Soft music wafted its way through the dark caverns of Corpura Starport's grimy underbelly. Through a maze of confusing crossways, smoky corridors and filthy power junctions, the melody worked to soothe the many thousands of wayward travelers waiting for their turn to get off-planet.

An often hopeless cause, to say the least, but this tune was something uncommon in this region of Corpura's forgotten masses. A thing not so easily ignored or discarded but something to latch on to, something to be held closely, to be breathed in.

He passed row after row of the homeless and trapped, their heads slowly bobbing to the beat and the marvelous verse. It never ceased to amaze him how the music of this single player could infuse a sense of hope, of something better, into the lives of those with less than nothing to hold on to. Truly amazing...

But time was short. Max didn't plan on spending one scant second more than was absolutely necessary in this filthy stinking cavern. He was probably more than fifty levels below the surface at this point and the luxury liner Donello was leaving in about an hour. He'd been following the unmistakable beauty of the music, the rich tones of the rhythm, for quite some time now and could tell that he was closing in.

Max felt himself walking in step with the music, letting the smooth tones drive him forward through the thickening sprawl of Corpura's below-dwellers, ever closer to the man who was orchestrating the tune.

Trying not to inhale the stench of those he passed, Max turned a dark corner and felt the music become stronger. It enveloped him, it was much closer now, almost tangible. This was what he loved about the playing, the magic realism of the tunes and the soft tones of the verse being scarcely uttered by an almost mystical voice.

"God, he's good," Max mumbled to himself and then gasped as he caught a whiff of something awful emanating from the unidentifiable lump he had just stepped over. "Better than ever and anyone else in the business..." he continued.

Up ahead, in the barely lit shadows of a maintenance trunk, he finally caught sight of the musician and immediately stopped moving forward without realizing it, letting the music soak into his soul.

The acoustic guitar, a rare instrument in this day and age, was softly strumming, its gorgeous beat reverberating off the many walls in this cavernous maze.

"Hurry on, Max," he whispered to himself then, and once again began walking forward. Six strings and a single voice, simply remarkable. Max thought to himself, How could it be possible that this one man could create such joy?

Out of respect for the mesmerizing wave of sound being bestowed upon these hopeless thousands, Max stopped about a meter away from the musician and waited until he was noticed by the tall man.

We're leaving, he mouthed and the musician nodded once in understanding, slowly beginning to bring his song to an end. As the last guitar strum died away, fleeing like a lost memory into the depths of Corpura, there was a smattering of applause that seemed to come from all directions at once and then all was quiet.

The tall man slung the guitar over his right shoulder and walked past Max saying only two words, softly spoken in passing and almost missed, "Where to?"

"Martensburgengrad. It's on the outskirts of the Siberi Vastness."

The tall man stopped and turned to look at his manager. "Russian territory?"

"Not exactly," Max muttered and urged his friend forward. "But almost. Nothing to worry about, though, it's on the U.E.N. side of the border," he offered, walking double-time to keep up with the long-legged musician. "I booked you as the Primo Guest Entertainer on the luxury cruiser Donello--three sets a night, six nights."

"How about the band?"

"They're already aboard," Max sneered. "You're the only one I couldn't locate."

"Well, you're here aren't you?"

"By luck only," Max said and gestured to the hordes of people littering the dark caverns they were traversing. "It was a miracle that I found you, a sheer miracle."

The tall musician smirked and smiled at some of those people laying in the filth of Corpura's subterranean society. "It's all about the people, Max," he said with a smile on his lips. "Don't ever forget that it's all about the people."

# # #

The enormous luxury liner Donello, newly off the docks of the moon-based Luftwaffe Shipyards, moved swiftly through space using the recently perfected and improved interstellar drive first conceived of by the now legendary Sir Walter Blemeth on Earth in 2053. When the Grid-Division Treaty of 2100 had been signed just fourteen short years ago, nearly all of Earth's population took to the stars in order to avoid what would have surely been a cataclysmic war between the two global superpowers. The people of the United Earthian Nations had chosen the Upper Grid-Levels Of Space to colonize while the United Soviet States had chosen the Lower Grids.

Although the idea was to avoid war by ceasing all contact between the two nations, it was inevitable that certain systems along either side of the border would be visited from time to time by people of the so-called ‘other side.' It was astonishing, however, how very infrequently such crossings of the border actually occurred. Especially since there was no clear-cut line through space letting the people of each nation know exactly where they might be crossing the border while hurtling through the vacuum at speeds previously thought unattainable.

