The only things in my mind are thoughts about my father. I take a quick suck at my feed tube and settle deeper into my g-cushions. Stars too numerous to count blaze and shimmer as they streak beyond my field of vision. All my senses feel slow and lax. My body seems to glide past the planets of its own free will. Of course my mind knows damn well it's an Insertion Carrier Armed for Reentry Under Stress--or ICARUS in military parlance--that's thrusting me forward faster than any vehicle in the universe. I'm calmer than I've ever been even as a core of radioactive junk shoots propulsion out the rear end of this one-man missile I'm riding. And all the while, the only thing I can think of is Dad and how I want to make him proud.

I'm a space marine on a suicide mission to assassinate the leader of an interstellar rebellion. This leader and his followers have fragged half of my buddies through cowardly terrorist assaults on most major outposts throughout the Milky Way. Assassination is no big deal. I've done it a million times. Okay, I exaggerate: 612 times, if you believe my official file. My unofficial kill count is probably double that. I'm just a demolition man with nothing left to prove. I've killed so many men I've run out of new ways to do it. I should be bored.

This time is different. The rebel leader I've been sent to terminate started his career years ago with a terrorist attack on my father's commercial spice freighter. Dad was lost in space, the whole freighter blown to atoms. That was way back when the resistance started. I was eighteen years old, just getting out of high-g boot camp. Fifteen years and hundreds of rebel bodies later I've finally gotten my mission, the one for which I joined up with the marines. High Command has finally figured out that if you kill the head, the body will follow. I was picked to chop the head off the devil himself--the rebel leader known only as The Enemy.

My lower back starts to tingle, so I know the deceleration is coming. Yeah, there's the planet on my laser-enhanced view screen. I'm coming over the horizon so fast the planet looks like a big rolling marble. The polarizers kick in as the terminator comes into view and blinds me. Cripes--this planet has got an enormous sun. The ICARUS is a newly-designed re-entry vehicle that has been tested only twice, and only once with a human passenger. It looks like an enormous bullet, and I'm riding inside it like it's a speed-cycle. The engineering and scientist types designed it to take the human body to the limit of its endurance. In the last test, the shielding broke up as soon as it hit atmosphere. The guy's face probably melted off before he knew what was happening, but nobody really knows since the whole thing was slag by the time it dug a two mile trench into the crust of the test planet. They doubled the shielding since that test, so I'm hoping for the best. The only reason this mission is not being called a test is because they were desperate to get a volunteer. But they didn't have to ask me twice. I can see my father's face even now before me as he was when I last saw him, in my mind's eye. He was a wise man. He brought me up well and taught me how to be a man. I want nothing but revenge for him. I've been working up the ranks with nothing in mind but killing terrorists rebels. Getting a crack at The Enemy himself, I feel like a kid on Christmas.

The entire craft starts to wobble and shake so badly I think my neck is going to snap at the base of my shoulders. I thank God for the g-cushions even while I'm wondering if I'll even survive to face one rebel terrorist.

Here it comes.

I grit my teeth, almost biting off my feed tube. The pain. God. My chest. Injection's not helping much.

Now it eases off. I feel the craft start to roll. It's angling me for an oblique atmosphere entry. I grip my g-handles as tightly as I can. I nod my head in my entry suit twice. The bitch's brew of adrenaline, anti-lactic acid serum, steroids, and God-only-knows-what-else doubles in seconds, keyed by my movement. I could have voiced-commed it to my entry suit, but I don't want to unclench my teeth. If I do, it might be the last thing I say before I bite my tongue off.

It feels like hours, but it's probably just seconds of rotation; the entire carrier spins like a blender as it tries to adjust its point of entry. After awhile I lose sense of the motion, but I'm still dazzled by the alternating flash of the planet and then its sun. Finally, the craft kicks into the heavy atmosphere at just over seven miles a second. Thrusters push and pull my body, all at the whim of the computer. The lab guys said the computer that controls the ICARUS would heat up so badly it will burn out seconds before I make planetfall. They said it's not so much the friction of entry as the high demands on the processors. In theory, it won't matter--at least, that's what the lab guys said; during the last few seconds of flight, the carrier is just working off momentum.

