning against the bulkhead. He had his face in his hands and was sobbing uncontrollably. Mok glanced in his direction, did a double-take, but said nothing.

Saran took one more reading toward the ice block, shook his head, and shut off the tricorder.

It was cold and dark in Tharas' cabin. That was the only place aboard ship where he felt comfortable enough to meditate. But his mind would not now calm, nor could he stop his hands from shaking.

His actions in the transporter room had been so out of character that he was afraid he'd shocked Mok horribly. Fortunately, he'd seemed the only one to have noticed. But Tharas couldn't afford to let anything like that happen again, regardless of how excusable it had been.

There was a soft tap on the door. Tharas glanced at his chronometer, realized he'd been sitting there almost three hours already, and sighed. Of course Mok would send someone to see if he was alright. He thumbed the light and heat controls, and rubbed his eyes. It would be Eontril, of course, the Indiian, a sensitive. Mok would consider him to be the ship's morale officer.

Time to act normal again. He heard another gentle tap, and Eontril"s voice said, "Tharas? May I speak with you?"

"Come," Tharas said. The room had already warmed enough that it would be only slightly cooler than the corridor. Eontril might not even notice.

The door slid open, and the chubby Indiian entered. "Yeah?" Tharas asked, sounding as uninviting as he could.

"Mok told me — " Enotril began.

"I can imagine," the Andorian interrupted. "It's a long story, and I don't care to discuss it. Thanks for being concerned. Dinner time yet?"

Eontril sat in the room's only other chair. "You're still pretty upset. Don't pretend you're not."

"Doesn't matter. It won't affect any duties I'm called upon to perform. I wasn't the one who ran from the room vomiting."

"And I never claimed to be a tough, coldly calculating, unshakeable mercenary."

"You used several adjectives I never claimed, either."

"Fine." Eontril shook his head. "You've been on edge since we started out. I'm a sensitive. I can't help feeling what those around me are feeling. I can handle it better if I know why you're feeling those things. Whatever just happened is only a part of it." He paused. "Okay, so maybe you're a very private person. You don't have to tell me. But I give you my word it wouldn't go any farther."

"I am not immensely relieved."

Eontril put his hands on the arms of the chair as if to stand. He paused again. "Hungry?"

Tharas smiled. "Yeah."

"So am I. It's a shame there's not much in the way of native Indiian delicacies in the larder. I enjoy my comforts."

"You've pointed that out before."

"Many times, I'm sure." He shook his head. "The Admiral really pulled off a good one, getting us all together. I understand Mok was blackmailed. She cut some sort of deal with the Caitian Office of Colonial Management to borrow M'rray for a while. Rian..." he shrugged. "I'm not sure what. Got into some kind of trouble with the Zehara. Saran seems totally dominated by curiosity. Poor boy. I was merely unemployed, a chronic condition for a minstrel with a big mouth, and the Admiral took unfair advantage of me. It's just you and Christy I haven't figured out yet." He paused, expectantly.

Tharas grinned again. "Not real subtle, you know."

"Just making conversation. I'm trying to compile a list of the Admiral's sins, in case I ever need to return the favor."

"Well, no sins are involved here. I was well paid to accompany the mission and provide military expertise and assistance."

"Paid? Most of us aren't getting anything. Maybe we should go on strike."

"I didn't negotiate the deal directly. My previous employer did. In fact, he was the one the Admiral originally wanted to send, but he changed his mind at the last minute. And subcontracted to me. I think some of the payment I received actually came from him."

Eontril sat back in the chair, and thought for a moment. It is impossible to lie convincingly to a sensitive. Eontril knew, without question, that Tharas wasn't being completely honest. But was it worth pointing out? There was something very puzzling about the Andorian. Puzzling? Eontril closed his eyes and shook his head. No, not puzzling -- puzzled. What was Tharas puzzled about? Oh. Of course. "Are you a sensitive?" It wasn't quite a question. Eontril wanted confirmation, not information.

"Ever met an Andorian who was?" Tharas asked.

That was surprise, Eontril noted. Tharas hadn't expected that. "Never. I — " And oh again. He felt Tharas suddenly come to a decision. And felt Tharas feeling him feeling it. Feedback. Just as Tharas had echoed Eontril's puzzlement. And had been as disturbed as Eontril by all the distractions of all the others since the time they'd left. "Your people," Eontril said, "whoever they are, have better shielding, uhm, on the transmitting end. You're not used to blocking others out. You're not Andorian. What are you?"