Needless to say, when such border crossings took place and were detected, being from the ‘other side' could very likely get a person killed or a ship destroyed, and quickly at that.

For this reason, most interstellar travelers chose to fastidiously avoid the border between the two superpowers and an area of thousands of kilometers around it when going to wherever it was they were going to.

The Donello, on the other hand, was heading right for it. Or, to be more precise, to Martensburgengrad, a small planet in a system settled by U.E.N. citizens of mostly Soviet descent some three years ago. Eager to remain members of the U.E.N. and all that the great nation stood for, they were also eager to remain close to those people that they considered their family, their blood. Hence the location of Martensburgengrad so very close to the invisible line in space referred to simply as The Border.

A mere thirty-million kilometers from the Donello's destination lay the Siberi-Vastness and the territory of the United Soviet States. It was an imposing set of circumstances to be in, Maximillian Gun'jhur thought to himself, as he let his mind wander amidst the amazing set that was being played by the band now up on stage, known today by a new name--Johnny Vagabond And The Jazz Players.

Of course, the U.E.N. Military heavily patrolled the billions and billions of kilometers of border shared by the two superpowers on a routine basis but, knowing just how sparse the U.E.N. Fleet was in comparison to the sheer amount of space to be covered only served to spike Max's nervousness and take it up a notch.

"Thank God for the music," he snickered to himself and a young man pressed up to him at the bar in the crowded auditorium that was the Donello's Recreation Center nodded and thanked God in return.

Max laughed at that and was happy to see so many people all in one place falling in love with the music of the band. Then again, the music was inspired by just the one man, the tall musician playing lead guitar and singing lead vocals...

"I saw these guys playing on a quick jumper from Earth to Neptune one time," the same man leaned over to the girl in front of him and said, "Just a spur of the moment jam session, it was utterly amazing...they were called the Melancholy Blues Band back then."

"No way, buddy," the good looking lady said and shook her head. "I've seen these guys on Alpha Prime, they're called Gideon G. And The Sonic Breeze."

"You're both wrong," a newcomer chimed in. "That's Melodious Tunes up there."

"Actually," Max spoke up, feeling a little bit more free with his tongue due to the two or three glassfuls of blue tinted alcohol he'd recently sucked down his throat. "You're all three absolutely correct."

"What the hell are you talking about?" the girl asked, still dancing in place to the music.

"You've all three heard this music before but under different names and being played by different bands," Max continued. "The only thing that is constant throughout is the man with the amazing voice playing lead guitar. He also goes by the illustrious name of The Player, perhaps you've heard of him?"

"No way, man," another young woman said from Max's right. "That can't be The Player up there, I heard he was clear across U.E.N. space playing in some new system this week. I'd love to see that guy."

"Change of plans, sweetheart," Max said and gave the pretty young woman his best smile. After she smiled in return, he decided to go on with his tale. "When he plays with the band, they often go by different names as they travel. Sometimes they call themselves Toby Lit And The Nomads, or maybe you've caught wind of Tall-T And The Wayfarers? All one and the same, sometimes a few of the key band-members will change, but there's only one person who holds it all together."

"Oh yeah, and how do you know so much," the cute little red-head to his right said, nudging him in the side with her elbow.

"Because, my friends," Max began, "You are looking at the manager of those musicians up there, the one person who recognized their raw musical talent and potential to become legendary." Max paused then for effect and also because he felt just a little bit woozy. "Maximillian Gun'jhur at your service, ladies and gentleman, and up there on that stage I present to you the one and only, the interstellarly famous, Tobias Thibodeau...better known throughout the Upper-Grid Levels Of Space by two words and two words only. Your entertainer, the man who is making you all feel so good right now. Simply put...The Player."

# # #

Toby was having a great set, the music was flowing just right, his fellow bandmates were all in synch and the crowd was ecstatic. On top of it all, he felt good, this was what he loved to do. Play music and sing his songs and make thousands of people happy.

He had to hand it to Max on this one, this gig was by far the best they'd had in quite some time. The cruiser was state of the art, their cabins larger than the few apartments he kept in key locations throughout the Upper-Grid Levels Of Space, and the pay was outstanding. With any luck, if all their sets went this smoothly on the ride back to Corpura, he wouldn't mind being re-booked on the Donello every once in a while.

