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Bak’ka Gr’rek stood outside the Muddy Waters Bathhouse in full ceremonial battle dress – which for him meant every personalized weapon his sturdy frame could carry comfortably. He needed that impressiveness; many in the crowd gathered around the police lines looked tough. Bak’ka had no idea that Adamim would (or even could) subject themselves to using so many tattoos, earrings, nose rings, metal studs, and other insertions as many of the onlookers did. Such things were taboo among his people, even if wearing equally extravagant, personalized weapons such as his was not only encouraged but *de rigueur*. At least you could *remove* the weapons when you got off-duty.

Hilo the Protean stood with at Bak’ka’s right. He was an Elemental just barely shorter than Slate and even more hypertrophic, a Performer in contrast to Slate as a Doer. Of all Chris Alan’s crew, he found it the most difficult by nature to follow Chris Alan’s lead, but he’d come to appreciate Chris Alan’s special gifts – all the more in that when playtime was scheduled, Chris Alan was more than ready to let Hilo take the lead with his own gifts.

“This lot makes me feel like posing,” Hilo remarked to Slate when he walked up on Hilo’s right to a chorus of appreciative whistles. “It’d be worth it just to rattle some cages.”

“I know what you mean,” said Slate. “Don’t try it; Blondie would never let us hear the end of it.”

“Wonder how they’ll react to *his* coming out?”

“Yeah, bein’ fatally cute’s got to be a disadvantage around *here*.”

The rest of the *Hind’s* crew joined the trio in due time. The Elementals had been all too shrewd in their assessments of the crowd; between their enormous, muscular selves and the slender, boyish yet perfect manhood of their Captain, their mere presence was far too provocative for anybody’s good. The reactions of some in the crowd to the unpretentious, yet perfect beauty of the women on the *Hind’s* crew were no help either.

“Hey,” Slate shouted at last, “don’t you rabble have something better to do? You know Blondie here’s innocent. Now get going.”

“And who’s gonna *make* us, tough guy?” said one particularly hardcore Adami man.

“I’m Slate Rockmire, the baddest Elemental fighter this side of Nicky Blackthorn,” Slate retorted with an emphatic point of the thumb and fist to his chest, “and Hilo here’s right behind me. And *this* is the real Undying Singer, Nicky’s Bane,” he added, gesturing dramatically toward each man.

Chris Alan motioned for Slate to desist. He stepped forward and lit his right hand; its dazzling white Light caused many to step back in fear. Innocent of the murders or not, a Lightchild on a mission was a dangerous man to cross, and they knew it.

“Rafael, stand by for orders,” Chris Alan shouted with a voice backed by Prophecy at Need.

“So you’re going to try to murder *us* now?” shouted the hardcore Adami heckler. He was backed up by a considerable following.

“No, I’ve got a better idea,” Chris Alan shouted back after a moment’s thought. His left hand glowed blue as he bent over and touched the pavement with it. A ripple of blue radiance moved out toward the crowd on the pavement, and as it passed under their feet, it erupted into dozens and scores of columns of blue light, each column immersing an onlooker. In a few moments (after they had recovered), the men and women in the crowd were groping themselves and looking at each other in wonder, sometimes in shock and awe, and sometimes in fury, for every bit of their tattooing and metalwork was gone – as were many biological and neurological issues. Some had even grown hair on their heads where it had long been gone.

“Go to Freedom Level Four, Rafael, and stand by,” said Chris Alan quietly. “Use non-lethal defensive and offensive modes only, if need requires them.”

“I obey.”

Blackstar watched the incipient riot from far above with fascination. < Just how will you deal with *this* mess, Undying Singer? >

A second later – far too late for him – he found out, when the ripple of blue reached him.

“Target acquired at 217 mark 81,” said Rafael. Chris Alan and the others looked up; a blue pillar mixed with red fire (a sure sign that the target was one of Nicholas’ servants) was ascending from the roof of one of the nearby skyscrapers.

“I’m on it!” said Amethyst and vanished in a pale blue flash. A few moments later she returned with a slender young Black Tribesman, taller than Chris Alan, wearing the Starblade that had taken so many lives. Quickly Amethyst disabled the still-recovering young man’s hyper-tech implants, which (as Slate and Chris Alan had correctly guessed) had been made by the Null, some of the most dangerous artificial intelligences in the Ring of Stars.

