DOPPELGANGER

by

Doug Dandridge

Copyright 2012 by Doug Dandridge

Chapter One

War.  I have seen war on two worlds, in many manifestations.  Wars of Conquest.  Wars of Liberation.  Wars of Punishment.  Wars of Extermination.  I have fought in many of these wars, fought for causes good and evil.  I have led good men to their end.  And in that time I have learned one thing.  All war is evil, as it leads to the wholesale death of those who only wish peace.  When will I lead the crusade against the Gods of Death?  I say that it serves the Gods of Death to war on them, for Death is always the final victor in war.

Speech by the Emperor Kurt von Mannerheim before the Imperial Parliament.

Yanonia, the 22nd of Oceanus, the Year 2123 After Arrival.

Struggling with every thought to stop her forward motion, the beautiful elfin woman shuffled toward the lift.  Hands helped her along, though the possessing spirit that now inhabited her body did not need the assistance.  It controlled her as a puppet master does its charge, only her iron will adding some resistance to her legs.  But not enough, she screamed silently in the corner of her mind that had been left to her.

A bullet whined off the stonework of the hall, as the muted phut of a steam pistol sounded behind her, returning fire.

“Stop shooting,” cried a voice she recognized as one of her security detail.  “You’ll hit the Empress.”

Gwenara Elysium von Mannerheim, Empress of the Empire of Free Nations, now felt doubly violated.  Violated that in her person she was providing a shield to this lawless gang, her own subjects afraid to use the force needed to stop them.  And more violated than she had thought possible, the riding beast of another will.  A will that possessed her body and soul, permeating every inch of her, sharing her hopes and dreams and memories.

The lift tubes opened ahead, their translucent surfaces shimmering with magical energy, the oval of their doorways providing a view into the long drop.  One of the terrorists stepped into the first tube, mumbled some words, and shot upward in the lift field.  Another, then another followed.  A fourth entered a nearby tube and fell downwards.

Then it was her turn, as a captor pushed through the narrow opening of the downshaft with her.  The tube opened into a rounded shaft that could hold a dozen people.  Even though her possessor would not let her move her eyes enough to see the long shaft below her, she knew it fell almost two thousand feet straight down.

“Basement” muttered the elf that held her captive.  The field released beneath them and they fell at half the acceleration of the planet’s gravity.  A little over two minutes to the bottom.  The sounds of fighting rose above them, the other terrorists bying time to prevent pursuit.

“How is she?” asked the elfin leader.

“She is fine,” answered the guttural voice from Gwenara’s lips.  “No damage to mind or body.”

“Good,” replied the terrorist.  “We need her whole and sane.”

“Then I must be out of her in ten minutes,” she heard herself reply again.

“Plenty of time,” said the elf.  “Plenty of time.”

Plenty of time for what, she thought, even as she withdrew her mind back into the protected corner that even the possessor could not access, behind the powerful psionic shield she had erected.  Shouts still echoed down the tube, her men fighting toward the lift.  Many of her men had already died, among them her favorites.  Was there anything I could have done to prevent what happened?  The events before her capture played themselves out in her eidetic memory, her guilt ridden mind searching for any way that she might have influenced past events.

*    *    *

The lift tube slowed her ascent as she approached the observation deck of the newest of the Elfin Towers.  Her upward motion stopped as the gentle force of the tube pushed her out onto the floor of the deck.  Catching her breath at the beauty of the expanse of glass and steel to her front, she walked forward flanked by the plainclothes guards of the Imperial Secret Service.  Her sitters, as she thought of them.

A trio of the uniformed Imperial Guards waited to her front, along with a pair of her accompanying mages, the Imperial Battlemage Kellium Zoriski alongside of the younger communications mage.  The elfin Empress’ sharp ears picked up the sounds of the rest of her detachment stepping out of the numerous tubes.  They fanned out through the floor, reinforcing those who had already secured any entrance to the deck.

The dwarven warpriest, Korgan Grimmbarg, ran up as fast as his short legs would carry him, bowed to the Empress, and reported to the head of the security detail.

“Nothing is amiss, my lord,” said the dwarf to the dark elf.

“Very good,” said Major Thallius.

Not that anything is likely to happen here in the heart of Ataponia, thought the Empress, walking toward the shimmering glass wall that let out onto the city, barely noticing the beautiful foliage that the elfin builders had placed in profusion.

I have seen this many times before, she thought as she looked out at the city below.  But the sight of Ataponia, the greatest city of the Empire and the home of over seven million citizens, always brought a rush of excitement.  Greenery there was in abundance, as the other races emulated the environmental concerns of the elves who had originally founded this city.  Wide avenues traversed by throngs of people, afoot and in carriages.  Parks set among the high buildings and apartments, a place for people to gather and play.

A huge airship to her left caught her gaze, drifting lazily across the sky, smoke rising from its stacks.  Smaller airships also crowded over the city, personal craft, taxis and search/rescue vessels.  A dragon squadron, silvers, lazily flew a wedge formation at altitude.

Next her eyes wandered to the Seine, crowded with river craft of all types, while people the size of mites crossed the many bridges, and a long train passed over the river from the dockyards.  The enormous skyscrapers of the downtown district were only overshadowed by the backdrop of the mountains under which the underground dwellers built their neighborhoods.  Sunlight reflected from various points of those mountains, the solar storage facilities providing much of the magical power of the city.

Moving her field of vision, she smiled as she looked over the center of the city, at the Imperial Arch of Victory, the many Cabinet buildings, and the huge palace complex beyond.  The glow to her right caught her attention, and she swung her gaze toward the Cathedral Complex of the Life Gods.  The glow of power shone bright on the central spire of the Basilica of Arathonia, while the domes of the eleven lesser cathedrals glowed with a pure white light of their own.  The power of the Gods harnessed for the people’s use.

“Breathtaking, is it not, your Highness?” said the architect, another high elf, who had moved silently beside her.

“The view is fine,” she said in her contralto voice, brushing her long golden hair behind her ears and turning her solid blue eyes towards the man, “as is the building providing the view.”

Gwenara leaned out and looked down at the last statement, admiring the garden like square from which the building rose. Like all the elfin towers of the Point Neighborhood, this building held many levels of greenery.  Only a nation that allowed the talents of its many people to mingle could accomplish such a feat of engineering and architecture.  Only the combination of elfin architecture, dwarven materials science and human engineering would make such a tower possible.