Just then he felt it, his body always in tune to the ways and means of the machine he was traveling in. Although no one in the crowd seemed to notice, he knew immediately that the big ship had cut its' engines and was decelerating rapidly. A quick glance toward several of his band members proved that he was not alone with this knowledge.

Much to their credit, though, they didn't miss a beat and the song played out until the end. The applause was deafening and, for the moment, he forgot about the fact that the cruiser had just come to an unexpected and unscheduled stop and allowed himself to soak up the warmth and gratitude of the crowd. After many bows and gestures toward the members of his band, Toby announced that they were taking a quick break and would be back in five.

His eyes quickly searched the crowd for Max and found him in a far corner talking worriedly with a member of the Donello's crew. In seconds, Toby was moving through the crowd amidst a plethora of happy people, zeroing in on Max.

The band's manager caught sight of him, ended the conversation with the crewman and began to work his way toward the stage. Toby met him in the middle and Max led him back to the stage by the elbow. Not a word was exchanged during the short trip but as soon as they were back on stage Max turned to face him and Toby knew there was trouble.

"What is it, Max?"

"Well, Tobias," Max said and glanced nervously around at the other musicians who had gathered behind their lead singer. "A small Attack-Class Soviet warship hailed the captain several minutes ago and demanded that the ship come to a full stop. The crew thinks that they plan on boarding us, for what reason remains unknown."

"Soviets," Toby sighed and shook his head in amazement. "I knew this gig was too good to be true."

"Don't worry, Tobias," Max assured him. "I'm sure that it's just a routine matter, nothing to worry about."

"Sure, Max," Toby smirked. "On the U.E.N. side of the border, a Soviet military vessel demands to board us and it's simply routine."

Max shrugged then and gave in to common sense. Something was wrong, he knew it and Toby knew it. Hell, half the band knew it as soon as they sensed the ship's engines slowing down. Most of them were engineers in their prior lives, Toby almost insisted on playing alongside musicians who had been involved in engineering at one time or another as a matter of course. Engineering, Toby felt, was the key to musical perfection. When you understood mathematics and the ways in which the universe operated at the quantum level, then music was simple and pure. Toby wouldn't have it any other way.

"What's the captain going to do?" Tobias Thibodeau asked his manager.

"What else?" Max responded. "Let them come aboard."

Toby took a deep breath and looked at the members of his band. "This is going to be a long day, boys and girls."

# # #

"You tell your commander," Captain Adelson of the Donello said gruffly to the Soviet interpreter standing on his bridge. "That this ship is not his property nor the property of the United Soviet States and will not be crossing that border into Russian territory unless my dead body is lying on the deck of this bridge first."

The interpreter stared hard at Adelson for several seconds and then relayed the message to his commander. The face of the tall man standing next to the interpreter turned dark red as the message was translated into his native tongue. His uniform made it more than obvious that he was in charge of the Soviet soldiers standing on the Donello's bridge and Adelson saw the man's right hand start to twitch and move toward his holstered blaster. If there was an example to be made to the men of the Donello's crew, Adelson knew that he would be that example. Better to end up dead than to endure any imprisonment in a Soviet gulag, he thought to himself and began to make peace with his creator.

The Soviet commander took a single step forward and peered down into Adelson's eyes. He barked something quickly in Russian and the interpreter smirked.

"My commander says that this can be arranged very easily if you are not careful," the interpreter stated and his commander continued in Russian.

Adelson looked over at the interpreter, who had remained silent after the commander's remarks, and made an impatient gesture, "Will you translate that, interpreter? Or was it some sort of feeble Russian joke?"

The smile disappeared from the interpreter's face and he glanced nervously at his commander. In a subdued voice, the interpreter looked back at Adelson and said in perfect English, "My friend, this is not the time to make light of your circumstances. My commander does not tolerate such behavior by his own men and will definitely not tolerate it from his prisoners. I suggest you cooperate fully if you expect to remain alive."

Adelson wasn't looking at the interpreter, instead staring straight up and into the eyes of the Soviet commander. "You can tell him exactly what I said, interpreter, including the following--being the cowardly dogs that you are, as I am sure all Soviets are, I do not expect to remain alive after the next few minutes. Scum such as yourself, and do make sure that you translate the word ‘scum' precisely, board my vessel with weapons waving against innocent citizens of the U.E.N., all too obviously with the intent of stealing this ship and taking it across the border back into your space. Why should I expect you to keep any of us alive unless, of course, it is to serve as slaves in one of your renowned prison camps. Cowards like you have no place in this universe, you should all be eradicated and I can not wait for the U.E.N. military to show up in this system and blow your sorry asses to hell and back."