Tharas sighed. "Your race has developed too far for me to be able to conceal it from you for long. I had hoped none of you would discover it so soon. But none of the others have your sensitivity. I do have your vow of secrecy?"

"So long as you mean no harm to us," Eontril said, and knew as soon as he said it that Tharas bore no malice toward children. Children?

"I am of the Starborn, those the travelers on the Enterprise called the Silmarils, the Seeders. I can take on the appearance of any of my children. I am here to help guide and protect this mission, a mission which must not fail. No, the Admiral does not know my true identity, although I have known her for some time, under a different guise." He paused. "What caused my actions about which Mok was so concerned was my grief at witnessing the death of a brother. I trust these answers are sufficient?"

Eontril was sitting wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He blinked, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "Yes," he said finally, "quite sufficient."

The lights were dim, but they were there. The darkness was beginning to lift.

"Christy?"

There had been a stifling blanket of pain that had wrapped itself about her, but its grip was loosening. At least she hadn't been alone.

"Ballerina?"

If the others hadn't been there to help...

Others? There was Rian, of course. But who were the others? One seemed terribly familiar, had even spoken to her, had said... something...

"Christy? Can you hear me?"

"Wait. I need to think — " and the third one — well, he had come inside, sort of like Rian, who had been in her limbs, straightening and healing, except he had just wanted to speak to — to — Rainen? But no, that's not the right name —

"Christy! Scab it all, say something!"

"Oh, alright." She opened her eyes, saw Mok's face, very worried-looking, hovering over her. "Happy now? I've probably lost it all."

Mok smiled, leaned backward, and called, "Saran! She's awake!"

"You looked awful worried, Mok. Was I that bad off? Or are you just getting sentimental?"

"Sentimental? Me? Hell, no, it's just that our — uh — Admiral would never forgive me if her only..."

"Watch it," Christy interrupted. "Be careful who you accuse of what. And keep any damn suspicions to yourself."

"Right. Ma'am."

Saran came into the room. "I have some questions. First — "

"First," Christy interrupted again, "you could welcome me back to the living."

Saran looked confused. Mok laughed. "Welcome back," Saran offered.

"How long have I been lying here, insentient?"

"Not long," Saran answered. "Three days, five hours, and — "

"Three days? That's 'not long'?"

"Considering your injuries, your recovery was extremely rapid. Had it not been for Rian's empathic healing powers -- "

"Yeah, I know. Uh, Mok, I suppose the Ballerina is — uh -- "

Mok nodded. "A valiant death."

"She was a good friend."

"She had a full life."

"But so young!"

"Age is not everything, as you well know."

Saran's confusion had deepened. "Are you two talking about Christy's needle?"

She nodded, and sat up in bed, then took a deep breath. "Okay, Inquisitor, I'm ready." She wiped tears from her eyes and tried to look brave.

Saran shook his head, and pretended to ignore the direction through which the conversation had digressed. "I have some questions," he tried again. "First, do you recall the — speech you gave in the transporter room?"

She scowled. "Somewhat. That wasn't me talking, you know."

"I suspected as much. Do you know who it was?"

She thought for a moment, then her face brightened. "Eddie," she said.

"Eddie?"

"Well, his real name is, uh, Edrain, I think. But he felt more like an Eddie."

"Do you know who he is?"

"Well, was, I guess," she said. She looked sad. "I think he's dead now." She looked at Mok. "Like the Ballerina."

"What can you tell us about — Eddie? And about what he wanted to say?"

She scowled again. "Someone — or some thing — had tried to hurt him. Tried to kill him. A very long time ago. So he hid. In — the comet. Not 'hid' really. It was the only way he could stay at all alive. And that was just barely." She looked at Saran. "How am I doing?"

"You know more about this than any of us, although this is confirming and enlarging upon my own conclusions. The body we discovered in the comet was, I believe, that of a Seeder."

Mok's eyebrows shot up. "What makes you think that?"

"You have not read the Admiral's report. The descriptions match exactly."

"I thought he was just one more of the strange and varied assortment of whatevers — "

"Yeah!" Christy broke in. "I almost forgot! You wouldn't believe what I saw in the Hive!"

