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[Continued From Part Two]

     Vast tracts of scrub land abutting with lush, green forests growing
by pristine, crystal-clear lakes, with cities towns and villages meshing
unobtrusively into the whole. Beautiful and graceful polychromatic birds
of prey wheeling under a slightly off-blue sky which showed no trace of a
cloud. Warm winds scented with the faintest hint of peppermint or
something that was close enough to amount to the same thing. Skittish herd
beasts sighting you, staring into your eyes for an infinity of seconds
before bolting into hiding. A post-industrial world kept polished like an
unpolluted jewel by the simplistic lifestyles of the far from simple
natives.
     This was Iskandar.
     "'s too quiet," complained Shockwave glumly, fingering the linguistic
chip that had usurped the music collection in his uniform's interface
slot. Next to him, Monopulse shot an elbow into his ribs before Digulio
could hear the griping. She needn't have bothered, however, as Digulio's
attention was directed to the fore of the group, where Ambassador Dumont
stood, barely able to support her bulk in Iskandar's slightly higher than
Earth gravity. She faced the small welcoming party that had been assembled
to meet them upon arrival: one of the Ones who Speak, possibly her other
half in the negotiations; two of the Ones who Fight, there as honour
guards; and two Farspeakers. From the slight telepathic activity that she
sensed from the last two, Dumont guessed that they had had much training
in extending the range of their Arisite-induced gestalt mind. She
speculated that the entire group was a gestalted whole, but the group-mind
was far too subdued for her to pick up without an all-out mental
intrusion, from which she would refrain without permission.
     Damned if she would make that mistake on a negotiation mission again.
     With only one worry left in her mind, Dumont decided that the time
was right to open negotiations. She would have to bring up her concern as
delicately as possible and hope that no one suspected any ulterior
motivations in doing so. Not so hard to do, fortunately, as it concerned
their Ninite rivals.
     "I greet you from the stars," began the Ambassador in the Iskandarian
religious tongue, as she spoke the ritual greeting which had been
developed only months earlier, when it had been discovered that there was
currently no good way for those who came from space to properly introduce
themselves. Though extremely traditional people, the inhabitants of
Iskandar were not adverse to adding a bit here and their to their culture
to bring it in line with modern times. "We have come with the open hand of
friendship and the open mind of peace. Our vessel stands open to you."
     Digulio barely managed to avoid flinching as his audio clip
translated the ambassador's words. Ceremonially, a traveller seeking to
trade with a particular subset of the Iskandarians would engage in a trade
of homes: giving away his or her cart, wagon or whatever made it possible
to return to where one had come from. This was to show one's trust that
the bargaining partners would provide them with lodgings and the
necessities of life. So long as no taboos were broken and no rituals
scoffed at, the vehicle was returned untouched. For those that muffed
things, however, return of transport tended to be the least of their
worries.
     "Our homes are yours," replied the One who Spoke, opening his arms
expansively, a gesture that was mirrored by the other four in his
entourage. Dumont smiled inwardly - if she had needed proof that the group
was gestalted, she now had it. Her gaze drifted to the slight bulges of
jewellery under the natives' cloth-fibre tunics, bulges which seemed to
beckon to her. Arisite? Most probably, she guessed, though it seemed that
she would not be allowed a chance to check her guess visually until some
indeterminate later date.
     "We accept the comforts which you offer," replied Dumont, nearly
stumbling over the complex phrase. Iskandarian was an incredibly subtle
language, almost gaining complexity at a logarithmic rate as one added new
concepts to the same sentence. This was a pitfall of language development
amongst telepaths, for the spoken word could never convey what the open
mind could. Monique began to look forward to the moment when the ritual
greeting was done, so that she could reactivate her translator unit
without offending her hosts. Telepathic skimming for proper phrasings was
also a no-no at the moment; use of psionics in the presence of a race
which habitually gestalted with one another on a mental level would
probably be the diplomatic equivalent of walking up to the One who Spoke
and kneeing him in the testicles while making colourful and lewd
suggestions about which lower animals' genes he might have picked up from
his ancestors' mating habits.
     "Do you come to speak?" asked the One who Spoke. Dumont grimaced as
she phrased her next reply with exquisite care.