The translator took in a deep breath and glanced nervously at his commander again.

"Tell him, interpreter," Adelson growled and one of the Donello's crewmen mumbled that he should keep himself quiet.

"Whatever happens, Blanton," Adelson said to his First Officer. "Cooperate fully with these people."

"They are going to kill you, Captain, if you continue to speak this way," Blanton muttered and was nudged in the side by a charger-wielding Soviet soldier.

"I know," Adelson said and sighed. "But if speaking in this way to this coward's face gets me fried a little quicker than the rest of you, I think it's well worth it. The Soviets will either kill everyone aboard this vessel or they will very likely take everyone into their space as prisoners. I, for one, do not wish to live one extra second in a Soviet prison."

The Soviet commander was listening to his interpreter with anger growing hot in his eyes. Adelson managed to tell Blanton one more time to cooperate before a single blaster bolt tore off his head.

Blanton watched in horror as Adelson's body slumped to the ground and suddenly, the attention was all on him.

"Tell your commander that we will cooperate fully with his demands, interpreter," Blanton muttered, hating himself as he said the words. He was just as patriotic as the next man, Blanton knew, but getting his head blown off at this very moment was not something Doug Blanton was ready for.

# # #

Tobias Thibodeau looked over the members of his band and felt confident in their abilities to survive this insanity. They had been able to discard their instruments on the stage and meld into the crowd before the first Soviet troops had shown up in the big ship's Recreation Center. There were several thousand of the Donello's passengers and crew stuffed into the large space and they were currently being addressed by a man in a Soviet uniform speaking English with absolutely no trace of an accent.

Looking into the eyes of his bass player and his keyboardist, Toby knew then exactly what they needed to do. The crew of the Donello had just lost their captain and had made the decision to cooperate fully with the invading Soviet forces. This meant one of two things for everyone on board--either death or a long and tortured existence as a Soviet prisoner. Neither one of those options appealed to Tobias Thibodeau at the current moment. He turned slightly toward Swayne Morrison, a miracle worker with a pseudo-synthesizer, and told him to take Rider Boone, his bass player, and get down to the engine room. The two engineers would more than know exactly what to do once they got there.

Turning to Max, Toby muttered, "I need a diversion, Max, and quickly."

"Right," Ghun'jur answered and began to work his way over to the stage. "Excuse me," he called out, interrupting the Soviet soldier's speech and motioning toward the equipment on the stage. "I need to begin taking the sound equipment offline before it gets overheated."

"You, come down from there and rejoin the crowd," the Soviet said and shifted his half-charger into a better firing position.

"Look, this equipment is quite fickle," Max said and turned several dials on two amps. "If they overload, it could be dangerous..."

"I will not repeat myself," the Soviet began.

"Too late!" Max called and jumped off the stage as both amps began to squeal in higher and higher decibels just before they exploded in a shower of sparks and small fireballs.

The crowd fell apart then and people began screaming and heading for the exits. The Soviets shouted above the din, trying to regain control, some brandishing weapons in their efforts to calm the stampeding mass of humanity down a bit.

Several seconds later it was clear that there would be no more fireworks out of the destroyed equipment and the crowd began to settle down. No one seemed to notice that Swayne and Rider had exited the large room during the brief melee. Tobias grinned at Max as he was being searched over by a rough Soviet soldier but, with a look of pure fright and confusion on his almost boyish features, as only Max could perfect, they soon let him go and he stumbled back over toward Toby.

"Good job," Thibodeau snickered.

"All in a day's work, Tobias," Max replied and let out a deep breath. "Let's just hope this works."

# # #

Freddie Natoki brought his left fist down hard at the base of the Soviet soldier's skull and the man quickly fell to the corridor's deck like so much deadweight. Relieving the soldier of his half-charger and blaster pistol, a nice little blue-black model like none he'd ever seen before, he pulled out two pair of duralloy cuffs and bound the unconscious man's wrists and ankles together.