Feeling the presence of another to her left, she turned to find Matthew, the youngest of her uniformed bodyguards, standing beside her, trying to keep his attention on the crowd behind her instead of the gorgeous vista ahead.  The boy was her favorite among the guards, so curious and inquisitive, not appearing experienced enough to walk with the elite of the Empire.  Until one looked at the Golden Wolf adorning his helmet, the sign of a warrior of extreme bravery.

“Beautiful, is it not, Matthew?” she asked the youngster.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, looking directly into her solid blue eyes with a smile on his face.

Gwenara wondered whether the boy was remarking on the scenery or on her.  High Elven, or Ellala, culture allowed the taking of lovers, even when married, and she was curious to experience such a young human.  But her husband, though an Immortal, had still been raised to believe that monogamy was the true way of marriage, and she loved and respected him enough to respect his viewpoint.

“The people are waiting, your Highness,” said the voice of Major Thallius.

For yet another of these interminable speeches, she thought.  But an Empress had political duties to fulfill, no matter how they bored her.  She turned and waved at the now crowded observation deck, throngs of people of all races here to cover the dedication of the newest of Ataponia’s skyscrapers.

Then it hit her, a feeling growing in the back of her mind, like that she felt when a dream of import tugged at her during the night.  Something was wrong here.  Her eyes scanned the crowd, locking for a moment on the eyes of a tall elf near the rear.  Dark eyes stared back, pupils opened to maximum, even in the brightly lit observation deck.  Light red hair.  Strawberry blond her husband’s people called it.  Rare in the Empire, though not unheard of.

But very common in Tarakesh.  There was a feeling emanating from him as well.  Something was wrong, and that man had something to do with it.  Her guard seemed unaware of anything amiss, her psionic and her warpriest looking calm and relaxed as they scanned the crowd.

“Major Thallius,” she said, reaching to touch his shoulder. The strange elf’s eyes widened in alarm as he hurriedly pulled a red handkerchief and blew his nose.  Then all hell broke loose, and she realized that she had set off the trap by her very actions.  Hidden weapons were drawn by many in the crowd.  It seemed to happen in slow motion, as if she were trapped in a spell, and everyone else did not realize what was going on.

Gwenara saw the squat curved shape of a steam pistol rising up in her direction, held in the hands of the elf with the strawberry blond hair.  An assassination was her first thought, as she began to call the words of protection to her lips.  The gun spurted a cloud of steam.  People in the crowd screamed in panic and looked for somewhere to run.  The pellet whizzed by, shattering the glass of the observation wall, ripping a large hole in it.  The winds rose through the opening, snatching at her clothing and threatening to pull her out into the abyss of the sky.

“My Lady,” screamed Matthew, reaching to interpose his shield between her and her assassin.

A fireball burst, striking a quartet of Secret Service Agents, turning men into screaming torches who ran this way and that.  The warpriest tried to extinguish the flames, before a bolt of crackling electricity ended his efforts with a stench of burning flesh.  Another bolt of destruction hit, and more steam pistols spoke.  Then, as the Archmage Kellium Zoriski waved his hands, threatening all enemies with mighty magic, a field of magic negation sprung into being, making even the mighty archmage’s powers of assault useless.

Gwenara felt her own magical energies drain away as if a plug had been pulled.  A negator, was her thought, one of those rare humans who could short circuit all magic within range of their abilities.  The magic would not work until he allowed it to work.  Her eyes searched through the crowd, trying to locate the man, before her mind was occupied by other matters.

The high elf she had first noticed fired his second shot, the pellet striking Matthew in the side of his helmet and knocking him off of his feet.  The helmet resisted the penetration of the shot as well made armor should, its inner padding absorbing the shock as the tough alloy sprung back.  But the impact unbalanced him, and the young man slid on broken glass through the opening to outside, his hands grasping for any purchase before he fell from the manmade cliff.

Gwenara reacted immediately, diving for the floor as her hands reached and grasped her guard’s wrists, feeling herself being pulled from the room as well as she tried to dig the toes of her high boots into the polished surface.  Wide eyes stared into hers, as the youth fought down his terrible fear with thoughts of duty.

“Let go, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth, “lest you follow me to doom.”

“I won’t let go,’ she replied in strained voice.  “I won’t let go.”

“Let me help, your Majesty,” said the voice of the architect, kneeling down beside her.

His hands touched her, and her muscles spasmed with the shock of some unholy presence entering through the physical contact.  She fought with every ounce of her considerable willpower, but the distraction of holding the boy from death was just enough to allow her to fail.  The spirit slipped in, more vile than the vilest of physical rapists, and her mind was thrust into the role of observer, as the lifeless body of the architect dropped to the floor and through the hole in the windows, almost knocking Matthew from her grasp.  Then control began to leave body.  The Empress tried to recover as she saw her hands begin to open, but nothing she knew could stop her from releasing her grip on the young guardsman.

Matthew fell out into space on the beginning of his two thousand foot drop, his eyes smiling at the thought that he would not be the cause of his Empress’s death.  He fell silently and with great courage, while Gwenara mentally cursed her lack of will for allowing the possessing spirit to let the boy die.

Then her limbs began to move with a will of their own, pulling her away from the opening and to her feet.  Most of her guards, both Imperial Army and Secret Service, were down, as well as a number of armed men who could only be the terrorists.  Some of the attackers still held steam pistols, though most had dropped those one shot weapons and now held short swords in their hands, the ultra-sharp blades glowing with high enchantment.  No bows were in evidence.  The attackers must not have been able to smuggle their long forms to the deck, she thought.  And how did they ever get the weapons they did bring through the tight security?

A soldier still fought on here and there, with superior armor and swordsmanship, outnumbered by the conspirators.  Innocents lay in crumpled positions, while others ran or crawled toward any exit, and still others grabbed whatever was near at hand to fight beside their Empress’ men.

She tried to shout a warning, with no result, as her hand drew the ceremonial dagger she carried at her belt.  She knew the power of this fine blade, enchanted by the Gods themselves.  Please, she screamed in her mind, as she walked with knife in hand toward one of her surviving guards, a sergeant who was more than holding his own against the attackers.  The guardsman swung his sword, beating down the guard of one of the elfin assailants, taking advantage of the opening to rip his blade across the elf’s face.  Blood spurted and the terrorist fell back.