Clouds of vapor hit the view screen. I take another hit off the feed tube. Might be my last chance for awhile. My mind is a bit hazy with all the drugs I've had to take. I voice-com a different mix of brew. The suit obeys. My muscles swell. My head clears. And again all I can think about is Dad. He was so courageous and so good. He's the opposite of The Enemy I'm going to take out. My father risked his life for his men. He went down with his ship when he probably could have gotten away. He made sure he got off as many of his men as he could before his freighter was blown away. He represented justice and fairness to me, an old fashioned hero they don't make any more. The rebel leader is a cowardly murderer of innocents who has brought nothing but pain and suffering to the galaxy. I only wish my father were alive to see me now, to see his murderer go down.

The view screen gets greener. This is it.

But before I hit, my view screen picks up an incoming attack. Anti-air missile. A smart one. My descent slows a bit. The damn missile is trying to jam and control the ICARUS. The ICARUS' processors fight for control, and I almost think I can feel the whole thing heating up with the strain as it twists and turns.

Damn it. The AA missile makes the craft twitch off course a bit. It must be hitting me with electromagnetic pulses. I finger a manual stud, ejecting some electromagnetic countermeasures of my own, little mini-missiles, almost dart-sized. The little guys do their work and make the incoming AA into a stupid missile. It explodes prematurely a half mile behind me like some virgin teenager on his first date.

I've probably got ten seconds left when another missile comes at me on a flat trajectory. No time.

I instinctively try to jerk my head away, but the g-cushions make it a futile attempt. The missile clips the face of the ICARUS, careens off a quarter mile, and explodes. I've got warning lights all over the broken view screen. Some jets kick on. Others don't.

Damn.

I smack into the planet like a wet pancake against a wall. I can't see. My head hurts badly. God. Help me. I'm blind. No. Maybe it's just the view screen. It's out. Yeah. It's out. The entire inside must have filled with protective gel. Must be it. I grope for my ejection handle and pull hard.

Nothing. Not a damn thing. I've got to calm down. I request a different mix off the tube. I get it. Good. At least the suit seems to work. Can't see a thing though.

"Suit, where the hell am I? Why can't I see anything?"

No answer.

I manually dump the gel from the cocoon and deflate some anti-grav pads. I manage to get my hand in front of my chest plate to push a button. "Suit?"

"Damn it, suit!"

Looking all the world like some dumb gorilla beating his chest, I smack the button with my gloved palm.

"Yes, soldier?"

Damn suit.

"Suit, why can't I see anything?"

"You are blind."

"What do you mean? Is it the drugs? What?"

"I mean you are blind. It is not the drugs. Your organic optical receptors are damaged."

I reach up to my mask. It's broken. Shattered. I feel pulp where my eyes were, but there's no pain. Damn drugs.

"How deep am I?"

"You are six feet beneath the crust of this planet."

Not too deep. I shift in my cocoon. "Suit, give me max power on my wrist beam."

"Done."

I point to what I think is up and shoot. The cockpit goes. I fire again. And again. And again. Finally, I feel a litter of dirt and debris fall back on me like rain. I clamber shakily out of my dirt hole. It feels like my left leg is broken.

I smell heavy oxygen. I bend my feed tube back into place and suck.

"Suit, can you repair my faceplate?"

"Yes."

"Do it."

"Working."

Blind. Crippled. Screwed. Can't give up. I'm going to limp forward for Dad. The Enemy is going to die at my hand if I have to do it blind.

"Done."

"Alright. Feed my helmet and faceplate graphics into my neural tap."

I brace myself for the shock.

There it is. Not bad. The colors are all wrong. Everything looks like a computer sim. Might even make it easier, just like a virtual trainer. Just got to remember all my training. Remember Dad. Stay calm. Be brave. "Suit, kill the adrenaline, will you?"

"Done."

A high grade input lens feeds digitized images and data into my neural tap. I see the world like my suit does. It's disorienting, but not too bad. I'll never see a sunset the same way, but it doesn't matter. So I've lost my eyes. So what. I'm here to die anyway. This mission is not called suicidal because of low odds of survival. It was classified as suicidal just like the kamikaze missions the Japanese flew ages ago against the Americans. My death is a mission parameter; without it, I fail. But if I die here, countless miles away from my target, I'll fail anyway. I'll die an honorable death just like Dad.

I need to get moving.

The neural feed to my brain lets me see through a binocular lens in the helmet of my suit. The trees, the sky, my own hands--all of it looks like it's being shown on a heightened-color vid screen. And then I spot them: a couple of lanky silver killer-robs bearing down on me with nothing in their memory but kill programs.