Taking one quick glance around, the Donello's Chief of Security felt more confident now that he possessed weaponry similar to that of the invading forces. He had disabled four of the enemy soldiers already but had no idea just how many had originally boarded the gigantic luxury liner. Three of his fifteen member security detail had been killed by the Soviets so far, something that made him hate these Russian bastards all the more. Three good men...dead. They hadn't even been armed with anything more than sensor stunners, light crowd-control devices used to subdue the occasionally too drunk guest aboard ship. Just their uniforms, that was all it had taken to cause their deaths. That and the fact that an example needed to be set for the rest of his detail. The twelve remaining security men had been split up then into four groups.

Incapacitating the man who had been guarding his party had been easy, almost too easy, but Freddie wasn't about to complain. He had immediately dispatched the two men with him to the Security HQ to try and find out more of exactly what was happening and to try and raise the alarm to the local U.E.N. Military Outpost. That had been more than an hour ago and he had not been able to raise those men on intra-ship com-link since.

Natoki heard the unmistakable sounds of several men trying to work their way covertly down the intersecting corridor and he froze as they approached. He was just about to lunge at them from around the corner with weapons blazing when he realized that they were not Soviet soldiers. Both men hit the deck hard anyway before he had a chance to stop his momentum. They were both lying there with wide eyes and staring at him as if he was death incarnate.

"What are you two up to?" he asked.

"We're going to the engine room," one of them muttered.

"Oh, you are?" Natoki questioned, still not certain of the intentions of these two.

"Yes, sir," the other quickly said and made his way slowly to his feet. "And if you're smart, you'll help us get there."

Natoki watched the other man as he gained his feet as well and recognized them both from the band of musicians who he had performed background checks on not too long ago. "Why would musicians need to get to the engine room?"

"Because we're engineers in real-life," Rider Boone said and awareness suddenly dawned on Fred Natoki's face.

"Then what are we waiting for, gentlemen?" Natoki said and led the way down the corridor. The engine room was just a few levels down and not very far away.

# # #

"Commander," a young technician called from his spot on the Donello's bridge. "I have a warning indicator on two of the four main engines."

"What is it? The instrumentation?" Commander Rugyev asked.

"No, sir, not as far as I can tell," the young man answered.

"Dammit," Rugyev barked and opened a channel to the Soviet warship floating not too very far away from the Donello's current position. "Captain Stonyenko, we have a problem in the engine room."

"How serious is it?" came the raspy reply in Russian. "Can you continue at present speed?"

"Unsure, Captain," Rugyev stated with obvious disappointment. "I will have the situation checked out immediately but we should stop at this time until the matter can be resolved."

"That is not wise, Commander," the captain's voice rang through with obvious concern. "Need I remind you that we are still not in Soviet space?"

"Not at all, Captain," Rugyev said. "But these indicators show two engines ready to overload. If that happens, this ship as well as our own would be destroyed at this range. I will make every effort to see that this situation is handled as promptly as possible."

"Please do, Rugyev," Stonyenko growled. "Despite the fact that we are jamming any transmissions coming from that monstrosity, our jamming also limits our ability to sight any approaching U.E.N. warships on long-range scanners. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Rugyev answered quickly.

"Good then," Stonyenko's voice quipped. "Keep me posted."

Rugyev glared at the young tech overseeing the engine room readouts and called over to a small Asian man sitting at the communications console. "Ti Cho, go down to the engine room and find out what is causing these indicators to read in the red."

"Yes, Commander," Cho said and disappeared down the bridge access tunnel.

Rugyev watched him go and thought immediately of sabotage. But who? He thought that all the passengers and crew were accounted for. "Damn this act of stupidity!" He grumbled to himself more than to anyone else. Why in all the Known Grid-Levels Of Space would the powers-that-be want a captured U.E.N. luxury liner and the thousands of people aboard her...?

# # #

Tobias Thibodeau felt a slight tug on his left sleeve and looked over to see Rider Boone at his left elbow.

"Fifteen minutes," Boone said in a very serious tone. "Not a second longer. Maybe a few seconds shorter."

Toby nodded and began to approach the Soviet soldier who seemed to be in charge. A large man with a dark complexion was following the same path as Toby, at a distance of about five meters. Thibodeau recognized him as the man who had re-entered the Recreation Center with Rider and Swayne. Max Ghun'jur was about two meters behind Tobias and to his right. A group of three Soviets immediately recognized their group approach and began to raise some very lethal looking weapons in a defensive posture.

"No, no," Tobias said and raised his arms above his head, declaring a position of non-confrontation. "We just need to talk, you and I."

