CHAPTER ONE:

	The Tralkan Empire was an Empire in name only and had been for
the last nine Tralkanian years.  There was an Emperor, Vlunt, but he
was only a figurehead with no real power.  The ultimate power lay in
the Council of Generals, a body which had formerly served merely as
military advisors to the Emperor.  Each of the ten Generals ruled a
sector of the Empire, with the Empire itself ruled as a confederation.
	The shift in power came at the height of the Galactic War,
when the Ghety Union had gained control of a system a mere fifty
light-years away from Tralkania.  With the threat of a homeworld
invasion on his shoulders, Emperor Vlunt called in his Council and
asked for advice.  The Generals recommended that the Emperor divide
his vast personal military among the ten members of the Council.
Vlunt knew what this meant but had no choice.  He was a horrible
military leader and could not possibly organize a defense by himself.
The men he had hand-picked to lead his forces had shown themselves to
be incompetent.  If he had had the time, he could possibly have fixed
the situation without reliquishing power, but he did not, and so he
did what the Generals asked.
	When the war was over, the Emperor asked for his power back
and the Generals simply said "no".  To be more exact, what they said
boiled down to "We accept you as our Emperor and we acknowledge your
right to give Imperial Edicts.  However, we refuse to enforce any
Edict which, in our opinion, is not in the best interests of the
Empire."  This announcement was called the Quiet Revolution by the
members of the Council.

	It was before the Council, in the Audience Chamber, that
Dorcive Corve, Chief of Imperial Police, now stood.  To look at Corve
was to see into his past.  It was obvious that something horrible had
happened to this man and that it had happened to the right side of his
body.  He seemed to be wearing a metallic glove on his right hand, but
as he raised his arm to make a point, the sleeve would fall away
slightly, showing that his entire right arm was metal.  So was his
right eye.  It rested in its socket like the flesh eye on the left,
but was metallic in color, with a red pupil that gave a you queasy
feeling if you looked directly into it, as if it could read your mind.
(In fact it could, although you would be in too much pain to feel
queasy.)  Part of his scalp on that side was also replaced with metal,
giving him a receding hairline in what was otherwise a thick head of
black hair.
	The Council had used his injuries as an excuse not to promote
him to their body when his superior was killed in battle during the
war.  A more plausible explanation arose when one looked at Corve's
back.  His hair was pulled into a thick ponytail, the traditional
hairstyle of the Ghetian male.  Corve's ancestry was the same as the
nation the Empire had fought against in the war, the Ghety Union.  So
instead they promoted Sreezet Rath, who at the time had ranked lower
than Corve.  Rath was not present today.  He made it a habit not to
appear when Corve was granted an audience.
	As Corve talked, he had the attention of every member present.
Some listened raptly, some anxiously, some impatiently, but they all
listened.  They couldn't afford not to.  The last time they had
refused Corve an audience, he had raided the homeworld of General
Otheer and "discovered" a cerebro-narcotics ring operating out of his
office.  Corve had explained that he would have made his intentions
clear at the audience.  Otheer was forced to resign in disgrace and
the other Generals were forced to watch Corve's every move.  The only
reason Rath never appeared was that he *knew* Corve was out to get
him.
	Of course, Corve had been lying when he said he would have
cleared things up at the audience.  He had had no intention of
clearing anything up.  Annoying the Council was simply a hobby of his.
It was his idea of fun.  That was why Corve continued to wear his
General's uniform from the war.
	Corve addressed Chon Algutera, Speaker of the Council.  His
seat was raised slightly higher than those around him.  As Speaker he
wielded no more formal power than the others.  However, he did have
control over the proceedings, since a person granted an audience had
to speak directly with him.  The other Generals would interrupt if
they thought it necessary.
	Corve wrapped up his argument.  "...and so, Speaker Algutera,
Generals, based on the evidence that I have presented, I wish
permission to investigate the possible presence of an illicit
scientific laboratory on Enaia."
	Algutera pulled at his mustache.  It was his habit whenever
Corve was in the room.  Algutera was in his mid-sixties, with a
receding hairline that receded even faster when he had to talk to
Corve.  "Enaia.  That's in Rath's territory, correct?"
	"Frankly, sir, I don't see what that has to do with
anything--"
	"Nratzhuch, Corve," replied Algutera, comparing the man's
arguments to the droppings of a household insect.  "We all know about
the ongoing feud between you and Sreezet Rath.  It's hard *not* to
notice when anytime someone as much as sneezes in Rath's territory,
you come whining to us!"
	General Tylin Cweth raised his hand.  He was young for a
General, with hair cut in traditional military style, very short on
top, shaved on the sides.  He and General Miana Lydor were the main
reasons that the other Generals didn't resist Corve more than they
did.  He began to talk without waiting to be acknowledged.  "I think
Corve has a point this time.  The intercepted broadcasts would seem to
indicate--"
	Algutera cut him off.  "Shut up, Cweth.  We all know where
your loyalties lie."
	"As we know yours, Chon, dear," said Lydor, smiling.  Corve
couldn't help smiling himself as he heard her voice.  He knew he could
count on her to get in at least one jab; Algutera was one of Rath's
closest allies.
	Algutera decided he'd had enough.  He took his ceremonial
staff, about half a meter long, and slammed it down on the table.
"The options are to allow Dorcive Corve's Imperial Police to
investigate, or to let Rath conduct his own investigation.  All in
favor of allowing the IP to investigate the alleged lab on Enaia?"
	Cweth and Lydor raised their hands.  So did General Welik
Onora, although he looked away as he did it.  Onora was also an ally
of Corve, though not because he wanted to be.
	"I'm afraid that's two short of a majority.  Better luck next
time."  Algutera waved the staff, dismissing Corve, but Corve refused
to leave.  Instead, he smiled.  This was always his favorite part.
	"Thank you, sir," said Corve, measuring just the right amount
of sarcasm into his speech.  "Perhaps next time the great General Rath
would like to show his face.  Then he could show us himself how
ridiculous my accusations are, instead of his usual habit of letting
his friends do the work for him."
	Algutera finally lost the battle with his temper.  He leapt to
his feet, the blood rushing to his face.  "I have HAD IT with you!!
You come waltzing in here on the average of every *thirty days* with
another ridiculous accusation of how Rath has done this or Rath has
done that!  You continue to wear that damned general's uniform as if
the war was still on!  You are no longer a General of the Emperor's
Army!  You are Chief of Imperial Police!  You have responsiblities!
There is unrest on all the former worlds of the Ghety Union!  There
are pirate fleets preying on our commerce!  And yet, you can think of
nothing more important than to level yet another ridiculous accusation
at Sreezet Rath, and I am SICK OF IT!!"
	Corve's smile inched wider across his face.  It was all he
could do to stand still.  He savored the moment, then looked Algutera
in the eye and spoke.
	"Then fire me."
	For a moment it seemed Algutera would keel over.  His face
turned an even darker shade of purple and he began to shout single
words at Corve, spittle flying out of his mouth: "Out.  OUT!!  GET!!!
OUT!!!!!"  Behind Algutera, Lydor supressed a laugh with her hand.
Still smiling, Corve saluted and left the Chambers.

