"Vulcan scoutships established preliminary contact with the existing Terran government sixty-five years ago—Second History time calculation—and Earth eventually joined the Alliance, being formally admitted five years following initial contact. By careful guidance, the Alliance was able to aid in reducing Earth's overpopulation, seeding several other Class M planets throughout the galaxy." She paused. "A footnote suggests that, as recompense for this aid, the Alliance instated a military draft of sorts. However, since humans displayed a remarkable adaptability to spacecraft conditions, the draft was mainly used as a tool to get social deviants off the planet. At any rate," she concluded, "there are now Terrans serving voluntarily aboard starships—many in high-ranking positions."

She glanced at Tazol, momentarily switching the screen off. "Essentially, Commander, our operatives were successful in what they were ordered to do," she pointed out. "They murdered the Terrans who would have formed the basis of the Federation. Yet regardless of the fact that the Federation as we knew it in First History was destroyed, an Alliance came into being in another manner. Earth played no part in its initial development … but that is now irrelevant. It doesexist, Tazol."

Tazol continued staring straight ahead. One could not navigate through a paradox. "We are defeated once again," he whispered almost to himself.

Sarela considered the statement in silence. "It is said by the wise men of Romulus that history can never be artificially changed once it has already occurred naturally. Only minor incidents can be altered through time-tampering; and you must accept that Earth—one planet among millions—is indeed minor when compared to the galaxy itself. Though our operatives efficiently destroyed Earth's rolein the Federation, they could not obliterate the concept itself. Its importance was too great, its memory too deeply embedded in the atoms of the universe."

Tazol's eyes rolled skyward in a gesture of longsuffering. "Your poetic explanations had best be saved for the Praetor," he muttered miserably, scanning the tired eyes of his bridge crew. "For I must now inform His Glory's attendants of our Empire's current status—and I do not believe he will find the information pleasing." He leaned back in the chair, wondering if it would be the last time. "However … he will not be so easily deterred; and I suspect he will wish to plan strategy before attacking the Alliance." It was a fleeting hope.

"Attack the Alliance?" Sarela repeated.

"It isour way as Romulans," Tazol reminded her. But he wondered if he would live long enough to see the attack. Bearers of bad tidings often met quick ends. And in that single moment, Tazol found himself wishing he'd never heard of the Empire, never seen the Ravon, never known what it meant to be a Romulan Warrior. Suddenly, the fields and the farms seemed the most appropriate place in all the worlds.

His eyes closed for a moment before he rose from the chair and turned away from the bridge. And yet … when he remembered the promise of power, it wasn't as difficult to swallow. And in a stray instant of unmitigated arrogance, he also realized that the Warriors of his own ship, his own clan, would surely be loyal to him … even if Sarela's officers or the Praetor were not. A faint smile threatened to break out on the round face, but he dutifully pushed it away.

"There is one other matter, Tazol," Sarela's voice interrupted as he reached the doors to the lift. "We are now displaced—as much as the rest of the galaxy and perhaps even more. Only those aboard our lightships will have any memory of First History at all—and we can no longer permit ourselves to respond to the things of our past. We must learn new ways—customs and behavior which are not a part of our natural memory."

Tazol turned red-rimmed, weary eyes in her direction. "What are you saying, wife?" he wondered. "I have no time or patience for your recitation of mourning."

Sarela stood, glancing around the bridge. "We are not the same creatures who entered hyperspace while our operatives were in Earth's past. We are specters now, Tazol—ghosts of another place and time, relics of an Empire which no longer exists." There was a sadness in her wide brown eyes, reflected in her voice.

But Tazol only nodded. Already, he was beginning to realize that truth all too clearly. In the span of what had seemed only a moment in the dark embrace of hyperspace, all he had known had been painlessly obliterated … changed … subtly altered. And all for the sake of conquest—a word which sounded uncharacteristically bitter to his mind. He wondered if it had been remotely worth it … and when the rest of reality would begin to crumble.

And yet, he wasa Warrior, loyal to the song of the sword. His grief for the past would not last long … and already he had the beginnings of a plan.

Outside the Praetor's assigned quarters, Commander Tazol paced restlessly, wondering when or ifhe would have an opportunity to meet the Romulan Praetor personally … or if he even wanted to. The nebulous figure had come aboard hisship, converted an entire Warrior deck for his personal use, yet still remained elusive and impossible to see. The Legend's attendants had taken the messages, along with a complete transcript of Second History comparisons into the massive stateroom hours ago—and had subsequently told Tazol to wait. As a Warrior, he grew weary of waiting; and as a man, he grew tired of playing hand servant to an inaccessible figurehead.

Another hour had come and gone, but at last the double doors slid apart to reveal two of the Praetor's advisers. Both were dressed in rich robes, carrying ceremonial jeweled daggers on silk belts and a disruptor tucked neatly at the top of black suede boots. For a moment, Tazol caught his mind wandering on three unrelated trains of thought.

First, it seemed illogical that the Praetor's voiced concerns always centered around the poverty of the Romulan systems; yet his closest advisers wore the finest clothes and jewels. And the Palace, Tazol had heard, was nothing less than what some Terrans might term "heaven."

Secondly, Tazol had heard the usual rumors of the Praetor's personal slaves—lovely female trinkets to adorn the public arm of his throne and the private company of his bed. But during the entire time the Praetor had been on the Ravon, Tazol had observed only malescientific advisers and scribe-slaves—all of whom were young and unacceptably handsome.

And third, as far as anyone in the Empire knew, the current Praetor had produced no offspring to whom the title would be bequeathed upon his death. And if there were no male offspring, tradition was explicit: The new Praetor would be the one Warrior who could defeat all others in battle.

The Commander's lips curled into a devious smile as he began to see his own path a little more clearly.

But his reverie was interrupted as one of the advisers cleared his throat noisily, exuding an air of importance which Tazol found repulsive to acknowledge.

"The Praetor will grant personal audience to your science officer," the lithely muscled man stated without preamble. But his tone left no doubt as to the Praetor's displeasure with the information contained in the transcripts. "You will escort him here immediately, Commander Tazol."

Tazol felt a combination of anger, dread and embarrassment rise in the back of his tight throat. He tasted bile. Not only was hebeing used as a fetch-slave himself, but it now seemed that Sarela would be granted the one honor which had been denied to him since the Praetor came aboard. He opened his mouth to protest, then quickly clamped his lips together, remembering that argument would prove futile … or worse.