     "We come to speak, and by speaking, to arrange a trade of goods if
you will hear our words." Dumont fairly sweated with the effort of
remembering that reply. Too much depended upon exact intonations, glottal
stops and specifically timed pauses. She was rather glad of the scotch
which currently sat in her stomach, helping to sooth her nerves while she
spoke. For once, her bulk had an advantage in that it took the edge off of
her binder; she absolutely refused to allow her personal problems to
reduce her to a state where she was drunk during a negotiation. Buzzed,
yes. Drunk, never.
     "We will hear your words," replied the One who Spoke. "They are
spoken well and honour us."
     Dumont smiled and gratefully tripped her translator unit. "Thank you.
Would it be rude to ask you for your name now?"
     "No, it would not be," replied the One who Spoke. "Would it be rude
of us to ask for yours in turn?"
     Dumont's interest was piqued; clearly the One who Spoke was asking
for all names though he addressed only Monique. It seemed that he truly
spoke for the entire group, and Dumont was expected to do the same while
they were together.
     "Not at all," she replied, allowing the One who Spoke to go first. It
was a minor breech of etiquette to make a trade out of the order that it
was suggested. She had asked for names first and the One who Spoke would
provide them before she did.
     "I am Jan K'Nura, of the Mek'depah," he said, introducing himself as
a Counsel of the Ministry of Diplomatic Affairs. He gestured to the Two
who Fought. "These are Jan A'suuka and Jan T'poric, of the Mek'Chutsa."
The two were Soldiers, obviously enough. He nodded again, this time to the
Farspeakers. "These are Jan Q'path and Jan V'borin, of the Mek'Lu." Even
in a telepathic society, it seemed that there was need of those who could
rise above the conventional limitations of the average and train
themselves to send further and perceive more than others. But Dumont was
curious about a redundancy that she sensed, though she would have to hold
off asking after it until introduction were made.
     "I am Ambassador Monique Dumont. This is Commander Digulio." She then
moved to gesture to Shockwave and the paranormal called Journeyman.
"Behind him stand Sublieutenant Dirk Engles of the Fringe Corps and Ensign
Marcus Harrison of the Fringe Corps. To their left is Sublieutenant Tricia
Patterson of the Earthguard. The remainder of my team remain within the
vessel as per your request, and several others are also aboard, securing
it for its stay on the planet."
     "We are gratified to make your acquaintances," replied Jan K'Nura.
"Do you need any information to make this place more familiar to you?"
     "Actually, I did have a question or two," replied Dumont, feeling her
palms begin to sweat. She decided to start small, and work her way up to
what she really wanted to ask. "You introduced yourselves both as the One
who Speaks and also of the Mek'depah. Isn't that a bit redundant?"
     Jan K'Nura smiled slightly, a gesture that seemed to reach the rest
of the group in varying degrees. "No, it is not. I'm of the Mek'depah
because that is what I have trained for all my life. I am the One who
Speaks because I stand here," Jan K'Nura tapped the ground with his foot.
"rather than there," he pointed to Jan V'borin, "or anywhere else."
     "I'm not sure I follow completely."
     The Jans smiled as one. "You will," said Jan K'Nura. "Time passes and
with it comes wisdom. Or at least, that's why my grandsire said. Who has
time to listen to old men when you're young?" This time the entire Jan
group laughed at some deeper meaning in what was said. Monique chuckled
along with the others, to avoid offence.
     "Another question," she continued, after the laughter had subsided.
She decided how she would phrase the question which was burning in her
heart, so as not to arouse suspicion. "I'm surprised that the Ninite
contingent aren't present. Was that intentional?"
     "That," began Jan K'Nura, "was intentional. We met them alone, so
shall we meet you and your people. Today you will be kept separate.
Tomorrow, however, we will listen to both sides' words and as importantly,
what the other has to say about them."
     A day's reprieve, thought Dumont. Time enough to steel her nerves,
work up her courage and with luck, avoid passing out from the strain of
having to confront Edward again.
     "May we show you to your host families?" asked Jan K'Nura, gesturing
towards the deceptively simplistic village which, Dumont knew, would prove
to have many unseen but appreciated modernistic comforts and conveniences.
     "We would greatly appreciate that," replied Dumont. In response, Jan
K'Nura turned and walked in the direction of the village, leaving the
others standing in place. As he reached a point on the opposite side of
his group equidistant from where he stood before, the Ones who Fought and
the Farspeakers changed places, turning also to face the village.