	Outside the chambers, Corve's lieutentant, Jhiro, waited.  He
was a young man of unknown age and origin, average height and slicked-
back black hair.  Whoever he was, Corve seemed to trust him and the
two were rarely seen apart.  Jhiro seemed to become invisible when not
spoken to.  He helped Corve with his coat.  "How did it go, sir?"
	"About as well as can be expected.  I don't do it for results,
anyway.  Ah, Tylin, Miana."  Corve's allies joined him.
	Lydor slinked up and kissed him on the cheek.  "You were
wonderful, Dorcive!"
	"As were you, Miana.  Between the two of us, I figure we can
give the old bastard a stroke by the time he's ninety."
	"I'm sorry about the results," said Cweth.  "I thought
Algutera would at least open the floor to debate."
	"That's okay.  I've already taken care of it.  First rule of
dealing with the Council:  `Never ask for permission for anything
unless you've already done it.'  Can you make the meeting tonight,
Tylin?"
	"Certainly.  What about Onora?"
	"Oh, I think he can be... persuaded to join us."


	An eternity away, at a distance simultaneously too vast and
too miniscule for the mind to comprehend, on the planet Earth, five
college students were involved in a crisis of their own, though one
far less world-shattering.

	PHWEET!!  The whistle signalled a foul and the referee pointed
to a muscular, black-haired boy as the culprit.
	"Hey!  That was a charge!" objected the boy.  The recipient of
the foul, lying flat on his back with his eyes pointed in different
directions, raised his hand in the air as if to make a point, then
apparently thought better of it.
	A minute later, the muscular boy and his four teammates
huddled on the bench.  The team captain, Ron, a tall boy with blonde
hair that barely reached his shoulders, addressed the muscular boy.
"Next time you foul someone, Steve, try to make it someone who's not a
good free-throw shooter, OK?"
	"Or foul him a lot harder," joked John, an Oriental boy.
	"Yeah, John, next time I'll take his head off, OK?"  Steve
never took jokes well, especially when they were aimed at him.
	Ron took a deep breath.  This wouldn't be the first game
Steve's temper had lost for them, but if Ron tried to lecture Steve
about it now, he would likely make things worse.  Ron decided to
change the subject.  "Well, in any case, we're down by one with 7
seconds to go.  Anyone got any ideas?"
	Trevor, a boy of average height with longish red-blonde hair
and a constant analytical expression, spoke up.  "Well, statistically
speaking, Steve's the best shooter we have with 68.5%.  I say we go
with him."
	How the hell does he remember things like that, thought Ron.
	Becky was the next to speak.  The youngest of the team, she
was tall for a girl her age and had gorgeous jet-black hair that
reached halfway down her back.  "That's ridiculous, Trevor.  They'll
be expecting that."
	"Never mattered before," said Steve.  That, at least, was
true. The other teams had had no success in stopping Steve.  However,
his habit of fouling himself into a penalty situation by the last
three minutes of the game had pretty much erased that advantage.
"Besides," he continued, "who *won't* they be expecting?"
	That gave Ron an idea.  "Okay, here's what we're gonna do..."

