The first speaker of the Merian republic was pleased. He looked from his balcony at the stars. It was as if the worlds in space were finally moving in the right direction. They were the last of the colonies in this sector, an expanse rich in worlds, productive of life. Perhaps it was their example. Meria always upheld the values of Transor, but gave much greater responsibility to the individual. Under sound laws, with the right to breathe free, Meria was a beacon to all the outer worlds. It was what the Diaspora was meant to be, although he admitted in his heart that the warnings of Transor were true. One thousand years in the past they left at light speed, the first migration from Transor. Five hundred years they founded, no, found this place. It was their new world, the best of the lot. But the others lost their way. Society was a fragile thing, and it unraveled in world after world. Meria was the survivor, the last best hope of the new worlds. But it alone could not save them. It had to lead by example, perhaps by subtle coercion economic or politic. And now as he entered his second term as speaker, he could point to the success of the strategy he so confidently embraced.

From the balcony, he walked into his office. It was an average room: oak desk, pen, portraits of the founders, all austere, simple, the sign of the republic, mightier than any empire, perhaps a challenge to Transor herself. It was all marked by this token, this small room. He sat on his ancient oak chair, and from behind his desk, he waited.

He did not have to wait long. Berio was on time, as usual. He was director of the ministry of intelligence. Perhaps some people did look the part of their profession. Berio certainly did. A thin wiry man in his later years, his bony face swiveled from side to side, examining without expression a room he had seen hundreds of times before. He had a stack of briefing folders in his arms, a bit more this time than usual. He nodded silently, and placed them on the speaker’s desk, fanning them out like a deck of cards. Then, as quietly, he retreated a pace and sat down facing the only man he could not deem an underling or peer.

"There they are." He said. "These are the files on twenty four Transor colonies, societies populating seven worlds."

The speaker examined briefly the folders, and then placed them down.

"And what of it?"

"Our triumph." Said Berio. "Or at that’s what the others say, or at least suspect. They don’t trust us you know. Despite a record of honor and justice without peer, they see our hand behind it all."

"You mean our interference in these worlds?"

"Yes."

"That’s preposterous, Berio! You know we had no hand in this, unless of course there are elements in our government behind it. No, no, that’s nonsense! These tyrannies fell on their own accord. The pressure was from our own example, no more."

"Nor by our technology." said Berio. "Things happened, unnatural things. You know the tales. This is beyond even our genius."

"And the Doytch, the Angles, the Frogs?"

"Far beyond them too, and foreign to their interest."

"But these are myths, scarcely verified."

"But we have."

"What?"

"These are not myths." Berio continued. "There is another hand in this, and it is not from the colony worlds."

"How can you be certain?"

"We may not know the cause of these events, the means of their execution if you pardon the irony. Consider the examples in the folders before you. Shall I recount a few?"

The speaker nodded silently.

"Evil does not give up its ghost easily, yet in all these cases it was exorcized by events unlikely, no, fantastic. Envision the entire 1^st Sorb terror brigade, mustered for inspection. Then in a minute, they were all dead. Post mortem, it was all the same, the septal areas of their brains, no bigger than a coin, were fused. Or consider Gabwe, tyrant of Rhodes. Paranoid, reclusive, surrounded by an elite and dedicated guard. His death was melodramatic, made to impress. While making a speech televised to all, his head literally exploded. It was more than an assassination, it was a warning from the gods, magic."

Berio passed his hand over the folders. "Fabulous acts of violence populate these pages. The executioners did not bother to copy our ways. They were confident of their escape, so it did not matter."

"And the opinion of the colony worlds blames us?"

"Perhaps it’s to our advantage that they do. We know better. I know better. I believe there is a reckoning in our future with something we do not understand."

"Is it a threat to us?"

"I cannot tell. The pattern alone does not suggest it. But you know the ways of my craft. Their means may not be entirely violent. They may be among us, watching, waiting."

"For what?"

"I don’t know. But I do know that these are ominous times for us. These upheavals in the smaller worlds, they are trifles. The real issue looms far larger, and is a real and growing threat."

"The Doytch?"

"Yes."

"So far these little ‘miracles’ have not touched them. For me I have dossiers on many of their heads that I would like to see explode. They are not in the pattern so far, and I can not fathom what benefit they would take from this business."

Suddenly, Berio froze in thought. His eyes fixed, he stared blankly ahead. The speaker could sense a cold anger, a frustration.

"What is it?"

He turned to the speaker. "The folder on the Doytch. It’s not here. This last of the miracles has no document. It blinds me. We have operatives, skills, and technology without peer. I would hear your sigh from a hundred leagues away if I chose. But for them, I have nothing. In the last month, our contacts have been silenced. It’s uncanny, impossible even, but they have shut down our intelligence. It is as miraculous as these decapitated tyrannies, but in my bones, I feel the source is different."

The speaker’s voice rose. "Two miracles in one day. This is something I would never expect from you of all people, Berio."

"Mr. Speaker, good and evil have always been with us, but this time they are inked in blood. With such uncertainty, we must prepare for the worst."

"As in…"

"War. Two hands are moving over our worlds, with means and ends at odds yet wholly unknown. The Doytch are preparing, and I fear for ends far beyond what they declare. The Angles already fear them, we should do as well."

"But they are three months in the distance, and at light speed. An ocean separates us, whereas the Angles have merely a pond. We have nothing to fear."

"There was a time I could say that when I mastered the secrets of worlds. I do not know what I am seeing now. For the first time in my life, I am frightened."

"What must we do?"

"For me, I must fulfill my mission. I must find the source of these miracles. I fear we must look beyond our worlds for its source."

The speaker smiled. "You need a new permission, I gather."

Berio nodded. "It is ultimately why I came."

"Where do you want to look?"

"If you exhaust all your normal sources, the improbable, no matter how unlikely, will prove to be true. We are a small group of worlds in a tiny archipelago of an infinite sea of stars. But we know what spawned us, and that we were not their only child. The first were the machines, the AI sent to all ends of the empire, pushing beyond what our eyes could see. They disappeared, although though it wasn’t in their design. Even purposes evolve I suppose. The second were the small expeditions to the odd worlds, the eccentric sects that wanted their place in the sun, of their own of course. The third is Transor, the mother world, and the source of the race. Five hundred years away. We know them only from an echo as old. All except for Transor may be near. The mother world due to Transorian pride would not venture far from home. For the others, they may be here, watching, and perhaps waiting."

"And how do we contact them if all we can ride upon is the wisp of a hope?"

"They will come to me."

"You seem confident."

"I am desperate."

"And your means?"

"Arms. New ships, new weapons, a new strategy; you will see, they will cut both ways."

"And how will I get the senate to approve this? They do not share our confidences."

Berio’s eyebrows arched, and he smiled like a confidence man sensing a mark. Fear, Mr. Speaker, fear, a need for a home world secure; and we provide for our safety by grasping its linchpin: the planet Azor, in the Lantic system.

"But that’s a useless rock, no better than a navigation beacon, a way station for freighters."

"But did you know it could be a key military base, a front line for defense? We simply ask the Angles for permission. They own the place. Perhaps we can arrange a trade."

Berio sat back in his chair, confident as a grandmaster after making a winning move. He smiled.

(