Recon said this area was relatively unguarded. Maybe recon was right for once. The two robs were probably injected into the area by missile delivery vehicles. They come at me full tilt, expecting me to run away. I do that, I die fast. So I run right at one of the robs.

It takes a second or two for this rob to process this improbable data of a lone human on foot hoofing it right at him. I blast him full in his headpiece. I jump him, grab his arms, and pull him to the dirt. My heightened strength works wonders. The other rob starts blasting at me. My beams are too inaccurate at this range to hit the second rob, so I use the first as a shield. The headless rob's flexible metal body covers me well enough. As the second rob bears down on me, I jack my interface nub on my wrist through the in-port on the back of this rob. My brain tingles as I catch some feedback from the fried rob's CPU. My thoughts and commands are translated by my suit to electromagnetic pulses. The pulses force a mini-rocket to fire out of the rob's chest, obliterating the other rob just as it pounces on me.

I hear the suit repairing again. I feel heat in my calve. And pain. I let it ride. No more pain-killers. Not yet, anyway. Maybe at the end, right before it's over. I "look" down. There's a huge chunk of metal shrapnel from the destroyed rob buried in the side of my leg. The suit futilely attempts to repair around the shard sticking out of my calve. I reach down, grasp the shard with my gloves, and yank it out with one quick tug.

It hurts.

The suit repairs. From one of the layers in the mesh of the suit, it dumps all sort of crap through my system, down my leg, to start repairs. It won't be finished with the job before I am, that's for sure. I limp on into the forest, in the direction the suit tells me is north--toward the rebel leader, toward my revenge for Dad. I've got to remember everything he taught me. Got to be the best soldier. The best ever.

I plod forward in what I hope is the right direction. The suit says this is north, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m getting static all across the screen. My leg hurts like hell. I must have cracked a bone on impact. I tell my suit to double the usual load of chemicals to my leg and brain and limp forward.

The ploy has worked so far. They only sent two robs after me to investigate. Sloppy rebels. Should have sent their whole damn terrorist army.

Must have rained here recently. Grass is all muddy. I barely notice the glint of light ahead, miles away. Looks like they’re sending in more troops. Must not have liked what the earlier robs saw.

I watch the vapor behind the missiles and start counting the trails. Damn. Looks to be four or more of them this time. Better check.

"Suit, how many incoming?"

"Ten silverfish model insertion vehicles," suit says.

"Ten robs? Damn it."

"Elaboration: silverfish model insertion vehicles carry two robs per delivery body."

Twenty then.

"Suit. Glove ECM. Set for silverfish insertion vehicle at my mark."

I wait until the missiles are only a few miles away, starting their final descent toward me.

"Now."

The suit ejects a tiny dish antennae from my left gauntlet. It starts spinning immediately as I point it toward the ten silvery streaks coming closer over the distant tree line. It sucks in whatever transmission the missiles' nosecones are putting out to do navigation and spits garbage right back on the same frequency. Screws their GPS data royally. Like churning your legs in a little pool.

Some of the missiles go loopy. I don’t even stop to follow them. I just slog on through the mud.

I soon hear a high-pitched squeal.

One of the ‘fish spears right into the ground in front of me. The shock throws me back twenty feet. Shrapnel is everywhere. I stumble and somehow manage to stand. Sensors say five robs are closing in. The rocket engine on this ‘fish in front of me is out of control and hasn’t stopped firing even though its nose is buried in the mud. "Suit, give me some coolant."

I run up to the missile, punch off its control panel near its hot tail with my metal fist, and start stripping wires. I'm fumbling badly after awhile. The suit injects coolant into my epidermis. Crazy chemicals help minimize the damage, but mostly they relieve the sensation of burning I should be feeling even through the suit, deadening my sense of touch. Between that and the computer-generated display I am using for eyes, it will be a miracle if this jury-rigged wiring job works. Got to focus.

Finally, I finish my hotwire job. I jack my interface nub on my wrist into the rocket. The two robs inside the body of the downed missile never ejected; they're still fast asleep inside. I hope they stay that way because I need a ride.

"Suit, give me silverfish control."

"Confirmed."

Nothing apparent has happened, but I should now have command control over the 'fish missile. "Suit, pump me up." I reach deep into the control panel of the rocket and grab something metal to hold on to.