"Yes, we would," Saran said. "We beamed aboard the pilots of the needles that pursued you. They appear, superficially, to be of widely varying species. However, a chromosomal analysis shows them to be genetically identical — that is, all from the same genetic stock."

"Then why are they all so different?"

"Morphological engineering of some kind. Not pre-natal, I think. They seem to — change the shape of their bodies, purposely. As a Terran might choose another hair color, or wish to gain or lose weight."

"Whenever they want?" Christy asked. "Like a chameleon?"

"No, I do not believe it is an innate ability. It is not a matter of simply willing a change. They apparently undergo some kind of treatment, chemical, or surgical, or both."

Christy was appalled. "Why?"

Saran shrugged. "Perhaps we will try to ask one of the pilots. It may be they have little else to do. Without warp technology, they are locked into their star system, on the brink of extinction because of vast overpopulation. They have no frontiers, nothing to explore. They can hardly be unaware of the gravity of their situation. So they re-shape their bodies, perhaps as an experiment, perhaps as a recreation, perhaps in response to passing fashions."

Christy shivered, hugging her arms close. "What happened to them?"

"Do you not know? You told us. Or rather, 'Eddie' did, through you. They have no guidance. They have lost all direction." He paused. "I attempted to analyze the body from the comet, but it — disintegrated. There is nothing of it left. I did analyze the remnants of ice. It has remained undisturbed, solid and frozen, for at least twenty thousand years."

"Twenty — do you mean — "

"Yes. Eddie has been locked inside the comet for at least twenty thousand years. Whatever tried to kill him did its damage two hundred centuries ago. And the inhabitants of this system have been without his guidance since then."

Mok looked as if he had eaten something very sour. "I don't like the implications of that, Saran."

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow at him. "Go on."

"Without guidance, they stagnate. They threaten themselves with extinction. They develop spaceflight, but — "

"No, they had spaceflight long ago. The degree to which they've colonized their system, the depth of industrial waste we've detected on the outer worlds — I do not doubt that they had thoroughly explored their system even before the attack — or whatever it was — on Eddie. Any progress since then has been in quantity only."

"That's even worse. No progress at all. For twenty thousand years! What does that say about us? Where would we be, any of us? Vulcan, Earth, the Haven Empire, Andor, Cait — are we, all, at the mercy of a guardian angel?" He paused. "Are we as helpless, as incapable, as they?"

Christy felt very cold. "The Prime Directive," she said.

"What?"

"Rainen and Ilne," Christy began, but she interrupted herself. "Rainen! That's where I've heard the name! That was the name of one of the Seeders that the Enterprise met! Eddie must have thought — " She frowned. "Thought that we could find him, talk to him. No, he thought he was talking to him."

"I'm confused," said Mok.

"He named Rainen! Eddie spoke to him, directly. He said, 'Rainen, save my children,' something like that. He thought Rainen could hear him. Why would he think that?"

"His children — who are they?"

"Is it not obvious?" Saran asked. "The race here in this system. His children. As the Enterprise discovered we are the children of Rainen and Ilne. You really must read the report, Mok."

"Yes, yes, children," Christy said. "That's what I meant about the Prime Directive. The Seeders want it repealed because their children cannot grow without guidance! And something is — killing the Seeders."

"Oh Devri," said Mok. He covered his face in his hands for a moment, then folded them on his lap. "What are we going to do?"

"Return to Earth," Saran answered. "Make our report now. We cannot wait."

"But we have no proof," Mok objected. "We've based all this on the discovery of a body that no longer exists and on the mad ravings of a teenager in a severe state of shock. That's all."

"But what of this race? Twenty thousand years of stagnation..."

"It's happened before. This is not the first stagnant culture to be discovered. Maybe now we know why it happens, but we can't prove it."

Saran remained unconvinced. "My tricorder and sensor readings of the body—"

"— could have been faked," Mok finished. "Or your equipment could have been malfunctioning. No, we don't have it. We don't have anything."

"Mok's right," Christy broke in. "Against something like the Prime Directive — our report would get buried. We need ironclad proof of what's happening, and we just don't have it. As a matter of fact, the Feds will have our skins if we're not real careful about those pilots you guys beamed aboard. How much have they seen?"