Then the Empress was behind the guard, her blade thrusting easily through the fine quality enchanted armor as only an artifact such as it could.  The man twisted around as the blade was pulled from her hand, ready to strike until his wide eyes beheld who stood behind him.

“Your Majesty”, stammered the man, “what…”

A mace struck the man’s helmet hard, the concussion knocking him to his knees, as another elf danced to his front and throat thrust him with a slim sword.

“Good work,” said the elf, the same who had caught her attention before the attack.  “Now get moving to the drop.  We don’t have much time.”

“She has a powerful will,” said her voice, as her legs were again forced forward.

The drop shaft grew nearer, no matter her efforts, while the attackers fell in around her.  Some dragged bodies, the remains of comrades they couldn’t risk to leave behind.  One of these dropped as a bullet struck his shoulder, the man falling with the corpse on top.  Hands reached out to help him up, the body abandoned so that the living might be rescued.

*     *     *

If only I could have warned my men sooner.  Even as she thought it she knew it was wrong.  There had not been time to warn anyone.  Still the guilt at their deaths washed over her.  If not for her, even her very presence among them, they would still be alive.

Their falling slowed as they approached the bottom of the lift.  Stopping inches above the glowing pad, the elves, Empress and captors, were gently pushed out into the lighted tunnel that led to the subway.  The rumbling of a train as it ran on its overhead track punctuated their closeness to the nearest station.

Surely they don’t think to take me out through the subway.  But the men led her away from that hope, taking her into a side tunnel that was dark as pitch, even to the eyes of an elf.  What can they want, my own people.  She was the sister of the King of Elysium, the mightiest high elfin Kingdom of the Empire.  She knew her people, or thought she did, and there was almost universal love of the Emperor Kurt and the policies that had unified the Empire.

The accent of the high elf that seemed to lead was different than any she had ever heard.  So he was not from Elysium or Ataponia, or even the dual kingdom of Polski-Elfini, the Two Cities.  There were hundreds of other places where high elves lived, in every Kingdom of the Empire, and it was thought that some elves wanted a return to the times when they enjoyed the highest level of civilization on the planet.  The Freedom Brotherhood?  The thought terrified her.  Could these be fanatics of that stripe, come again to menace the hard won order of the Empire.

An uproar of sound came from behind them, the security forces clashing with the rear guard of the terrorists.

“It is time, brother,” said the leader to another of the elves.  This man looked like he was trembling from some sickness or other, and Gwenara could feel a wrongness emanating from him that overpowered even that which controlled her.

“I am ready,” said the man through clenched teeth.  He turned and walked away from the group, back up the tunnel.

“I know you are hoping that the pursuit might catch up with us, my Empress”, said the leader.  “Tesla will make sure that such does not occur.”

Shouts erupted behind them, turning to screams of dismay and agony.  Then they were again moving down the tunnel, deep into the earth beneath the city.

The tunnel ended in a large chamber of fine dwarven stonework, and a stone slab slid into place behind them, effectively making this room cease to exist.  Her captor moved toward a small subway car that hung from the ceiling of the room, pointing into a tunnel that led off into darkness.  Only high officials had their own private cars, and she had heard of no new construction beneath the Point.  The car had no recognizable markings that her eyes could discern.  Then they were in the car, the doors closing as the men steadied her against the sudden acceleration, the small train moving along the glowing rail on the roof of the tunnel.  The screams and shouts faded into nothingness as the train picked up speed.

*     *     *

Men fought and died in the subway station underneath the great building.  Guardsmen and police fought in close quarters with swords and maces.  Steam pistols phutted their songs of death, then were dropped as no time was given for the laborious process of reloading.  The Imperial forces were beginning to gain to upper hand, given their superior armor, weapons, training and numbers, as well as their desperation to get through this screening force and get to the side of the Empress who had been ripped from them.

At first all ignored the lone elf that stumbled from a side tunnel and into the fray.  He visibly trembled with some internal struggle.  His eyes were fixed ahead.  Those who were his friends knew who he was and what he was about.  Those who were his enemies thought him an innocent bystander.  Until he blew apart in a spray of blood and flesh, and the demon he had been carrying burst forth into the world.

“Look out,” yelled a soldier who made to shy away from the great horned form while trying to use his sword for a block of the huge taloned hand that flew toward him.  Unsuccessful in both respects, the soldier died on his feet, head ripped from his body.

Newly arrived soldiers and Imperial Secret Service Agents came down the stairs in time to see the first killing.  Pellets from steam rifles plowed into the huge red body of the demon, rocking it with their multiple impacts.  A bolt of fire struck it in the chest, absorbed into its body like water into a sponge.  Secret Service warpriests threw spells as well, to no avail.

The demon wreaked a terrible slaughter on soldiers and cops, leaving a trail of bodies as it took their life force and added to its power.  Brave men broke and ran, to be caught from behind and torn asunder.  Those very courageous strode in to strike the creature with their weapons, causing visible damage that didn’t seem to bother the monster in the least.

“Make way for the SWAAM Team” yelled an authoritative voice as a handful of armored figures came down the stairs, followed by priests and mages in fancy robes.  Special Weapons, Armor and Magic, the elite of the Imperial City Police, this kind of creature fell into their purview.

A warrior in glowing armor ran forward, his two-handed sword swinging toward the creature.  The demon raised an arm to block the blow, then roared in agony as the blade sliced through its flesh and bone, the scaly forearm falling to the floor.  Bolts of power struck the head and chest of the monster, vaporizing large swathes of flesh and muscle.  And then the demon was down, breath rattling hollowly through its dying lungs.  It shuddered and lay still, before quickly dissolving into the floor of the subway chamber, leaving behind only its awful residue to show that it had ever existed, and the bodies of its victims.

*     *     *

The Empress was led from the underground and into the light of the surface, her face and body covered under the robes of a pilgrim priestess of Arathonia.  Not the Main Station, she thought, trying to figure what was going on through the disorientation of the possession.  Probably one of the smaller satellite stations, maybe the southernmost.

“Quick, let’s get her in here,” said the leader.,  Hands helped her up the steps into a train car.  Obviously it must be a private car, she thought, if not a private train.  They couldn’t be foolish enough to take her on a public transport.  Why not an airship?

“It’s time,” said the leader to her.  “Get out of her now.  She can’t take your presence anymore.”