I don’t stand a chance against the five killer-robs that I see clearing some trees a few yards to my right. The rebels have given me my transportation out of here, and I’m going to ride it right up their backside.

"Silverfish, retros full." I'm jerked around like a rag doll as the missile's retrorockets nudge its nose out of its shallow grave. Before it can slide me back into the robs, I yell, "Silverfish, 500 feet, north, now, damn it!"

Ignoring my expletive, the rocket lifts immediately. I hope this hunk of junk has enough fuel, or it's going to be a short trip.

Treetops clip my dangling legs as the missile hurtles me along at supersonic speed. My left leg is burning like fire. I wanted to stay below their sensors' range, but it won't matter if I lose my legs.

"Silverfish, up 100 more feet."

Better. Not catching every limb. But the sound is deafening. My faceplate didn’t repair as cleanly as it should have, and the rocket engine right below me is loud as hell. "Suit, kill my auditory." More damned chemicals, injected to deaden my sense of hearing temporarily.

I see the city grow closer through the graphic representation generated by my faceplate. I have to crane my neck all the way up to see as the rocket hurtles ahead at mach five, straight toward the center of the rebel city.

Two puffs of smoke burst from the trees a few miles ahead. Two spears of white emerge from the puffs and head directly for my hijacked missile.

I count. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

Now! "Silverfish, twenty-five degrees west!"

The missile jinks left. The strength-enhancers I called for earlier do their work as my hand inside the body of the missile keeps me steady with an inhuman grip. As the g's increase, my shoulder wrenches from its socket with a pop I can feel all the way to my neck. The anti-air missiles follow.

I can feel one pass over my head by inches. The other passes right across the body of my missile, exploding right in front of my bloody face.

Lucky. Nothing hit me. The rocket is not so lucky. I look up to see burns and scoring all over the body of the missile above me. Then it really hits the fan. A hatch pops off, and one of the killer-robs in my hijacked missile wakes up. It pokes its fat head out of the opening as it tries to process what the hell is going on. The beady red eyes soon fasten onto the hitchhiker below him. It grips the outside of the rocket as we jet past thick trees. It’s about fifteen feet away, its feet closest to me. I watch, paralyzed, unable to believe my bad luck. Damn it. I have to think of something. Dad said there was never any situation to which I could not find a solution. Time to put that bit of advice to the test.

The metal beast claws its way toward me. An arm-laser pops out of a panel on its forearm. It starts to aim right at my head which suddenly goes clear.

That’s it!

"Silverfish, deploy killer-rob."

Nothing happens. What?

The sparkling red eyes home in on a weak spot. The rob is fighting the vicious slipstream and crazy bucking of the missile. It takes its time, deliberate and calculating. It knows I'm not going anywhere. Right between its evil red eyes I see some sort of weird character stenciled on its forehead. A number? The number "two"?

"Silverfish, deploy killer-rob one."

The whole missile bucks as I feel the other rob on the opposite side of this ‘fish eject out of the other hatch. I watch it slowly fall to earth. I was hoping it would jerk the other rob off the missile, but no such luck. I know that when I look up I’m dead. The pain in my shoulder starts to break through the drugs.

I finally look up to see my buddy rob number two fighting for control, gripping with its fingertips into its exposed hatch’s chamber. It tries to right itself for a final shot. Last chance.

"Silverfish, deploy killer-rob two."

Suit reports, "Feedback from silverfish shows a malfunction and safety override. No rob in cell two."

Rob two clambers near my head and lifts an arm to take aim.

"Silverfish, manual override, open hatch two now, damn you!"

Mercifully, the hatch kicks out its empty inner chamber, tossing the second rob off with it. It slams across my back, through the slipstream, and down to the trees a mile behind me.

I take a deep breath. "Suit, increase painkillers to my right shoulder."

"Working."

I press my shoulder against the body of the missile to pop it back into joint.

"Silverfish, twenty-five degrees north."

It obeys, and I'm about to celebrate my little victory when the rocket starts to sputter. I think about asking the suit for a fuel report on the 'fish, but I know its almost empty and decide to spend the time scouring the upcoming horizon in my faceplate display.

As the missile clears the trees, I see the city only a few miles away. I look for the tower, the headquarters of the terrorist leader, The Enemy. From space our advance troops are supposed to be painting the tower with a beam of ultraviolet light to make it easy for me to identify. I don't "see" it anywhere.

