By late afternoon, all traces of the snowstorm had vanished. Heat more appropriate to the season settled over the countryside. The Doctor, mopping his brow, shed cravat, jacket and waistcoat. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his back, but as he reached to unbutton it, he caught sight of the captain, her own jacket long gone, watching the procedure with interest. Flustered, he left his shirt alone, and then further embarrassed himself by making some inane comment about the weather.
Captain McAllister was a conundrum he dearly wished to unravel. Her invasion of his mind, while unpleasant, had resulted in no damage that he could detect -- and he had looked very carefully. She was in possession of information he preferred that she not have, of course, but she had also unbent perceptibly. Twice she had even smiled. That, he supposed, was worth something.
The Doctor would have preferred to talk to her about the entire episode, but there was no time. The area was thick with the black-uniformed guards. The roar of engines could be heard frequently through the trees. Several times he and the captain avoided walking into foot patrols only through sheer good fortune. Over and over again, the two were forced to turn aside or double back to avoid being seen. The observatory seemed as far away as ever.
The melting snow turned the ground perilous with mud. Broken branches littered the forest floor. They came out at the edge of a meadow and the Captain stopped, reaching around for her canteen. Taking a long drink, she offered it to him. He resisted the impulse to pour the water over his head.
"If it would rain," she remarked, "it would be easier to get past these guys. Are you sure this observatory detour is necessary?"
"Absolutely." He drank and returned the canteen. "If that observatory is still functional, I can prove what we both know."
"Then what? Even if people believe us, what could we do?"
"Plenty," the Doctor promised grimly. "But the first rule of engagement, Captain McAllister, is know your enemy."
"Palas," she said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name is Palas."
He blinked, but she chucked the reins and started off along the edge of the wood.
They followed the rim of the meadow north before returning to the trees. After some time, they came out onto a paved road, meticulously maintained. The Doctor did some rapid calculating.
"West, I think," he said.
The road ran beside a river for a distance, then turned and climbed back into the hills. As they came around a curve, he saw the white dome peeping over the trees on the summit of the highest hill.
"Good," said Palas, with a look toward the threatening sky. "Because we're going to get wet again, real soon."
The wind died away as they rode up the hill, a breathless hush broken only by the distant muttering of thunder. Approaching twilight turned the dark afternoon gloomier, but at least they saw no more of the patrols.
"There," the Doctor announced suddenly. "This looks promising."
Obscured by heavy undergrowth were two concrete posts, the remains of steel hinges still bolted to them. A road passed through the gate, asphalt crumbled to greasy pebbles that rolled and slipped under their horses' hooves.
Although the drive was overgrown, it bore evidence of recent traffic. Palas and the Doctor went more cautiously. Rounding the hill, they came upon the imposing structure.
The Doctor dismounted and approached
the front door. It was locked; the windows at ground level were boarded
up. They prowled around the building, but found no easy way in.
There were a few other, smaller structures behind the observatory, but
with the one exception, most had clearly been unused for decades.
The exception, a garage with a frequently patched roof, had a
fresh oil spot on the dirty, concrete
floor.
"We could knock," the Doctor suggested when their scouting brought them back to the door.
"Go ahead," Palas invited, drawing her gun.
"If I looked out and saw that, I wouldn't let you in."
"OK," she replied, and stepped neatly out of sight.
Shaking his head, the Doctor banged hard. There was no answer. He knocked again, hard enough to bruise his knuckles, but there was still no response.
"I can shoot off the lock," offered his companion.
"Subtlety, dear Captain," he admonished.
"Never break eggs with
a sledgehammer."
He fished out his screwdriver. There was a satisfying 'click" and the door swung slowly open. He turned to the captain and bowed. She rolled her eyes.
"After you, Doctor."
Within, the wide corridor was dark and silent. The Time Lord was aware of a muted hum, the subliminal song of electricity. At his shoulder, Palas stood warily looking around. Something tickled the edges of his mind. He tensed, but the feeling was quickly gone.
"No one here," she said.
"You're sure?"
She nodded and returned her gun to its holster.
"I hear a generator," he said. "Let's see if there's light."
The switch on the wall did nothing. Not for house lights then, this unseen generator.
Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the hall. It gave the Doctor a glimpse of double doors at the far end.
"That's what I want," he said. "Coming?"