     "Follow us, then," said Jan K'Nura, leading the shifted group towards
the Iskandarian city. Following along, Digulio allowed himself the
faintest hint of a smile. His staff was keeping out of trouble and Dumont
was performing admirably. He could almost forget about her response upon
discovering who was on the Ninite contact team. With luck, though Digulio
put almost no stock in the concept, he would get through this mission
without having to bite off the legs of anyone under his command. He was
fairly sure that Captain Sheen would frown upon something like that, and
he did prefer to avoid the woman's displeasure.
***
     "Nice place," said Monopulse, looking around her room. Her tone made
it rather clear to Shockwave that she was less than impressed.
     "Hey, it's paradise," replied Shockwave, with a slow grin.
     "Why?"
     "Because I can finally put my music chip back in."
     Monopulse giggled slightly, then smiled as she sat down on the
astoundingly comfortable chair which had been provided with the simple
room. "Is music the only thing that you think about?"
     "Nope," replied Shockwave, slotting a selection of the most hardcore
rock available to sentients in the UCP, Inc. "I also think of kissing
pretty girls while music blares in the background."
     "You are such a charmer," replied Monopulse, smiling faintly.
     "Comes from living a clean life."
     "You, clean life?"
     "That's what I put down on the tax forms," replied Shockwave, bobbing
to the melodious strains of the Melting Cerebellums. Monopulse watched her
lover for several moments before a nagging need to speak came over her.
     "Dirk," began Monopulse, her tone shifting to a serious one. "Can we
talk about something, please?"
     "Sure thing," replied Shockwave. "We've got sports, trivia, weather
or grab-bag."
     "No, I'm not fooling around," replied Monopulse, now very serious.
     "I know," said Shockwave, grinning. "Want to fix that?"
     "I need to talk to you seriously, Dirk," said Monopulse, stressing
the last word. Sensing that the time for humour was long since past,
Shockwave switched off his music clip and faced Monopulse. "I need to...
talk about us."
     "What about us?" asked Shockwave, cringing inwardly. Though his luck
with the ladies never failed on the second try, the moment someone with
whom he shared a relationship started talking about 'us' or 'direction',
Dirk knew instinctively that the party was dead, and he need only wait for
the corpse to stop twitching.
     "I just..." began Monopulse, looking down at the floor. "Well, Dirk,
I love you. Please don't forget that, no matter what I say."
     "Unh hunh," replied Shockwave, wishing that he hadn't killed his
music chip. He'd heard this spiel a hundred times before. So often that he
really didn't have to listen to it anymore. Each time he heard it, it was
like another piece of him - the part that really cared about life, people
and getting on - got hacked away. Dirk tried to bury the pain under an air
of uncaring, but hearing Monopulse say the words that always led to an end
of another love tore into him anew.
     "But... how we got together... I was hurting and you were there... we
need to talk about it, Dirk. I want for this to work, so much, but I need
to know that it's not just coasting on nav-control. I need to know that
there's something underneath. Some depth."
     "Right," replied Shockwave. Truth be told, he listened only to every
third or fourth word that Monopulse was saying, as he tried to keep
himself together. Shockwave desperately wanted to release all of his anger
and fear, but instead held his peace. Tears never seemed to help anything,
so he refused to shed any.
     "I know there's something there. I want to explore it with you.
Together."
     "Sure," said Shockwave. He wasn't hearing much of anything at all, as
he felt his mind go somewhat numb. Suddenly, Dirk wanted nothing more than
to be away from the woman who was surly calling it quits with him, even as
he sat there, staring at her beautiful face and wondering for the
umpteenth time in as many relationships what he had done wrong to bring
things to this.
     "So, I want to get to know you better," said Monopulse, moving
closer. "I want to share myself with you, and not just physically. I mean
our pasts... our dreams... our hates... everything that we haven't covered
yet. I want to know you and I want you to know me."
     "Unh hunh..."
     Monopulse's voice dropped to a low whisper. "I want to share how I
feel, Dirk. About what they did to me. I need you to hold me and I need to
tell you how dirty they made me feel... how violated... oh god, Dirk..."
     She was crying, and that made Shockwave want to. Crying meant that
she had just incanted the mystic phrase that would rip their relationship
asunder. Dirk's heart was already in that state. With trembling hands, he
reached for his suit clip and switched on the chip player, volume maxed
out. "I need some air," he mumbled, stumbling for the door to Monopulse's
room.
     "Dirk?" asked Monopulse, not believing that he was walking out at
this moment. "Dirk! Wait, Dirk, please!"
     Shockwave shoved his hands in pockets, hunching over as he wandered
out of the small home in which he boarded. He had no idea why Monopulse
had decided to call it quits... in fact, he could remember almost nothing
of the encounter. It was better that way. It couldn't hurt him as much if
he didn't remember.