For the first time she noticed the still body that lay on one of the beds in the car.  Then thought left her as she felt the spirit fly from her body, as the possessor moved on before he became a permanent resident of a lifeless body.  And consciousness left her at that point, as an irresistible wave of fatigue broke over her and she slid into the arms of her nearest captors, to be lowered gently into one of the car’s empty beds.

*     *     *

The tall man sat in the heavy stone throne, arms laid on top of armrests carved in the appearance of dragons.  A black robe was draped over his deceptively thin body, twin lightning bolts upon his collars.  A heavy crown of gold and precious stones sat on his broad brow, straight black hair fell about his shoulders.  A huge swastika, one of many to adorn the huge chamber, formed the centerpiece of the wall to his back.  Paintings of men long dead, considered the greatest of evil in their own time and space, were arrayed along the walls of the chamber.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” came a voice from the darkness, followed by the patter of quick steps upon the stone floor as the agent walked across the long chamber.  The man looked nervously at the guards flanking the chamber, their eyes glowing from the darkness.  Vampires, in most cases, a liche warrior or two.  Dangerous enemies, but nowhere near as dangerous as he who sat the Dragon Throne.

The man looked up from his brooding to fix the approaching agent with snake green eyes set under bushy eyebrows.  His fair skin flushed slightly with excitement that was quickly quelled by his iron discipline.  One hand played with his moustache as he studied the man.

“It is done, your majesty,” said the man, stopping a dozen paces from the throne and bowing his head in subservience.

“Good,” said the Immortal Tarakeshian Emperor Heinrich Stuppleheim in perfect High German, his voice as deep as the crypt. “And nothing to tie us to the, act?”

“No, my lord,” replied the agent, “nothing at all.  As far as the IFN is concern it is the desperate act of terrorists trying to capture the attention of the people.”

“And the Emperor?” asked Heinrich, his eyes straying to the picture of his worshipped lord.

“We have heard nothing as of yet,” answered the man cautiously.  “He still meets with the Jews in their fortress kingdom.”

“Soon he will be ours,” said Heinrich, still gazing at the picture of the man with the small moustache, a picture familiar to anyone from old earth.  “Do you hear, mine Fuhrer,” he said with rising voice.  “Soon he will be ours, and with him this world.”

Chapter Two

Hell no we didn’t know what was happening.  Almost everyone had the same experience.  The bright flare of a nuke going off, the feel of incredible heat, then disorientation and the awareness of coming apart.  There we stood, in our multitudes, in the unspoiled forest of a new world.  Some of us in vehicles that worked for a while.  We knew it was a new world.  It looked much the same as Earth, but the feel was different.  Little did we know at the time that we were not just in another world, but another Universe.  Some of the laws of Physics had changed.  Some of us had been carrying firearms.  Firearms which after time did not work, at least not with any measure of effectiveness.  Same with the tanks and helicopters.  It was shortly after when we met with some of the inhabitants of this world, and learned that magic was real.

Chronicles of the Arrival.

The sun shone down bright on the rows of armored men, casting dark shadows with the harsh light of the F5 star.  Men and women, both armored and robed, stood on the reviewing stand, watching the troops as they passed in the time honored military review.  The Star of David, the same as graced the flag flying over the barracks on the far side of the field, marked the shoulders and sleeves of most of the viewers.  The remainder sported the grinning wolf of the IFN, the staunch allies of the Kingdom of Judeah.

The big man dominated the front center of the reviewing stand, the gold and jet embossed armor of an Imperial Grand Marshal upon his muscular frame.  Shoulder length brown hair flowed from under the wolf helmet that adorned his large head.  Ancient eyes of ice blue squinted at the bright field from a youthful face framed in a moustache and full beard.

His armor was of the latest design, articulated in all the proper places to ensure freedom of movement.  Straps held it snuggly, and the built in pads allowed his skin to breath while cushioning it from the hard alloy.

Heavy Infantry passed to the front of the stand, faceplates up, ceremonial breastplates shining in the sun, pikes shouldered over heavy pauldrons.  Boots stamped in unison on the ground as officers saluted the luminaries with drawn hand and a half swords.  Behind followed a company of lightly armored archers, compound power bows gripped in bronzed hands, sheaths of arrows over their shoulders.

“What think you of your allies, my lord?” said the short man to his right wearing a gold embossed robe of state.  His German was good, if slightly accented.

“An impressive sight, Prime Minister,” said the Immortal Emperor Kurt von Mannerheim in unaccented Hebrew.  “And guaranteed to be one hundred percent magic proof, I would guess.”

“All except for the mercenary battlemages and warpriests,” answered Prime Minister Menachim Heiman.  “Our regulars are all orthodox.  We demand true devotion to God from our professionals.  But…”

“In modern warfare you need magic,” agreed Kurt, “even if to only take advantage of the intelligence it offers to your forces.”

“I’m sure God forgives us for dealing with the pagans,” laughed the Prime Minister.

A wise and practical man, thought the Emperor, who had seen his share of fools in power in two thousand years of life.  But the Hebrew people had always been known for their practicality.  This Prime Minister might not look as impressive as his King.  But David XX, sitting in the Capital of Nazareth, was a figurehead at best.  The real brains of the government sat in this diminutive man to his right.

A formation of cavalry passed to the front of the stand, their plate armor the light variety worn by scouts, no different in look than the armor of medium or heavy cavalry, but of lesser thickness and back padding.  No ceremonial unit this, theirs and their horses’ equipment colored to blend in with the grassy steppes below.  Lances were gripped in the hands of most, bows in saddle sheathes of a quarter of the troopers, steam pistols and carbines in holsters of a select few.

“These are troopers of our First Cavalry Division,” said a squat man in armor to Kurt’s left.

“Fine troops, field marshal,” said Kurt, his eyes wandering to the low wall separating Fort Masada from the four thousand foot cliffs that fell to the plains below.  Those very plains, the southernmost extremity of the wilderness of the Great Steppes, appeared a cloudy blur on this humid day.

What a people, he thought, and what a land they possess.  The Promised Land Plateau, over 130,000 square miles of fertile, well watered land raised at least thirty-five hundred feet above the surrounding territory.  The perfect defensive position, proof against assault, proof against siege, only vulnerable from the air, and who could field enough of an airborne force to threaten a nation of twenty-two million people by itself.  And still they fielded mobile forces to help their neighbors and allies.

“We would like to thank you again, my lord,” said the Prime Minister, “for your signing of the naval assistance pact.”