And it was exactly what the Doctor wanted. The spacious, domed room was more cluttered than most earthly observatory chambers he had seen, but the telescope was clearly in working order. And when he flipped the light switch, incandescent bulbs sprang to life.
"What the hell?" Palas stared, open-mouthed.
"Someone obviously spends a lot of time here," the Doctor observed.
He stopped beside a cluttered desk and looked through a few of the papers. Astronomical charts, data printouts and memorandums from something called the Consortium. Palas, meanwhile, prowled further into the room, poking around the rumpled bed, examining the mishmash of dissected electronic equipment and a large, freestanding bulletin board.
"Doctor! Look at this!"
He loped across the room to her side. A glance at the hodgepodge of pictures and text told him they had struck gold.
"There it is," he said in wonder.
"What?"
"Our proof."
"Are you serious? 'Martians Want My Body to -- Doctor!"
"No -- here." He pointed toward a paper with a column of diverging numbers. "And here" A muddy photograph of something round against a black background
"I don't see it, Doctor."
"That's all right. It needs to be pulled together -- just a touch disorganized."
"Fine. You pull it together. I'm going to have a look around. Just don't dawdle, all right."
"Ah, yes." He turned to face her. "Danner."
Her mouth tightened.
"Maybe now would be a good time to explain why you're risking everything to get your hands on him."
She did not answer straight away. Mistrustful to the end, he thought, but she surprised him again. "Are you familiar with the relapse phenomenon in blackstones?"
"Danner mentioned something about it. A temporary return of symptoms, isn't it?"
"Yes. Well -- something similar happens to me, too, although it's not a return of the symptoms. You could call it recurring psychosis."
He waited patiently.
"The only thing - the ONLY thing - that will reverse the deterioration is a blackstone. Unfortunately, the event is inevitably fatal to him. So, you see, Doctor, when you called me a succubus, you were uncannily accurate."
"This happens during sex?" The Doctor was stunned.
"I think so."
"Think?"
"I don't ever remember. All I know is that after whatever happens, I'm better and he's dead."
"This is -- amazing!"
"But not unprecedented. What of the Qualiax?"
The Doctor opened his mouth, then shut it again. The Qualiax were a humanoid race whose shamans transferred healing energy through sex. Very effective it was, too.
And there was something else to consider as well. The virus' bioengineers had taken pains to create blackstones and their female counterparts, and it was clearly important that the two interact. What better way to insure this than program the virus to utilize a primary, human physical drive? Almost, the Doctor admired the genius behind it.
Almost.
"You picked that out of my memories?"
She nodded.
"Well," he managed finally, "have you tried *not* killing?"
"Doctor! Of course! This is not something I enjoy! I have had myself locked up, tied up, traveled as far out into the wilderness as I can - nothing works."
"But Danner didn't die."
"Exactly," she breathed.
"And that," the Time Lord said slowly, "is why you want him."
"Doctor, for almost one hundred and fifty years, I have been murdering blackstones at the rate of four or five each year. More, if my life has been unusually stressful. Add it up."
That was almost a thousand men. The Doctor could not think of a thing to say.
"Now there is a chance for it to stop."
"But you don't know that! The second time may kill him."
"It may. But it may not. I'll take that risk."
"A risk that's not yours to take!" He seized her by her shoulders and spun her around to face him. "It's Danner's life. The decision should be his!"
"There are a lot of things that should be, Doctor. I have stopped yearning for them. I deal with what is! Danner deserves better, yes -- I agree wholeheartedly. On the other hand, if there is a chance, just a chance, that this cycle of death can be broken, I'm going to take it and your morality be damned!"
Palas shook his hands off. She stalked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. Her back was straight and stiff, shoulders rigid.
"There may be an alternative."
She said nothing.
"The TARDIS, my ship, is still in
Deet. Inside is a fully equipped infirmary, with a computer containing
medical information from over five thousand worlds. Since you've
taken information about the Qualiax from my mind, you certainly know
that! It's possible
you could both be cured."
There was still no response.
"Palas?"
"I heard you. It's a nice theory, but that's all it is. I cannot order my life around someone's hypotheses!"
"To avoid killing, I would jump at any theory!" he retorted.
She got up, avoiding his eye. "I'm going to have a look around."
The Doctor remained on the edge of the bed after she had gone. Not for the first time that day, he regretted his spontaneous decision to let her into his mind. Curiosity would be the death of him yet. His memory contained truly dangerous knowledge -- knowledge now at the disposal of a badly damaged human.