“Here’s your murderer,” Chris Alan shouted to the crowd. “Lucas Theophilus, a fallen Lightchild. The Elemental symbiont that allowed him to change form is gone. He’s powerless now.”

“Not in a Blademaster match, I’m not, White Tribesman,” snapped the once-and-present Lucas as he thrust Amethyst from him, rotated his scabbard to his right hip, and drew his Starblade. “I’ll mop the pavement with your blood.”

“You see?” Chris Alan shouted at the crowd. “This man’s left-handed. I’m not. How come nobody bothered to notice this before?”

“Because I’m ambidextrous with a blade, fool!” Lucas shouted back. “Can you say the same, O great and mighty Undying Singer?”

“*That’s* what I was trying to figure out but couldn’t!” Autumn exclaimed.

“Well, I’ll be…” Detective Kahn marveled.

“You’ve just condemned yourself, Lucas,” Chris Alan pointed out. “Kahn’s people are sharp enough to infer your fighting style from the corpses and debris, with some guidance from us. It’s as distinctive as a fingerprint: similar to mine, but not the same. Your true ambidexterity sets us two apart.”

“You won’t live long enough to testify about that!”

Slate kept Autumn from rushing forward impulsively as Chris Alan drew Shalhevetyah unlit. In a Blademaster match a Lightchild couldn’t draw upon his supernatural Gifts, but only his training and strength as an Adami. Lucas had been one of the best of his generation in standard Blademaster matches – he’d often been called “the next Chris Alan Starbright”, to his seething resentment – and as an Artist he had natural mental abilities that differed in order from those of Chris Alan, a Protector. Without the White Hand to help him, Chris Alan would find it more difficult to draw upon what usually mattered most in a Blademaster match — the ability to perceive the real world in real time – than Lucas would. And there were Lucas’ natural reflexes and wiry natural strength to think about. Chris Alan’s reflexes were unusually good for a White Tribesman and a male, but he knew what he was up against in Lucas Theophilus.

Of course, Lucas’ hubris as a Blademaster candidate had always been his lack of emotional control. Despite his tremendous skill, that hubris would betray him once it was exposed. Chris Alan planned to make sure that happened.

“Do not try to interfere,” Bak’ka insisted when the local police drew near to try to break up the fight. Hilo and Slate joined him to underline the point, and Rafael raised his n-shielding to keep the ring unmolested. “The Undying Singer knows what he is doing.”

Indeed Chris Alan did. He had been trained by Grandmaster Toa himself after the Empress Crabs had been imprisoned in their Consortium. He shut out the noises of the crowd and opened himself up to his greatest natural mental abilities: his ability to look inward in order to foresee the future with certainty, supported by his ability to perceive the emotions of those around him. Even an Artist’s natural mental abilities were no match for this combination, not as Chris Alan had inherited and developed it. It enabled Chris Alan to predict Lucas’ individual moves before he made them, even as it made it more difficult for Lucas to infer Chris Alan’s fighting style.

The pair circled each other like hunting cats fighting for dominance in a pride. In a Blademaster match Chris Alan usually made the first move; Lucas preferred responding to the moves of others. Realizing this, Chris Alan sheathed his Starblade smoothly and took up the Broadleaf Form of hand-to-hand fighting, the first form that Toa had taught him to use. Its great advantage was that the blows one could deliver with it continually increased in power, mostly thanks to gravity and their own momentum. Switching from a Starblade form to a hand-to-hand form was unorthodox, but the Rule Book allowed the tactic and some Blademasters Level Five were renowned for using it. Chris Alan was now one of these, after his training under Toa.

“Come on, coward, draw your blade,” Lucas shouted angrily.

“If you think you can kill me with yours, feel free to try,” Chris Alan replied calmly.

Lucas tried. It did no good. No matter how fast or how precisely he moved, he couldn’t touch Chris Alan’s flesh. Sometimes it seemed as if Chris Alan deliberately allowed Lucas’ Starblade to get within less than a finger’s breath without striking back. It wasn’t long before Lucas’ anger got the best of him, and he fell prey to Chris Alan’s unexpected switch to a standard Krav Maga combo for disarming and disabling a knife-wielding opponent.