That had been a close one, he thought, smiling at the minister and nodding his head.  Many members of parliament had not liked the idea of building two of the most powerful warships on the planet for sale to a foreign power, even such a staunch ally.  But Kurt would not be thwarted in his desire to strengthen such a vital friend on the strategic Sleeping Sea.  And so the two battleships, 20,000 tons of wood and steel, were to be delivered to Judeah upon completion.

“My pleasure, minister,” he said, beaming with pleasure.  “The IFN will always stand by its friends while I rule.  We have great plans for…”

The blast of psionic energy cut him short as it hit his verbal communication centers like a mace.  Only a neowolf collective could muster that kind of power, and the only nearby collective was the one he kept aboard the Imperium.  Which meant a message of the gravest priority.  His mindshield came down as he opened to the communication.

[Your Majesty], came the powerful transmission that he recognized immediately as his second in command and great friend, Ismael Levine.  [I have the gravest of news].

[Out with it, man].

[The Empress has been abducted, my lord].

[How in the hell did that happen], transmitted Kurt, his mind flipping quickly through the emotions of anger, fear, helplessness.

Those in the reviewing stand stared at the face of the Immortal Emperor as the color left his already fair face and the muscles of his bull neck clenched.

[They were very well prepared, my friend], came the verbal part of the communication, feelings of regret and sorrow coming in over the emotional band.  [And we were not].

“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” said Kurt gravely.  “Field marshal, gentlemen.  An emergency has come up at home which warrants my attention.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Heiman, his face a terrain of concern.  “If there is anything we can do.  Our intelligence service is at your beck and call”

“Thank you, my lord minister.  I will keep that in mind.  Now I must meet with my staff and find out what has happened.  I will inform you of what is going on as soon as I know all the particulars myself, and our response to the situation.”

Kurt walked quickly from the reviewing stand, eyes following him across the field as his staff and guards fell in and tried to keep up.

[Now fill me in, Ismael], he sent, trying to calm himself so he would be of use to his wife.  [What exactly happened?]

*     *     *

The Grand Marshall Paul Mason-Smythe tended to dominate most gatherings he attended, the current being no exception.

“In here, my Lord Immortal Prince,” called the voice of his staff sergeant major.  “The wolves have tracked their path.”

Paul stooped his six foot seven inch height to pass the doorway, moving lithe as a cat despite the weight of armor he carried.  Ice blue eyes covered the small room, his broad, clean-shaven face intent on the hunt.  His gaze discovered the secret door before it could be pointed out to him.

“It is jammed shut, my lord,” said the sergeant major, a mountain dwarf, grizzled veteran of dozens of campaigns.  “And I fear the wolves do not like what they sense on the other side.”

Mason-Smythe looked at the trio of large canines.  Their eyes were riveted to the door, nostrils distended, ears alert.  He knew they were the only wolves in this section of the underground, Ataponian Police Corps officers, but they drew on the strength of the entire collective.

[Demons, my brothers?], sent Paul to the collective through them, his own sensitive nose picking up the scent.

[Yes, brother], they beamed back with awesome power.  [We feared for our lives and the lives of our two legged brothers before you came].

[Now I am here], he returned, excitement going out over the emotional band.  [Let us do battle with this spawn].

“Sergeant major,” he bellowed in his rumbling voice.  “Let me have that crowbar, if you please.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the dwarf, offering the giant his tool.  “Stand ready men,” he called to the other elite troopers standing within and without the room.

Paul adjusted his helmet with one hand as he surmised the slender crack in the door.  Placing the broad tip of the heavy mithril tool into the opening, he braced his feet on the rough floor and gripped the bar.  Muscles tensing, he applied all the pressure of his great strength to the task, grunting from the effort.  The door refused to budge an inch, pull as he might, sweat beading from his forehead.

Paul Mason-Smythe had lived for thousands of years by one credo, live for today.  Not for him to worry about temporary neurological damage, the fading of non-redundant memories. Not when adventure awaited.  He willed his adrenals into high gear, metabolism increased to maximum output.  The power swelled in his arms, twice, three times, quadruple his normal muscular strength.  The bar bent slightly in his hands as his grip tightened on the metal.  Stone ground, metal squealed. Something broke.  The Immortal almost lost his footing for a second as the resistance was withdrawn.  The door swung open and the lesser demons roared as they moved swiftly to the assault.

He felt the rush of speeded metabolism flow through his body as he dropped the crowbar and reached for his shoulder and a more practical tool for the situation.  Two-handed sword came from its sheath with a swish of leather.  The demons, a dozen strong, seemed to the Grand Marshal to be moving in slow motion, though he knew they were a blur to the troops who cursed and readied themselves behind him.  Long bony bodies, spikes at knees and elbows, awful talons on end of hands, they were death personified.

But he who swung the huge sword in a one handed grip had been dealing death a long time.  His first swing, a sideways cut, sheared through the first demon at the waist, enchanted blade glowing with power.  The back swing followed too rapid for the eye to follow, and another demon fell lifeless to the floor.  A third demon was on his free arm before he could recover, talons ripping into his tender flesh to open the bone.  The demon howled as it pulled at his arm, whether in triumph at making the strike, or frustration at not being able to wrench the limb from the giant’s body was not known.  But the warrior tightened his muscles and pulled the demon into him as if it were a child.  Pommel of sword struck horned head, and supernatural skull shattered under leathery skin.

The bleeding stopped almost immediately as heightened healing powers took hold.  The man gave the pain of ripped and healing flesh no mind, his sword looping in a figure eight that cut through two of the demons in an instant.

Screams of agony and cries of triumph echoed through the chamber as the battle was joined.  Here a man fell with arm ripped from body; there a demon sank to the floor with a spearhead through its chest.  A volley of arrows, launched by elves that loosed, drew and loosed in an instant, took down two demons, the strength of their power bows pushing the razor heads easily through the tough skin.

One of the red skinned monsters moved towards the trio of neowolves.  The wolves glared at the creature with intelligent eyes set in broad foreheads.  Their blast of psionic power, the combined strength of the hundred wolf collective, atomized the small brain of the demon, its body somersaulting backwards from the force of the mental storm.

And then it was over, the demons all down, having given their all for the cause of one not of their kind.  Men moaned as their comrades helped them as much as they could.