What had possessed him?
The Time Lord stood up and moved restlessly to the desk. Settling into the cracked vinyl chair, he surveyed the mess before him. Then, resolutely, he pushed everything aside to clear a space. He turned on the computer, and after cracking the rather sophomoric password program, began going through the files, one by one.
The Doctor soon last track of time. The data was impressive, indeed. Much of it had been collected over a long period of time and had come considerable distances. This Alan Masterson, whoever he might be, was thorough, if somewhat lacking in orderly thought. From everything the Doctor found, it appeared that this Masterson knew exactly what had happened to his world.
The computer divulged all it contained. He switched it off and started on the daunting task of sifting through the papers. Things that were obviously memorandums he set aside, going for meatier items such as notebooks and graphs. As he reached for an especially interesting figure, he knocked several notebooks from the desk. He bent to pick them up and froze.
There was a marked discrepancy between the width of the desktop and the knee space beneath. He grinned. Feeling around, he touched a spot that gave beneath his gentle pressure. There was a snap -- and a drawer slid out.
Inside were a number of photographs and journals. The latter were old; the dates on the inside covers went back before the plague. Opening the first very carefully, the Doctor found it belonged to Masterson. The same Masterson? He leafed through a few pages -- mostly ramblings about girlfriends and assholes. "Asshole" turned up alot in Masterson's prose. Perhaps he and Danner knew each other? Some of the entries were circled in red. The Time Lord read the first of these.
--
August 4, 2020. Got a new
job today with the E.P.A. Looks like cake --just drive around the
county taking air quality measurements. Only part time, but
hell, it's better than flipping burgers.
--
October 21, 2020. I got
called into Richardson's office today and given grief over my last three
log entries. What the hell? It's not my fault if their damn
meters malfunction. Richardson says he's coming around with me for
the next two days. Asshole.
--
October 29, 2020. The meters
aren't malfunctioning and the readings are correct. So there, assholes!
--
October 30, 2020. Emergency
meeting today at work. Most of the big shots were there, plus me
and a couple of other students that do the same thing I do. It was
really weird. There was some guy there from EPA in Washington.
Apparently, everyone in the country's been getting the same strange readings
as we are. The guy from Washington said something about 'viral residue',
whatever the hell that is. We're supposed to keep quiet about it
while the Centers for Disease Control look into it. I asked if anyone's
getting sick. Mr. Head Office said not, but that the CDC always looks
into things like this.
--
December 24, 2020. Christmas
Eve. Sylvia opened my present. She
loved it. She'd better. Cost me a fortune. Also - very
strange. Got a call from Richardson. He wants me in tomorrow.
I said it was Christmas and to shove it (not in so many words, of course),
but he said it would only take an hour and that it was mandatory.
What an asshole.
--
December 25, 2020. Things
are getting really scary. That 'virus residue' really was viral
residue. The viruses were similar to encephalitis, but don't seem
to have any effect on laboratory animals. Everyone in our office,
including me, is supposed to say nothing about this. There were even
some vague threats about the
FBI and the NSA doing bad things to us if we spill the beans -- National
Security, har har.
--
1 January 2021. [Clipping
from New York Times]. Alien Satellite? NASA officials today
denied reports that pieces of satellite debris found in California and
Maryland were of extraterrestrial origin. "Absolute nonsense," says
Dr. Miriam Fellows, NASA Deputy Director. "It is probably debris
from a French weather satellite whose orbit decayed last month..."
Dr. Philip Jems, an amateur metallurgist, had published an earlier report
claiming that the metal alloy in the debris was not of terrestrial origins.
Dr. Fellows was quoted as saying, "We are familiar with Dr. Jems' flights
of fancy, of which this is only the latest in a long line of equally outlandish
speculations."
--
That was the last circled entry
in the first journal. The next journal proved to be a box in the
shape of a book. It contained a variety of things:
--
May 9, 2021. Writing on
toilet paper is pretty hard. The pencil keeps poking holes in it.
They'd kill me if they knew what I was doing, but if I ever get out of
here, someone should know what's going on. We've been here for three
months now. I guess all hell is breaking loose out in the real world,
but they don't tell us anything. I did hear some stuff yesterday
- those containers that NASA found had traces of the famous Viral Residue.