"About what?" The Soviet soldier in the middle sneered.

"About the fact that this ship's engines are about to explode due to extreme stress and overload," Thibodeau explained. "An irreversible condition that will result in the deaths of everyone aboard this ship as well as the destruction of your own ship at this distance."

"And I should believe this because...?" the soldier prompted.

"Check with the bridge and your commander," Thibodeau suggested and set his attention on some imaginary grit caught underneath the fingernail of his left index finger. "They'll confirm that this ship's engines are red-lighting off the charts with no discernible cause."

"I will not waste my time on..." the soldier began but was cut off by the shrill alarm klaxon that sounded throughout the auditorium.

Right on time, Tobias laughed to himself and realized that the engines couldn't have reached such a critical stage at any better moment than just then. The Soviet soldier immediately walked over to a com-link panel set into the wall near the entrance to the oversized auditorium and held a brief yet excited conversation with someone on the Donello's bridge. Disconnecting the link, the man marched directly over to Thibodeau and poked him sternly in the chest. "What do you know about this?"

"Only that engine overload, once begun, is irreversible and will result in imminent destruction, as I explained before," Thibodeau said, barely glancing away from his fingernail as he spoke. The smaller Russian looked up into Thibodeau's eyes and raised his weapon, as did the other ten or so soldiers in the vast room.

"You did this!" He boomed and, suddenly, the only sound in the entire auditorium was the continuing shrill of the alarm klaxon.

Thibodeau looked down at the man and crossed his arms across his chest, trying to look utterly confident while his heart was pounding. "Of course," he said and glared into the man's eyes.

"Stop it now," the Soviet soldier said and tapped Thibodeau's chest with the muzzle of his half-charger.

"I told you twice already," Thibodeau said. "Irreversible. That means, for those of you who are too stupid to understand, no going back. No stopping it. Destruction. Boom. And it will take all of you with it as well."

"You would kill yourselves rather than be taken prisoner?" Another Soviet soldier asked from about four meters away.

"Absolutely..." Thibodeau said and saw the stunned reaction on the soldier's face.

"You are insane," the man in charge said and backed up a step or two from Tobias. "This is madness. All we want is the ship, no harm was to come to any of you."

"Tell that to the captain of this vessel," Thibodeau said and then snapped the fingers on his right hand. "Oh, that's right, you can't because you people killed him. And now, we'll return the favor and kill all of you."

"Not today," the Russian said and smiled. "Lock them all in here. By order of Commander Rugyev, we're leaving this deathtrap."

Thibodeau watched the Soviet soldiers quickly exit the Recreation Center with their weapons trained on the crowd as Max and Fred Natoki moved up to his side. Once the soldiers were gone and the hefty clank of the entrance hatch locks slammed into place, the room erupted with frantic questions, some screams and a plentitude of panic.

"Listen up, people!" Max shouted over the cries and the annoying braying of the alarm klaxon as he leaped on top of the stage and tried to gain control of the crowd. "Please do not panic, this situation is under control!"

"Is the ship going to explode?" A single question rose above all the shouting and the alarm.

"Well, yes and no," Max stumbled.

"What does that mean?" Someone else asked as the noise began to die down, although not the klaxon.

"It means that the engines are indeed rigged to blow up in about nine minutes," Max stated in a concerned tone. "But, it also means that we have a plan...a plan that we will put into action...or at least, I think we can put into action. However, first things first, we must all figure out a way to get those doors unlocked and we must be quick about it."

"Leave that to me," Fred Natoki said and produced the blue-black blaster of unfamiliar design from an ankle holster. Raising the weapon towards the thick doors of the recreation hall he smiled and said, "Stand back, everyone, this shouldn't take long."

# # #

Rugyev and his men ran down the corridor to the airlock where a shuttle was positioned to take he and his men back to the U.S.S. Stalingrad. All over the doomed luxury liner the alarm klaxon warned of impending destruction. Ti Cho, the engineer assigned to his boarding detail, had confirmed that several of the Donello's main engines had been rigged to overload beyond possibility of containment. It was the Obliteration Option, one of the oldest tactics in the military handbook, and he couldn't believe he had been taken in by it. Of course, he had not expected military tactics to surface from the crew-members of a non-military pleasure cruiser, but nevertheless, it was a standard ploy. One that had been used successfully for centuries, burn down the fortress rather than allow it to be captured. Damn! He chastised himself. How could he have not seen it coming?