“Sergeant major,” yelled Paul, looking around at the carnage, “what are our casualties?”  Sweat poured from his face as his body temperature tried to fall from its height.  The elf-spun under garment allowed the heat to flow, and the attached padding of his armor breathed as well.  Not like the old days, he thought, when heavy armor stifled a man and rubbed his skin raw.  This modern stuff fits the body more like the sports pads worn by athletes.

“Three dead, my lord,” said the dwarf, his short legs carrying him to the officer.  His helmet was dented, and the blade of his ax dripped a dark form of blood.  “Two wounded, one seriously.”

Paul glanced at the one trooper still sitting on the floor; a couple of healers gathered to staunch bleeding and ease pain with mumbled words.  The man’s face relaxed as the agony left his system.  He stared at his right arm, which lay on the floor near a dead demon.

“Frick, eh,” said Paul, remembering one of his newest staff troopers, a good man.  “He’ll be out of action for at least a month.”

“At least, my lord,” agreed the dwarf, himself the recipient of a limb regrow.  “But he is strong, and the mage surgeons shouldn’t have any problem making him good as new, with time.”

“Organize the underground search,” said Paul, his eyes of ice scanning the dark tunnel ahead, lighting on the glowing overhead rail of a private subway.  “And find out who built this damned thing.  I pretty much can figure where it went.  I’m for the top of the building, to see if they have identified our friends yet.”

Paul walked from the chamber, resheathing his blade.  His forearm was well into the healing process, his new skin beginning to tighten.  Men, Imperial Troopers and Ataponian Police, swarmed the subway station beyond, organizing into parties to sweep below the city.  A couple of dozen neowolves joined the cluster of humanity, pairing off without command to form teams with the groups of hominids.

[All under control here], he sent to the agent in charge of the Secret Service men working the great skyscraper.  [I’ll be up in a minute.]

He felt the cool take control of his body.  Damped down before any permanent damage he thought.  He tried to remember one of the loves he had thought about this morning, drawing a blank as to her face.  Another memory lost in the heat of battle.  He would have to find another woman this night, and make another memory.

*     *     *

Kurt took the steps two at a time, bounding onto the floor of the conference room in a blur of motion, leaving his escort many floors below.  Startled guards barely had time to react before he was in the room.

“All rise for his Imperial Majesty, Kurt von Mannerheim,” yelled the sergeant of marines in charge of the honor guard.  “Kurt the First, Emperor of the Imperium of Free Nations.”

Kurt tried to calm his heart for a second.  Going hyper let him move with a speed that would shame an elf, but it took a while to shed the extra heat.  And that’s the danger, he thought.

His eyes roamed the conference room they had been guested with for a second.  Marble walls with heavy pillars supporting carved wooden ceiling, sunglobes set at intervals.  Mastodon furs, gathered from the great herds of the steppes, covered the floors.  Hand rendered maps drawn by Judean cartographers adorned the walls, indicating the territory of the Empire, its friends and foes.  Windows opened upon one of the walls, giving a view out on the hardened stonework of the fort.

Two portraits of himself.  One with Gwenara. One with Jackie, his late wife and fellow immortal.  Pity the terrorist scum who had tried to kidnap that ebon Empress, he thought. They would have resided in hell this day.  Many of his other memories of her had disappeared over the years, and he did not intend to let heat induced neural damage deprive him of more.

“Gentlemen,” he said, moving toward his seat at the head of the heavy conference table.  “Be seated, please.”

“My lord,” said the young light colonel closest to his seat, an elf of Ellysium, his adjutant and chief of security.  “Let me offer the heartfelt regret of the staff that this calamity must befall you.  We pray that these criminals may be captured soonest and brought to justice, and the Empress returned quickly to your embrace.”

“Thank you, Colonel Molanus,” he said through clenched teeth with a nod.  “I pray the Gods will stand by us.  Now let us get to business.  Captain Johanson,” he said, looking over at the Zweilandish naval officer who commanded the task force this visit.  “How soon till the Imperium and the rest of the squadron arrive?”

“Within minutes, my lord,” replied the deep voice of the short, squat man.  “We obtained permission from Judean Magic Control to have our airmage cast a wind spell.”

“Good,” said Kurt.  “I had hoped our hosts would be so good as to expedite matters.  They should be up to full steam as well, by the time they arrive?”

“Yes, sir,” said the captain.  “Our destination?”

“There’s a teleportal to the capital at the Nazareth Embassy,” said a young naval officer.  “If it hasn’t been used this day, my Emperor could be in the Capital within a couple of hours.”

“Good plan,” said the captain, smiling at his officer.  “Only a couple of hours flight.”

“Yes,” said the Imperial Archmage Mastroes Garfine, playing with the many-jeweled ring on his finger, “good plan.  But you forgot one thing.  Sunspot activity is high.”

“There is still a chance I could make it through?” asked Kurt, pleading with the man to allow a circumvention to physical law.

“Not much, my lord,” said the mage.  “You would most likely come out of the wormhole as a mass of quantum fluctuations.  No, I’m afraid that route is closed to us.”

“Then its flight to Ataponia,” said Captain Johanson.  “Two days.”

“I want flank speed the whole way, Captain,” snapped Kurt.

It didn’t matter if the ships made it in one piece, they knew, or if they all made it.  As long as they gave the maximum effort.

*     *     *

The five airships seemed to float lazily across the sky on their approach to the fort, though their props were spinning at maximum revolutions, drive chains flying between the body to engine pods.  One, the largest, dropped toward the drill field of the fort, while the others swung around the field at altitude, a protective arch in the sky.

Imperium was the largest ship in the fleet, built specially to transport the Emperor and his entourage on visits of state.  550 feet in length, including her bow docking tube, 70 feet in width, her sextuple prop housings buzzed with power as she descended.  Smoke streamed from her triple stacks.  Cannon ports, those on lower gondola and middle section as well, were closed, a sign of the peaceful relations between the two powers.  The Imperial Flag, German Cross within the Ankh of the Goddess Arathonia on a star filled red and white background, fluttered behind the long gondola.

The other vessels, two heavy airships and two light scout airships, differed from the Imperium in more than just size.  The long cannon protruding through the snout of each ship like the sting of a wasp proclaimed their ability to kill their own kind at distance.  Cannon ports were open, a show of the protective spirit of these vessels.  Imperial battle flags flew from the sterns of each ship, wolf’s head within starred German Cross, flanked by twin dragons on red and white field.  Battle hawk pens were attached to the lower gondolas of the heavies.