They're still sticking to their French satellite story. They're
lying. Damn . . . I knew something like this was going on as soon
as I read that newspaper report.
--
October? November? Something,
2021. No food again today. I think everyone's dead. I
wish I could get the door open. I've got this horrible vision of
starving to death.
--
December 12, 2021. I got
into the safe. All the reports are there. NASA never did identify
that alloy. It *has* to be extraterrestrial. I guess it doesn't
matter anymore, though. Everyone's dead and I don't feel too good
myself. I'm going to try and get back to Anor . . . maybe Sylvia
and the others are still alive. Maybe monkeys'll fly out my butt
singing the Hallelujah Chorus. . .
--
The Doctor went on to the next journal,
this one much more recent
than the first two.
--
April 22, 2045. We got
into the astronomy archives today. It was a gold mine. The
Purifiers missed the observatory completely -- or maybe the assholes didn't
figure astronomy generated blasphemous information. We spent all
afternoon moving the disks and hard copy reports into the vault.
I took the telescopic readings from 2018-2020. At first glance it
appears there are definitely anomalies in the photographs - weird little
blips with movement too erratic to be anything but space vehicles.
Naturally, this interpretation is not shared by my illustrious cohorts.
I'll know more after I've had a chance to look at all the pictures.
--
30 November 2053. Finished
my astrophysics thesis yesterday. Next week I defend. After
that, the assholes won't be able to dismiss my findings on the grounds
that I'm not 'qualified' to make interpretations of the data. Cretins.
Most of the assholes are half my age -- it's just that I look younger than
them so they don't take me seriously. Well, some of them don't.
A few of the original group are smart enough to remember that I'm fifty-six.
Margery has taken to calling me the Old Man. It's a joke, I suppose,
a way of dealing with the fact that they're getting old and I'm not.
It's something I don't like to think about. Soon, I'll be the only
one left of the original group. The recruits coming up won't remember
what the world was like before the plague. Then who will I talk to?
--
February 3, 2075. I finally
got the data from Albuquerque and Puerto Rico. Same blips, same movement,
same time. More of the containers were recovered as well by the Outreach
team. Of course, they're pretty decomposed by now. I'm supposed
to get virology's report tomorrow, but I doubt there'll be anything left.
I wish the engineering people could figure out how to reconstruct those
old air quality meters. It would be interesting to see what's floating
around these days. Dale promised to put more people on it.
I guess there's something to be said for being a revered figurehead.
My most unreasonable demands are met. Anyway, if I can get hold of
the Hawaiian observatory stuff and the same stuff shows up, I think I can
present the report with every confidence that the half-wits running the
Consortium won't be able to shoot it down.
--
The Doctor looked up and across the chamber, wishing he could talk to this Masterson. The observatory bore every indication of being only temporarily deserted. Perhaps he would come walking through the door any minute.
But the only person to walk through the door was Palas. She carried a flashlight in one hand and a bottle in the other.
"There's a bunch of equipment downstairs," she announced. "I have no idea what it is. I also found a very large steel door with some impressive locking and bolting mechanisms. We could get in if I ripped it off the hinges, but you're not into the blunt approach."
"You remind me of an old friend of mine," the Doctor chuckled. "She didn't have much use for subtlety, either."
"Sounds like a woman after my own heart. Look what else I found."
The Doctor took the bottle and blew off the dust. "Hundred year old Scotch. Tsk, tsk."
"Yeah. Join me in a drink?"
"You can get drunk? Danner told me that blackstones can't."
"That may be true." She perched on the edge of the desk. "I can't speak for blackstones, but yes, I can tie one on with the best of them. Of course, I rather not do that tonight, but I don't a little drink or two would hurt. What do you say?"
"Like blackstones, Time Lords don't get drunk, at least not on that. What if the owner comes home?"
"I checked," she replied airily. "There's no one for miles - literally. So you're saying you won't have a drink with me?"
"No, but . . ."
"Good."
"Palas, it's bad enough that we're trespassing," he replied, eyeing the amber liquid with a certain wistfulness. That particular brand had a deliciously smoky taste.
"I've decided to meet you part way over the blackstone. He's safe -- conditionally -- until after you've had a chance to check your medical database. That's reason enough for a drink, isn't it?"
"What condition?"
"He stays nearby, just in case."
"Meaning?"