Entering the large personnel transport's airlock, he secured a place for himself in the very front of the shuttle and watched dozens of his men quickly shuffle past to take their seats and begin to strap in for departure. It suddenly occurred to him that not all of them were leaving as had come aboard. Too late to figure out that mystery now, he knew, there were less than six minutes left before the Donello's engines were going to explode.

He felt the sudden rush of free-floating as the shuttle disengaged from the Donello's airlock and the big luxury liner quickly began to grow smaller in the large viewport in the shuttle's cockpit. Damn them!

"Will Captain Stonyenko destroy the ship before it blows, Commander?" One of his men asked from behind him.

"And waste one of our missiles on a doomed ship," Rugyev sneered. "I think not."

Faster, faster, Rugyev thought to himself. His shuttle needed to dock with the Stalingrad so that they could gain the necessary distance away from the doomed cruiser in order to avoid being destroyed themselves when the ship's massive engines blew. They were down to four minutes and counting when he felt the secure clang of metal on metal as their shuttle successfully docked with the small attack cruiser that he and his men called home. Good riddance to you all, he sighed inwardly. May you all burn in Hell...

# # #

Rider Boone struggled with the panel on the massive engine's housing, sweat pouring freely down his face. He didn't only have Swayne Morrison as a back-up this time. The entire band was there in the engine room, pitching in, putting their engineering expertise to good use.

"Three minutes, Rider," Thibodeau said from the entrance to the engine room as he, Max and the Donello's First Officer, Doug Blanton, watched the men at work. "Will you be able to do this in time?"

"Only if you shut up for about the next two and a half minutes and let us do our job, here, boss," came Boone's strained reply.

"What will those Soviet pigs do when they realize that we aren't going to blow up?" Blanton asked.

Tobias turned to him and smiled. "Hopefully, we have that part covered."

"How's that?"

Thibodeau turned to Max Ghun'jur and said, "Are Martino and Gus in the escape pod terminal?"

"On the job and preparing all ten of the pods for immediate departure," Max confirmed.

Blanton stared at the two men with confusion on his face and Thibodeau realized that there was still some explaining left to do. "Two of my guys are working on the escape pods, matching targeting coordinates with those of the Soviet warship."

Blanton looked from Max to Tobias and back to Max again. "So?"

"So," Max continued with a toothy grin. "What most people don't realize is that escape pods have engines, too. Pretty powerful ones for such small ships. And when they are rigged to blow in close proximity to another vessel..."

"Let's just say," Thibodeau intervened. "A chain reaction of cosmic proportions often occurs."

# # #

"Ten seconds and counting, Captain," one of the Stalingrad's bridge crew stated as the Soviet warship struggled on standard thrust to put some distance between itself and the doomed U.E.N. luxury liner. Towing Rugyev's shuttle along prevented them from engaging their main engines but there had simply been no time to evacuate the shuttle and go to full burn. No need to worry, though, they had put more than enough space between the two vessels already.

"It's too bad, really," Stonyenko remarked to no one in particular. "The U.S.S. could have learned a lot from a ship of that size and speed. Too bad, really."

Just then, a sharp white light overtook the screen and a sharp streak flashed across the viewscreen where the Donello had been just moments before.

"It is done then?" Stonyenko asked aloud.

"It seems so, sir, but the sensor readings do not correlate," somebody answered from behind his command chair.

"Explain," Stonyenko ordered.

"There was indeed an explosion," the Soviet soldier began. "Powerful, yes, but not consistent with the type and size of the engines that were fitted to the Donello."

"Captain," another voice chimed in. "I have readings of several very small craft fast approaching our position!"

"What type of craft?"

"Readings indicate escape pods, sir," the man replied. "I count nine of them now, Captain, but there were ten of them at first. None of them show signs of life."

Awareness of the treachery being delivered upon him suddenly dawned on Stonyenko's face as he stood from his command chair and pounded his fist against his main console. "Disengage Rugyev's shuttle now! Engage main engines, evasive maneuvers, get this ship out of here!"

The bridge erupted in a mass of confusion and shouts as crewmembers scrambled to carry out Stonyenko's orders.

It is too late, Stonyenko thought as he heard that Rugyev's shuttle had been disengaged from the air-lock from one crewman and that the Stalingrad's main engines had come on line from another. Those U.E.N. swine...