     Allowing mind to find solace through the effort of the feet,
Shockwave wandered towards a small knot of Iskandarians, who seemed to be
deep in meditation around a small metallic icon. With nothing better to
do, he wandered closer, forgetting that his language chip had been left
behind, sharing that with the sobbing Monopulse.
***
     Scattered as they were, the Kul were deep within an internal debate.
Their thoughts were not separate strands of conversation, but a pool; one
mind thinking to itself.
     --He is perfect in every way, save being from offworld... there is
little objection within this one that he be chosen... he must still be
tested, as is our custom... I know I disagree, but I realise how important
the old ways are, they must be preserved in this instance... he will
discover such a fullness of self if he passes through the gauntlet...
there is another group here, which he directly opposes... our customs
demand that if we test our champion, we must test one from their group as
well... it is only right to do so... I am of consensus... one from the Nin
and one from the UCP will be tested. May our champion succeed.--

     In his host family's home, unaware that he occupied every thought of
every member of House Kul's gestalt mind, Edward Stewart worked long into
the night, refreshing his memory of Iskandarian customs and language. It
would be a pitched battle tomorrow, and no doubt would be won or lost with
the first shot. This time, Dumont would not get the upper hand with him.
This time, he had a cause worth fighting for: preserving the paradisal
world of Iskandar from the tender mercies of UCP, Inc. It was one that he
could not permit himself to lose, nor was that going to happen. For
Monique Dumont had an Achilles Heel, and Edward Stewart knew exactly how
to get at it. With a small smile, he examined the contents of a plain
manila envelope, bulging and yellowed with the years. This would be the
stone with which David slew a fat Goliath... and won the freedom of
Iskandar.
***
     Sliding through Wraithspace on a preprogrammed course, the Nin spy
and once Black Serf Nixaen crouched within his escape capsule, quietly
cursing life, death, every Lord in succession and every deity from every
world that he could think of. When the novelty of blasphemy began to wear
thin, he switched to adapting classic folk songs into rather vulgar and
suggestive ballads. This lasted for only a few hours before Nixaen stopped
to eat dinner.
     "Mm, mm," he said, ripping open a packet of survival rations. "I
wonder what it's going to be tonight! Beef Wellington? Eggs Benedict?
Turkey under glass? Why no! It's more of this suspicious looking processed
protein! I guess the chef's in a rut these days. Must have a talk with
him. Perhaps he's been moody about my small tips."
     Nixaen managed to polish off his meal with a minimum of gagging,
before turning his attention to his minidatapad. Refusing to admit to
himself that 'Miko's Doughnut Adventure' was beginning to look even
remotely attractive as an entertainment option, he opened a new file and
decided to embark upon a temporary career change: he would write the next
week away.
     Unfortunately, three hours and twelve six-line files later, Nixaen
had to face the fact that he might not have quite the self discipline
required to pursue such a concentrated regimen of writing. If only he had
something else to do, so he could flip back and forth between it and his
work when he lost interest...
     Nixaen eyed the icon representing the notepad's one game. With a sigh
he tapped it, running the program. If it would help him pursue the only
other entertainment option in the escape vessel, Nixaen would just have to
save the world from doughnuts, or do whatever the game's objective was.
     A chipper song, played entirely in march-tempo, sounded from the
notepad as Miko's face appeared on the screen. She winked, and in a
digitised voice told Nixaen very sincerely: "I wuv you!"
     "Give me strength..." groaned Nixaen, looking for a way to disable
the sound. There wasn't one. He began to wonder whether or not the notepad
would reach Iskandar in fewer pieces than he had drops of blood.
***
WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT?

     Beats the heck out of me. If you'd like to find out, either send me
the deed to your house and all of your worldly belongings, or else wait
for John Bankert to pick up the slack in the very next episode of ROUND
ROBIN (the Second Cycle), on Superguy: the one to grow on.

This story is a derivative work based on "Round Robin," Copyright
1992, 1993 John Bankert, Eric Alfred Burns, Gary W. Olson, Bill
Paul and Evan Pongress and is used by permission.

"Round Robin: The Second Cycle" is Copyright 1996 Christopher
Angelini, John Bankert, Eric Alfred Burns, Mason Kramer and Gary W.
Olson.  Electronic distribution is permitted as
per the Superguy FAQ.  All rights reserved.