"Our recent encounter 'recharged' me, so to speak. Normally, I won't need another charge for about three months. That situation may change, however. In the meantime, I swear I won't lay a hand on him. It's not what you wanted, but it's the best I can do."
The Doctor considered. "I like my Scotch neat," he said.
The captain produced two slightly grubby cups. She poured them each a liberal helping. After several large swallows, a warm, mellow feeling stole over the Time Lord. Judging on previous regenerations, this was as far as he would get. Still, she did not know that. And if she got tipsy, he might be able to pry more information out of her. He leaned back in the chair and stuck his feet on the desk. Palas, who had apparently downed her entire cup, poured and polished off another.
"Tell me," he asked. "What were you before the plague?"
"A sixty-four year old obstetrician."
"Sixty-four?"
"Um-hmm. Makes me just shy of two hundred." She slid off the desk with less than her usual grace and walked over to their pile of gear. She returned a moment later with two bits of plastic. One was a very old driver's license. A kindly, grandmotherly face beamed out through the fogged laminate. The other bit was an AMA membership card.
"That's not you!"
"Oh, but it is. I always carry it with me - to remind me of who I am, 'cuz otherwise I'll forget. You Time Lords don't forget things, do you? Must be nice."
"Not necessarily. And anyway, depending on the regenerations, some things do get lost."
Palas splashed another healthy dollop of Scotch into her cup and, after peering suspiciously into his, refilled it as well.
"Like what?" she asked. "Sex?"
His cup wobbled, the precious elixir splashing over the rim. The warm feeling was increasing. He frowned at the cup. "No . . ."
"So you just haven't had any?"
"That's not true!" replied the Doctor with vast dignity. "I visited Avatax Prime once. Very educational."
"Oh, that's what that memory was. I got the impression you were just being polite."
She was back on the desk, but this time she sat close enough for their knees to touch. The Doctor took another deep and hasty gulp. It was a good thing his synapses were not being scrambled by the alcohol, because they were being scrambled by the breathtaking Captain McAllister.
"Perhaps," he admitted. "It was considered very rude not to make love to your host's mate."
"Hm." She thought about it. "So - if you aren't interested in sex, why do you want to have it with me?"
The whiskey went down the wrong way and he choked. She stood up long enough to give him several hard whacks on the back, before retaking her seat - even closer now. The Doctor dabbed at his streaming eyes.
"M...my dear Captain McAllister," he gasped. "I wish you would stop referring to pillaged information!"
"Oops. Sorry. More whiskey?"
"Are you trying to get me drunk, madam?"
"I am." she chortled, pretty far along that path herself. "You have the most adorable blush . . ."
Upon which, she reached over (the top three buttons of her shirt were unfastened!) and trailed slim fingers across his cheek, along his jaw. . .
He caught her hand, intending to set it firmly aside. Unaccountably, he kissed it instead.
"Doctor!" she twinkled. "So gallant!"
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her eyes were enormous, luminous in the dim light. Then she grinned, an impish expression that broke the spell.
"Doctor! You're having an amazing effect on me, did you know that?"
"Not I, Palas. It's the whiskey."
"Nonsense. Nothing to do with it!" She paused to wipe her mouth and check on the status of her drink. "Uh-oh, I'm out. You need some more?"
He barely managed to whisk his cup out of the way before she could refill it. Unfortunately, the act of whisking started his chair spinning wildly. She lunged to stop it and failed. Chair, Time Lord and mercenary toppled over in a bruising heap.
He found himself looking closely into her unusual eyes. Gold, they were, pure gold with flecks of brown and copper, the iris outlined in deepest maroon . . .
"I can't move," she said finally. "I think the chair is on top of me."
"I thought you were heavier than you looked," he agreed "Let's push."
This was easier said than done, requiring levels of cooperation and coordination which neither of them currently possessed. It took several tries and much giggling before the chair was finally tipped off.
The Doctor, only slightly tipsy, was aware of a rather profound revelation. It felt good to have Palas stretched out on top of him. He liked the way her hair smelled as it brushed across his face and tickled his nose. When she smiled, and he saw the tiniest shade of uncertainty in it, he was utterly lost. He reached up and, catching her face in his hands, brought her mouth down to meet his.
Kissing Grace had been nice. Kissing Palas was, well, even more dangerous than the whiskey.
"You know, Doctor," she whispered into his ear, sending pleasurable shivers through him, "there is a real bed over there."
"It's not ours."