They moved about the field, always on the watch for enemies airborne or aground.  Alert eyes scanned all directions, more the so after what had happened to their beloved Empress.

Hands grabbed guide ropes dropped from Imperium, as the crew removed magical power from the massive helium sacks within the hull and reduced lift.  Imperium settled to a position just above the ground, bottoms of her battlehawk cages touching the earth.  Hatches opened, gangways were lowered.

“Let’s go,” yelled Kurt above the swish of the props and yells of ground crew.  He would have preferred to have boarded from a regular air dock, but needs must be met to get under way as soon as possible.  Kurt was first aboard, his staff following quickly and efficiently.

Within moments gangways were withdrawn, hatches closed and hands released the ropes.  Imperium rose as energy was added to the magical gas, Helium.  She picked up speed as she gained altitude, the heavies falling in on her sides, the lights arranging themselves to front and rear.

*     *     *

“Emperor on the bridge,” yelled the navigation officer as Kurt ducked through the hatch into the control chamber of the great airship.  The ten by eighteen foot cabin was crowded with crew, the great panoramic windows at the front giving a wrap around 180-degree view of sky and ground.  Men jumped to their feet, only the two steersmen, side by side in the front center of the room, remaining as they were, hands gripped on the wheels while feet pressed rudder pedals to the floor.  The large compass between them showed a heading of West by Northwest.  Home.

“At ease, gentlemen,” said the Emperor, taking a step to stand beside the captain’s chair.  His nursemaid, a marine sergeant carrying a couple of parachutes for the use of the Emperor in case of emergency, followed on his heels.  Airmage and commomage took their seats at their respective stations beside the steersmen.  The commomage closed his eyes and established contact with his compatriots on the other ships.  The airmage put binoculars to eyes and scanned the skies, hand slightly moving the lever that applied life to the gasbags.  Two observers, including the navigator, stood by the window with field glasses, while the levermen stood at the ready.

“My airmage, the good Helisan” said the captain, gesturing at the high elf who turned and smiled at the pair by the command chair, “thinks we can catch a wind in more or less the proper direction.  It would add ten knots to our overall speed.”

“But there’s a problem?” said the Emperor.

“It’s at twenty five thousand feet, my lord,” replied the captain.  “Not above our operating altitude, but damned uncomfortable.”

“Then bundle the men up, heaters on full,” said the Emperor.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the captain.  “Bring her up to twenty five thousand feet, Helisan.  Full speed ahead.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” echoed the levermen, pushing their levers to the fore, signaling the boiler rooms to turn up the steam.  The altimeter began its slow climb toward its destination.

“Ricardo,” said the Captain, gesturing toward the Cormacian commomage.  “Inform the rest of the squadron of our intentions.”

“I’ll be in my stateroom,” said the Emperor.  “I’ll be in contact with Ataponia.  Only disturb me if something critical occurs.”

“Aye, my lord,” replied the captain, pulling his own binoculars from their carrying case as he rose to his feet to move to the windows.  “We’ll get you there as fast as humanly possible.”

“I know you will, captain,” said the large man, ducking his head through the hatch and out of the chamber, nursemaid in tow.  “I know you will, and maybe a little beyond the possible if I know you.”

*     *     *

Within minutes the squadron had achieved formation and was under way, gaining altitude by the second.  Minutes more and they were little more than dots on the horizon, making a steady ninety knots for home.

Chapter 3

I realized that this was a different world, with races the Fuhrer had never envisioned.  His principles were still correct, I knew, though the circumstances had changed.  I realized that skin color was not the mark of inferiority.  After all the elves, in all forms, were the match for any race of men.  But I could see the signs of inferior species among us.  The little people, those farmers extraordinaire, were physically inferior to men.  The dwarves were not our intellectual or cultural equals.  The Untermensch existed in abundance on this world.  But I did not think killing them all was the answer, not when they made such good slaves and allowed their superiors to follow the honorable pursuits of war and magic.  They were grouped among the Jews, to be used as needed, and discarded when they no longer met our needs.  I was sure the Fuhrer would have approved.

Mein Kampf II, Volume I.  The Immortal Emperor Heinrich Stuppleheim.

Borada Stuppleheim was used to people being afraid of him.  His jet black skin, red eyes and white hair, worn in a crew cut, identified him as a dark elf, one of the strong race of underground dwellers that inspired fear in most of the inhabitants of Refuge.  He was not full blooded, of course, but his elfin genes set his physical appearance.  His black uniform, swastika armband and the insignia of the Finaradas on his collar, inspired fear in those who weren’t afraid of his race.  For who didn’t fear the dreaded dark elfin secret police, who held power over even the State Police and the Gestapo.

Yes, the dark elf was used to people being afraid of him, and took no notice of those who moved out of his path or averted their eyes in hope that he would pass them by.  What he was not used to was feeling fear himself.  Only one man on the planet could invoke the trembling he worked hard to control.  And that was the man he was to report to this afternoon.

The sky was dark over New Tarakesh City, the capital of the Empire.  Tall buildings soared into that sky, a sky of clouds, industrial ash and haze.  Psi Towers sat on most of those buildings, spewing out their message of propaganda and mind control.  Though the elf knew he was immune to their pull, he was still thankful for the amulet he, like most of the elite, wore around his neck.  At least it kept the incessant pleading of nonsense from his mind.  Smoke stacks belched more material filth into the sky, causing the sensitive elf to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Soldiers marched in small formations, security for a paranoid leader.  Undead walked up and down the steps as if it were night.  Slaves tried to stay out of the way while still accomplishing their tasks.  An airship circled lazily over the city, more security at work, keeping an eye on the populace.

Borada preferred the countryside to this sewer hole of pestilence and intrigue.  The clandestine was his business, but not his entire life.  The clean surroundings of his Anatolian Estate, or the familiar territory of the underground cities of Dragona.  Both were preferable to this.

He stopped before the huge series of steps leading up to the palace.  The palace loomed above like a crouching beast, a monument of domes and minarets, stone swastikas of red within white circles below the tops of each tower.  Flags flew in the strong breeze.  The red trimmed flag of the Empire, curved red swastika within red circle, red crossbars radiating out, on black background.  The party flag.  Another swastika, this time with straight arms on edge.