"Not much," Mok answered. "We've kept them under sedation."

"I could arrange to provide them a severe case of amnesia," Saran offered.

"Huh?"

"I've learned enough about their physiology to clean their memories. We can beam them back into their Hive, and leave them with nothing more than an unsolvable mystery."

Mok shook his head. "No. Let's be nice. We'll write up a report, but leave them out of it. Don't even mention what happened to the Ballerina. Let's put these guys back and let them tell everyone all about what they've seen." He grinned. "Let's do our part. Let them know it's possible. Maybe it'll save Eddie's children."

"Will anyone listen to them?" Saran wondered. "They will have a pretty unbelievable tale."

"In that case, the Feds can't possibly object. One way or the other, we're justified." He paused again. "Then, let's get back on course to Aleph Corriandus. We've got a lot of work to do."

"I thought you were in a hurry to get your ship back," Christy said.

Mok shrugged. "If Eddie can wait twenty thousand years for us, I can wait a few more days to get back into business." He pointed a finger at Christy. "Now, you get some more rest."

"Yes, sir, Captain sir."

"Rian will be 'round to check on you a little later, if she hasn't eaten herself into a stupor. She says healing is hungry work."

"Tell her not to bother. Just wake me when we get somewhere."

Mok and Saran stood and left.

There were still a lot of unanswered questions. Who — or what — had killed Edrain? And why? Christy closed her eyes and scowled. Was Mok right? Were all races as helpless without a guardian Seeder as this one? If so, how could the Seeders rely on the Federation for help?

And, why had Eddie spoken directly to Rainen? It had occurred to her that perhaps it was because they were all Rainen's children — Vulcans, Terrans, Caitians, Andorians; Rainen had seen to the birth of all those races, and others. Did Eddie expect Rainen to hear simply because the group of them did?

No, that didn't feel right. She was sure Eddie had thought Rainen was actually in the room with them. But that wasn't possible. Was it?

How many other races would Eddie's death affect? Rainen was responsible for at least half a dozen sentient species scattered through Federation space, maybe more. How many billions of persons – hundreds of billions? – have lost their — their what? Guardian? Guide? Father? Teacher? God?

She finally fell asleep. There was still so much to do, so many questions to answer. But now, she had to finish healing. And for that, she needed rest.

There is still so much to do!

Rest now, my child.

Mother, is that you? How —

No, Child, I am not your mother. But you know me. Deep inside you, you know me.

Can we do what needs to be done?

Yes. And I will be there to help you. You may not always know me, but I will be there.

Rainen?

Rest now, my child.

Rainen?

The final report from Kappa Omicron 997 was very long and carefully worded. Admiral Brezshonova could read Mok's silver tongue throughout, even affecting the flow of the more technical parts.

She was pleased that Mok had apparently taken such an interest in the Project, to the extent of even authoring — or, at least, co-authoring — such a long and involved report.

But it was the report itself, of course, even more than its authorship, that surprised her. They were making progress much faster than she'd dared to hope, and seemed to have an almost intuitive grasp of her sensitive political position.

They'd renamed the system 'Lamarck', after the Terran biologist Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, who thought that evolution proceeded by conscious decisions and desires. That name seemed particularly apt, for two reasons; first, because the Lamarckians changed their own bodies, purposefully, and second, because of the apparent conscious direction of the Seeders.

The implications of that were staggering. Even through Mok's carefully obscured language, the implications were clear.

Upon reflection, it was nothing the Enterprise's findings hadn't hinted at, but it was damn nice to have confirmation from a second source.

Confirmation? Not quite. They really did have no proof. Mok was right to keep going. And she'd been right to send them out in the first place.

A lot of the most important questions, however, remained unanswered. What had killed the Seeder, Edrain? The Enterprise findings had hinted at a great, Galaxy-wide threat. Was this part or it?

She sighed. So much they didn't know. In a way, the High Stakes hadn't really made any progress at all. They were no closer to proof, and not much closer to understanding. What they had done, perhaps, was to begin to point toward the right questions.

And now, the entire crew seemed convinced of the importance of what they were doing.

Perhaps the next step would hold more answers. In any case, she had work of her own to return to. The High Stakes was on its own, and she could do nothing to help them.

Good luck, she thought. I'm counting on you.

I, and a few hundred billion others.

The End