Hurting from a broken left wrist and infuriated at being disarmed by such a simple tactic (involving a change of form and a redirection of energy, no less), Lucas watched as Chris Alan threw Lucas’ Starblade out of the ring, uncoupled his own and threw it out as well, and returned to the Broadleaf Form.

“Blade or no blade, strawhead,” Lucas shouted, “I’m *still* going to take you apart!”

“No,” said Chris Alan grimly, “you will *not*.”

Even with a broken left wrist, Lucas was still a potentially deadly hand-to-hand fighter. He launched into a barrage of attacks which had Chris Alan backing up and side-stepping a bit; most of the blows landed on his arms and legs. Lucas smiled.

“I’m going to finish you off fast, Starbright,” he boasted. “I’ve seen too many of your fights to let you roll over me.” He followed up with a high kick to the chest that almost knocked Chris Alan’s wind out of him, but Chris Alan shrugged off the blow. Toa had lived up to his nickname “Disciple of Pain” all too well, and pain was one thing Chris Alan could now take in bucket loads.

“Had enough yet?” Lucas bawled out.

“I haven’t even *begun* to grow yet,” Chris Alan retorted, referring to how the Broadleaf Form sprang up like a plant in ever-increasing power. “You talk more than you fight.”

“You’ll *pay* for all you’ve done to our cause, White Tribesman!”

“Make sure you bring an army and a lunch,” Chris Alan retorted with a mirthless grin – something Lucas also recognized all too well from watching recordings of Chris Alan’s matches. Many had seen that grin, just before they met their doom.

With renewed anger, Lucas launched into another barrage. Some of his punches missed, some scored, but it was all a trap. At the right moment, Chris Alan stepped to the left, avoiding the right punch of Lucas. Using the outer edge of his right palm, he “hooked” (like a leaf sprouting from its branch) the back of Lucas’ neck, yanking him forward off balance; then he delivered a punch to the right side of Lucas’ head with his left hand. This caused Lucas to step to his left as if drunk, only to find the right fist of Chris Alan there to meet him while Chris Alan went quickly into a cat stance. Before Lucas could blink (while yet stumbling back from the second punch), Chris Alan sank his own weight down with a twisting stance to deliver a “flow-on” circular back fist punch into Lucas’ chest with the same right hand. Chris Alan then stepped forward, sending his own weight down and forward with the big horse stance. A double palm strike knocked the rest of the air out of Lucas, who fell to the ground winded and wincing from pain. Satisfied, Chris Alan stood upright and breathed to relaxation.

“And *that*,” he said to the suddenly silent audience, “is the Broadleaf Form.”

************

“If you were half the man you think you are, Starbright,” Lucas said acidly, “you’d be doing *exactly* what I was doing.”

Lucas, now healed of his injured wrist, was sitting in a restraining cell generated by Rafael aboard the *Hind of the Dawn*. Autumn, Amethyst and Detective Kahn L’Vare were standing with Chris Alan in front of the cell. Amber, Autumn’s Guardian, was there as a backup recorder.

“This isn’t about your attitude toward the ‘fringies’ of the Realm, or ours,” Autumn snapped with an emphatic gesture, “it’s about your playing the big man and doing what you want to do when you want to do it. That’s not what my husband’s called to do, and it’s not what *you* were called to do either.”

Chris Alan smiled slightly to himself. Lucas depended on his ability to make subjective value judgments above all others, even when doing so proved counterproductive to his own best interests. In Autumn, the same mental ability played the role of a “good parent”, and her tone of voice reflected its use in that way. Interestingly, it was Lucas’ ability to sense the real world in real time (with all the potential for sensual delight that went with it) that played the “good parent” role in his psyche, and that was how Nicholas and Callista had been able to ensnare him. So now it was Lucas’ Good Parent against Chris Alan’s Good Parent — his ability to take into account the welfare of the group – and Autumn’s Good Parent against Nicholas’ Good Parent. Fascinating.