	John was given the ball at the opposite end of the court.  At
the referee's signal, he inbounded to Steve, who dribbled like a man
possessed straight toward the basket.  The other team sent three
players at him, forming a wall in the lane.  At the last instant,
Steve passed the ball, without looking, to Becky.  Just as Ron had
planned, their opponents had completely ignored the "weak link" in
their team, and she stood alone in the left-hand corner.  Becky threw
up a jump shot that went through the hoop without touching it, just as
the buzzer sounded.
	The team went crazy, hugging Becky, hugging each other,
hugging themselves.  Becky raised her fists in the air in a mock
salute.  "Another blow for feminine superiority!"
	"We won!  We're the goddam *champions*!!" screamed Steve, in a
good mood at last.
	After they had calmed down and shaken hands with the other
team, they went to a small table, where a man wrote Ron a check for
fifty dollars.  Trevor took the check and held it up for everyone to
see.  "The way I see it, we can do the right thing and put this money
toward books, or blow it all on pizza and beer," he said, smiling.

	At the pizza shop, the waitress asked the question that had
become a formality over the last year.  "Um, the underage ones won't
be drinking, right?"  Trevor had a year to go before he was 21, and
Becky had three.
	"Perish the thought!" smiled John.
	"Just checking."  The waitress set the two pitchers on the
table.
	John waited until the waitress left, then whipped two paper
cups out of his jacket.  Moments later, their cups all filled, Steve
proposed a toast.  "To Ron, our team leader.  Couldn't have done it
without you, man."
	"To Ron!!"
	"Oh, c'mon guys..."  Ron wondered if they knew how
uncomfortable they made him feel when they did that.  He hadn't asked
to be team leader.  It had just sort of fallen on him during the
course of the intramural season.  Now it seemed his friends thought of
him as "team leader" even when they weren't playing basketball.
	Becky was seated next to Ron and she hit him lightly in the
shoulder.  "Hey, we have to treat you nice while we have the chance!
You're graduating next month!"
	"Don't remind me."
	"You still haven't found employment?" asked Trevor.  Trevor
had his glasses on, narrow octagonal wireframes that made him look
even more like an engineer, though not a bad-looking one.
	"No.  Maybe I'm not looking hard enough."
	Becky put her hand on Ron's.  "Hey, don't worry about it.
You're talented, you get good grades, something will turn up."
	Ron noticed Steve looking away, irritatedly.  Oh no, he
thought.  Here we go again.  Ron had known for some time that Becky
had a crush on him.  It was a lot easier to plot basketball strategy
than to tell a young girl, whose friendship you value highly, that you
just don't feel that kind of affection for her.  To make matters
worse, Steve had a thing for Becky and couldn't help feeling
resentment toward Ron.
	One of these days I'm going to have to fix this, thought Ron.
He reached for another piece of pizza, giving him an excuse to get his
hand free from Becky's.  "Uh, speaking of grades, are you all ready
for Becker's physics exam?"
	"What the hell difference does it make?  We're all going to
flunk anyway," said Steve.
	John lifted his beer in a mock toast to Steve. "Now there's a
winning attitude."
	"Hey, a power forward coming up the lane I can handle.  I
can't handle Becker's wacky lectures.  Like the time he spent fifteen
minutes explaining faster-than-light travel."
	This was a new one to Ron.  "Huh??"
	"That's right," said John.  "Ron missed that day."
	Becky explained.  "Becker spent fifteen minutes proving some
crazy theorem that nobody could understand, finished by saying that
FTL travel was therefore possible, then suddenly caught himself and
pretended it was all a joke."
	"He even lost me," added Trevor, "and I usually understand
most of what he says.  But I wouldn't get too down on the class.
After all, it's what brought us together."
	John agreed.  "That's right.  I mean, Ron's a psychology
major, Trevor's in engineering, Steve's planning to go into the
military, Becky's a math major, and I'm pre-med.  The only reason we
became such good friends is because we all have to fill our physics
requirement."
	Steve picked at his pizza.  "Well, unless I pull a miracle,
I'm not *going* to fill it.  No human can possibly get an `A' in that
class."
	"I have an `A'," said Trevor.
	"I rest my case."
	"Well, enough shop talk," said Ron. "Anyone for a movie
tonight?"
	"I can't," said Trevor.  "I have to help Becker with an
experiment."  After about ten seconds of silence, Trevor looked up
from his pizza to see four sets of eyes boring into his skull.
"What?"
	"You wouldn't happen to be getting extra credit for this,
would you?" asked Becky, menace dripping from her words.
	"A little."
	John grabbed Trevor by the arm.  "Okay, what do we do to him?"
	"Let's break his arms," suggested Steve.
	Trevor put on his best smile.  "Uh, heh, heh, listen...
Becker could probably use some extra hands. Why don't you tag along?"

TO BE CONTINUED...