It is strange, thought Borada, that the Emperor brought his philosophy and symbolism from Earth to this ancient land.  And it had been accepted by so many, feeding on their old hates.  Even Borada had bought into it at one time, his hatred of the other races feeding his frenzy.  Living with it for so long had killed the fever pitch, mellowed it with age, then turned tail to become a hatred of that which caused his hate.  If ever the Emperor was able to read his true feelings, his body would hang from above the city’s main gate, his soul would be the sport of demons in the hells of his people.

No time to delay, he thought.  He either had to go forward, or quit and flee the Empire.  No other choice.  He let his feet go on automatic, tracing the path they had gone many times in the past.  Up the steps and into the palace.  Into the soul of the monster.

He paused again for a moment as he felt the attentions of the watching spirits in their globes flanking the doors.  He could feel their hate for those who imprisoned them there, those whose souls had been denied the afterlife, and the chance of rebirth.  But they did their duty still, watching all who entered the building, scanning their purpose and their persons.  Borada was thankful he had trained to hide his thoughts from such as they, only projecting what he wanted them to see.  He walked between them, feeling their shadows increase, then lift as he plunged through.

*     *     *

The throne room buzzed with activity, living and undead coming and going with messages of import.  The tall man sat the throne, looking at the globe he had conjured from out of the air, while servants and agents waited for a chance to catch his attention.  The globe spun in parody to that of the real world, faster, a day in miniature taking up less than two minutes.

His Empire was now in his view, the red taking up almost the entire Tauran Continent.  Ten million square miles of territory, almost seven hundred million sentient beings living and dying at his whim.  The yellow of his enemies took most of his attention, the South Tauran Union to the south, independent kingdoms allied against him.  Over two million square miles and two hundred million people.  To the east was the Indus Alliance, another loose collection of allies, three million square miles and almost five hundred million people.

But to the North sat the main enemy, the Imperium of Free Nations, the hated IFN, over four million square miles of lands, home to almost three hundred and seventy million people.  All united under that traitor, Kurt von Mannerheim.  The betrayer of the holy cause of the ancient Fatherland.

Hearing a familiar tread through all the noise of the assemblage, he looked up to see the tall dark elf in Finaradas uniform, emblems of a field marshal on his epilates.  A smile creased his lips.  Borada had always been one of his favorites.  The elf had presided over some of the most horrible tasks Heinrich had ordered.

“My lord Emperor,” said the dark elf in a clear voice, only Heinrich noticing the slight tremor beneath the bravado.  “I am ready to report.”

“Good, my child,” said Heinrich.  “Good.  Let us adjourn to the meeting room.  The others await.”

It would be a shame to get rid of this one, thought Heinrich as he got up from his throne and walked down the steps of the dais.  But the signs of weakness were there.  Perhaps he could talk the elf into going in retirement.  A quiet life on a country estate.  After all, even he didn’t like the idea of killing his own blood.

He led the way, his secret police officer falling in at his right heel.  Things are going well, thought the Emperor.  Very well indeed.

*     *     *

The meeting room was filled by the large table in the center, chairs set in uniform intervals.  An Alsatian jumped up from the rug on which it lay and ran over to the man, tail wagging.  Heinrich let another small smile grace his lips as he knelt down and buried his hands in the dog’s fur, stroking the tight muscles.

“Good boy, Dolphus,” he said, straightening up with a pat on the dog’s head.  The hound followed him as he made his way to his chair at the head of the table, taking up a sitting position on the man’s right with a look of adoration on its face.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his eyes scanning the table.  A mixture of peoples sat there, dark elves, high elves, humans of many races.  A greater demon sat in his special chair, the rank of field marshal in the SS on his collar.  A liche in ceremonial garb sat next to the demon.

“My lady Harabeth,” Heinrich said, his head nodding at the one woman in the council.  The High Priestess of Maltor nodded in return, her smile displaying her sharp fangs.

“My council,” he continued.  “I have received news of the greatest import.  Only my son, Heinz Merisalla,” he nodded at the tall half elf on the right side of the table, “my Minister of State, knows of this news.  My son.”

The man, his elfin features prominent, nodded back with a smile on his lean face.

“My lord father.  Fellow councilors,” said the Minister of State.  “We have just learned of the abduction of the Empress of the IFN.”

The chamber erupted in a chorus of shouts and oaths.  Councilors tried to talk over the noise.  Heinrich raised his hand in a gesture of command.

“Please, my friends.  Please.”

“My lord,” said a slender man in the uniform of an admiral, “I am not sure of the utility of this action.  The new squadrons will not be ready for another two years, without considering training and shake down times.”

“We could win a land war without the need to resort to naval action,” said a high elf in the uniform of an Imperial Army field marshal.

“Like you have won the last couple of land wars,” retorted the admiral.  “Sire,” continued the man, “we all know that the IFN holds a great edge in naval power.  They have a long tradition of proud and well-trained sea forces.  And we know that banging our heads against the wall of Hahn is useless, in and of itself.”

“I do not plan war for at least another two years,” said the Emperor.  “Which is the best part of the tale.  We have complete deniability in this situation.  For we did not carry out the abduction.”

“Do we know who did?” asked Harrabeth, the vampire priestess.

“Of course,” said Heinz.  “They of course had our aid and consent to their actions.  Anything that might discomfort the Emperor of that nest of decadence is to our advantage.”

“As long as it doesn’t lead us into a war before we are ready,” said Borada.  The concern on his face did not give away the thoughts underneath.

“Not to worry, my son,” said Heinrich, “for your half-brother had other news of import this day.”

“Yes, my brother,” said Heinz.  “For this day I received word that Kenji Yamamoto and our ambassador to the Chinean Empire have signed a mutual assistance pact, with the inclusion of military aid and assistance in case of war.”

The murmuring rose again to drown the room.  The Chinean Empire was another implacable foe of the IFN.  The problem had always been that both Empires in the past had fought their wars alone, each against the military power of the IFN at separate times.  But the both of them allied.

“So you see,” said Heinrich, “I am not afraid of war with the IFN, though I do not plan for such at this time. But if this operation leads to the death, or even better, the capture of Kurt von Mannerheim, half the battle is won.”

*     *     *

The meeting went on for several hours, much business discussed, though nothing of the import of the beginning of the meeting.  Borada was very disturbed by the news of the capture of the Empress.  Unknown to his father, Kurt and his Empress were who he really served, whom he had served for the past decade.

He didn’t know what to do.  He wanted to help his friends, but also did not want the blood of a total war on his hands.  Perhaps, he thought, there is another way.