All nine of the Donello's escape pods exploded simultaneously as they reached to within thirty meters of the Stalingrad's hull. The explosion was fierce enough to penetrate the hull in several places, particularly just outside of the Stalingrad's engine room. Since the Soviet warship's main engines were just coming online at the moment of impact, they were that much more vulnerable to becoming overloaded. A situation which helped to accelerate their detonation.

The U.S.S. Stalingrad disappeared in a quick white flash that was vastly larger than that which had been created when the first of the Donello's escape pods exploded at the exact same instant that the luxury liner brought it's two remaining engine mains on-line. The streak that Stonyenko had noticed as that pod had exploded was the Donello's rapid departure from the space surrounding the Stalingrad.

Rider Boone and Swayne Morrison had barely succeeded in shutting down the overload sequence they had started less than fifteen minutes earlier in two of the Donello's engine mains while Yivgeny Noel and Conor McCain, both wonderfully skilled musicians with the brass horns, had worked fastidiously to ensure that the remaining two engine mains, although cold, would start up smoothly and efficiently when needed.

Martino Velez and Gus Marilago, the band's two percussionists, had signaled the engine room with barely fifteen seconds to go that the escape pods had been programmed and were on their way.

# # #

Tobias Thibodeau stood on the bridge with Max Ghun'jur, Doug Blanton, Fred Natoki and the remainder of the Donello's bridge crew. The readings from the ship's long-range scanners confirmed that the U.S.S. Stalingrad had suffered a massive engine implosion and had been obliterated.

"Do you think they called for back-up before the end?" Ghun'jur asked nervously on the ship's small bridge.

"Not likely," Blanton replied, being careful not to stare at the corpse of his former captain lying on the deck not three meters away, covered with a nondescript white sheet. "They were jamming our transmissions ever since they showed up. That made it awfully hard for them to transmit out as well."

"Why did they even try this?" Max asked. "Don't they know that they could have started a war if something like this made the nets?"

"They had no fear this close to their border," Natoki stated in an even tone. "They were jamming our transmissions so there was no fear that we could get the word out. If they destroyed us, no one would ever know unless someone just happened to be performing a sensor scan in this area as they passed through and detected the residual radiation of our imploded engines. Even then, identifying the source of that radiation would be a hard task at best and identifying the cause of such an explosion would be even more difficult. They did not fear us because we were not a military vessel. They thought we were an easy target. I guess our band of traveling minstrels proved them wrong."

"Interesting," Ghun'jur said and let out a deep sigh. "But I still say that we put some distance between us and Martensburgengrad."

"No," Thibodeau said and stood up tall to his full height of better than two meters. "Go on toward your destination, First Officer. The Soviets will not send another ship this way until they find out exactly what happened to the Stalingrad. We're safe for now."

"How can you be so sure, musician?" Natoki asked.

"Come on, guys," Thibodeau said. "They fell for the Obliteration Option, didn't they?"

Several snickers followed that and Thibodeau tapped Max on the shoulder as he moved toward the exit. "Come on, Max."

"Where to, Tobias?" Ghun'jur asked.

"Back to the Recreation Center," Thibodeau said. "As I recall we were right in the middle of a set when this ridiculous situation began to manifest itself. Now that it's over, I plan on finishing the concert."

"Are you serious?" Blanton asked and rose from the command chair.

"Absolutely," Thibodeau responded. "This ship has some traumatized passengers who need to have their souls soothed by some good old fashioned melodies right about now. I think that our Soviet friends learned a valuable lesson today: only fools rush in before knowing what they are getting themselves into. That, my friends, reminds me of a song sung several centuries ago by a man the people of the Earth often referred to as The King. I plan on going back down to the Recreation Center, assembling my band, and adding that song to my set beginning today. You're all welcome to come down and listen for awhile. In fact, I recommend it."

Tobias Thibodeau, a man most people across the Known Grid-Levels Of Space referred to simply as The Player, raised his hand in salute toward the prone body of Captain Karl Adelson, turned on his heels and disappeared through the entrance doors of the Donello's bridge.

Several minutes later, a com-link hooked up to the Recreation Center was letting the softest of melodies and a voice of pure magic flow unhindered into the small confines of the Donello's bridge. Tobias Thibodeau's rich voice sounded very much like a man once referred to as The King as he sang to thousands of people in the large room several decks below.

"Wise men say, only fools rush in..." Doug Blanton heard and couldn't help but smile as he checked the coordinates on his console for Martensburgengrad.