< It’s amazing how predictable we Adamim are, > he thought wryly, and not for the first time. < Every oak is different, yet they are all recognizably oaks. >

“Believe me, Lucas, I know how you feel…”

“You haven’t the slightest…”

“*Be quiet.*”

Lucas, stopped cold by Prophecy at Need, looked at Chris Alan sullenly.

“When someone like you gets offended, that offense can be very difficult to uproot,” Chris Alan went on. “But I didn’t ask to be the Undying Singer any more than you asked to be constantly compared to me. I struggled for many years to establish my own identity: neither as the Undying Singer, nor as Nicholas’ Bane, nor as any of the other titles and nicknames that I seem to collect like butterflies, but simply as Chris Alan Starbright, White Tribesman. Nicholas Blackthorn didn’t understand me, and so he offered me something that I didn’t want at all – once the Lord helped me think through what his offer really entailed.

“Lucas, I wonder if *you* really understand just how much *I* resented and resisted all the attention I got as a Lightchild, from at least fifteen years old onward. Trust me: celebrity is overrated.” Chris Alan nodded. “And so is endless heterosexual congress, for that matter – as you’ll find out if you ever uproot your bitterness.” He turned and pressed a switch by the door. “Rafael, put our prisoner in stasis.”

“I obey,” replied Rafael over the speaker. Rafael’s shell was presently on the bridge.

“What will you do with him?” Detective Kahn asked once the otherspace closet was closed.

“He has to answer to several authorities,” Chris Alan replied, “to the Circle of Starbards, to the Assemblies of Light, to the Blademaster Academy at Covenant House, and to the Civil Court under the Council of Light. He was exiled with a Starblade to Callista’s Planet to bring out all that was in his heart – and now it has been exposed for all to see. He’ll have to face the consequences of that, and hopefully he’ll reform accordingly.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Kahn, “but doesn’t this whole affair fall under the heading of one of your Lightchild maxims: ‘the Lord of the Realms has a way of using people despite themselves, if necessary’?”

“You’re catching on,” said Autumn. “And if the former Alan Blackstar realizes and accepts that he’s been used in that way, then he’ll have learned a *real* lesson.”

Kahn shook his head. Chris Alan had explained earlier that under Covenant Law, what Lucas had been doing, or what the Sheiks of the Rim or the Maids of the Chalice were doing, was no better and no worse than what the “fringies” of Technopolis and other cities of the Rim were doing. In effect, one kind of outlaw (by that standard) had been played off against several others. Somehow, that seemed unfair to Kahn.

“You want fairness?” said Chris Alan quietly, reading his mind (which took little effort given Kahn’s facial expressions and body movements). “Then come back with us in-Sphere. Out-of-Sphere, people have to learn the hard way that doing what’s right in their own eyes won’t work in the long run. Back home, most people have learned otherwise…or else they come or are sent out here, like Lucas, until they do.”

Kahn sighed. “I’d probably have to find another line of work. No thanks, Captain…not yet. But if I change my mind…”

“Then if you need transport and can’t afford it, contact the Covenant Sphere and someone will be sent for you,” said Autumn. “We’ll come ourselves if at all possible.” Chris Alan nodded.

After taking leave of the rest of the crew, Detective Kahn stepped through the *Hind’s* portal to the surface of New Attica. Dawn was just breaking over the place he’d asked to be sent: the combined spaceport, seaport , airport and land transportation hub of South Technopolis, a sprawling, messy, often appallingly loud complex that aptly represented everything Kahn’s adopted world had made itself.

< What I just saw aboard the *Hind* makes the technical complexity of the Port pale by comparison – and yet all is beautiful and orderly, > Kahn mused. < From everything I’ve ever heard, one finds the same at every Deep Space Station and every world in-Sphere. Is that what makes the difference: the almost naïve moral clarity that Lightchildren such as the Starbrights have? >

Kahn sighed again. He’d grown to love this messy, complicated, frustrating, dangerous, and yet delightful city too much to leave her just yet. Perhaps some day, when she inevitably betrayed him in some very personal way…but not today.

Turning toward the nearest monorail terminal, Detective Kahn L’Vare walked back into his lady’s intimate embrace.

=========================

My thanks go to Jason Ward for his advice about the Broadleaf Form.