"Neither was the whiskey."
"You're right."
She rolled off him and lay for a moment, staring up into the domed ceiling. He got to his feet with only a few false starts, and reached down to help her up. Palas took an unsteady step toward the bed and tripped. The Time Lord caught her, lost his own balance, and they danced crazily across the room. Alas, they landed on the floor again.
"Doctor?" She peered myopically at him. "Are we having another earthquake?"
Chuckling, he stood up and with some effort, got her from the floor to the bed. The initial flush of the alcohol was already subsiding -- to his vast relief. The Captain, however, was pretty far along. She beamed up at him happily. With luck, he thought, she would fall asleep. Then he could concentrate on exploring the rest of the observatory.
"Hmmm. Y'know, Doc. You're pretty cute."
"You're fairly attractive yourself," he said under his breath, pulling a blanket over her. "Go to sleep, Captain. I've got work to do."
INTERLUDE
The rain stopped, but the night did not cool. The air lay heavy and dead. A fetid mist oozed out of the Slough, crawling through Old Town's wet streets to curl against the City Center wall. Sensible citizens remained in their homes.
Six horsemen rode out of the fog to challenge the senitals at the Center gate. They were cloaked and hooded in spite of the oppressive warmth, and the guard was not disposed to be trusting. Swaggering, belligerent, he approached the riders' leader. That man turned his face toward the torchlight. Gasping, the guard stepped back and saluted smartly. He shouted to the man at the winch, and the urgency in his voice soon had the gate open.
The horsemen rode, unhurried, into a much different world. Here, there were wide boulevards, tree-lined and lit by gaslight. Elegant homes were set back behind lush gardens, windows thrown wide to catch the fitful breeze. The scent of late roses permeated the dense night.
The men rode onward, up one street and down another until, at last, they came to an especially imposing mansion. A high wall of stone surrounded the park that surrounded the manse. It was guarded, but as before, the horsemen's leader was recognized and promptly admitted. Not until the strangers came to the front door did their appearance cause confusion.
The elderly butler stared at the men grouped on the doorstep. He went pale at the sight of their leader. Nonetheless, he made haste to conduct them to the antechamber outside his master's study. A tentative knock and a whispered word through the door brought an instant response.
The horsemen's leader strode through the carved double doors and closed them firmly at his back. The Cardinal looked across his fine carpet at the tall, stooped figure. As he he approached the desk, the stranger pushed back his hood. A slow smile crept across the cleric's emaciated features. The face that looked down at him, a face identical to his own, mirrored the smile.
"Lord Lermor," the twin said.
"Callifer," replied the Cardinal. "Pray, be seated. Tell me why you have risked so so much to come here."
In answer, Lord Callifer, Prophet and Commander of the Scourge of God, reached into the folds of his damp cloak and removed something. He tossed it upon the desk before the Cardinal.
It was a cross, rough-cast and covered with dried blood -- and glowing a fierce, bright blue. The Cardinal picked it up with a shaking hand and examined it. Turning it this way and that, the blue light reflected across his face and fingers.
"Where did this come from?"
"Not more than fifteen miles from here. I took this off the body of my dead lieutenant."
"What happened?"
"The babbling fools who survived the attack described only witchcraft. Its perpetrator was never seen. Can there be any doubt what this signifies?"
The Cardinal said nothing for a moment, handling the shining thing reverently.
"There is every doubt. But even if the sensor lies, we have enjoyed a level of success that I never hoped to achieve."
"The harvest has been extraordinary," agreed the Prophet. "The lesser danae alone are stronger than any of our previous, much inferior stock. Almost Devian quality one might say, and well worth exile on this wretched rock."
"Nothing is worth that," growled the Cardinal. "And we have yet to lay our hands the one whose power generated this . . ."
He threw the cross back at the Prophet. "Bring this game to an end, Callifer. Your nets and mine are full, Prime or no. It is past time to move on. My most recent reports confirm what we both know. To linger is to invite catastrophe."
"With a Prime," the Prophet returned, "we will gain back everything we lost. In nearly a millenia the Dev have not produced one. There will be no defense against us."
"So you say. Find and test the creature, but quickly. If the human is what this sensor claims, our exile is all but over."
"Oh, no, my lord Cardinal. It is much more than that," replied the Prophet. "With a Prime, the Empire will once again be ours. And that, my lord, is worth this exile!"