I decide to sacrifice distance for altitude. I need to know where the tower is. It might be on the other side of the city for all I know. "Silverfish, increase altitude 2,000 feet."

The sputtering increases as the missile weakly noses upward. Then I see it, a bright shining purple image on my view screen's artificial display. I command the 'fish to make a small course correction and lower altitude.

I finally catch a break. From the perimeter of the city, a dozen or more anti-air missiles rise to meet me and the renegade 'fish. The 'fish sputters out just yards from the tower. The AA missiles lose track of my ride when the heat signature off its tail disappears. Even though I'm moving dozens of feet per second, it feels like I'm gliding into the tower, while the AA explodes out of range behind me.

The missile punctures the plasteel wall of the fortress, and I let myself roll with the crash. I slam into an interior wall and almost lose consciousness. My fake vision flickers and then returns. I shake my head. I'm still alive. Can't die yet.

I muscle my way to one knee and try to stand.

"Suit, give me motion sensor."

No response.

I slap my chest plate.

"Damn it! Suit!"

"Eewaiting keemand."

Its voice processor is shot. "Suit! Give me motion sensor now!"

Multiple blips appear before and around me. I ready my wrist beam and move forward.

"Suit, I need tracking information for target one." Time to find The Enemy.

"Working. Keemencing search."

Before I can get angle and distance information for The Enemy, a terrorist soldier pops up in front of me, blasting away at point blank.

My chest explodes, or rather, the suit's chest explodes. Multiple projectiles pound and shred my protective layer. I rush the man and trigger my wrist beam.

It should have blown his head off, but I get nothing. Must have been wrecked in the crash. I drive the tip of the broken blaster on my gauntlet into the soldier's chest. My enhanced strength is too much for his ordinary battle armor. My arm punctures clean through him, and before I can wrench my hand free, another terrorist comes around a corner and starts blasting away. I put the dead guy in front of me and rush the second terrorist. He keeps blasting away at his pal until I get close enough to drive the dead guy's battle helmet into the new guy's faceplate. Both their necks snap so loud I can hear it through my half-deadened ears.

I pick up the soldier's blaster and "look" forward. The motion sensor shows nothing in front of me so I keep moving. I turn a corner and look around. No motion detected. Something's wrong.

"Suit, where's target one. I need motion info now!"

No answer. It's dead. The soldier's blaster must have destroyed it for good. Time to do this the hard way.

I read the signs on the walls. I committed this tower's layout to memory before the mission, and I know I'm only two rooms away from where The Enemy should be. He'd be crazy not to be in the command center. I try to close my eyes to concentrate, but I can't. The fake image I "see" stays lit. There's no way for me to shut eyes I don't have.

Finally, I pick a door, blast it down, and step through. As I do the tower starts to shake. It's started. The air defenses around the tower are launching. Following the ICARUS I rode was a wave of interstellar missiles. They don't have a chance of reaching this tower, but they're just a distraction anyway, to overload the planet's sensors so I could sneak into the city. They're way too late, but this is one time when a snafu is going to help me.

Waves of soldiers have been thrown at this planet, one wasted life after another, but the rebellion forces are too well equipped. They have more advanced technology than the government and have no compunction about using it. High command hoped a one-man ship could penetrate and succeed where battalions had failed. The attack on the city now means my commanders know where I am and know I have penetrated the tower. Every thought I have is being tightcast back to them from a neural implant deep within my skull, translating everything I think into common language. If you bastards are getting this, I hope you know it's working. It looks like you were right. Just let everybody know what I'm doing and why--this is revenge for my father's murder and every other innocent victim of The Enemy.

Outside the door to the command center of the terrorists, I pull a small box from within my suit, from right next to my heart. It's tiny enough to hide in my palm, but there's no reason to hide it anymore. It's just a small box with a little red stud on it. I pull off my left glove to expose my hand. I need to touch the stud with my bare index finger to trigger it, to set off the ultimate weapon, to avenge my father and rid the galaxy of the most monstrous tyrant since Hitler. Fibrous biomechanical explosives have been embedded throughout my body. I'm a living bomb. All I need to do is push the button in the box with my finger to detonate a high-yield explosion that will level the entire tower from the inside out. I contemplate my death for a few seconds. I hope you bastards at high command don't mind allowing me this, because you have no choice now. On the long journey to this planet, I recalled the wise lessons my father taught me, about honor and duty, about living up to high standards of courage, about not following someone blindly no matter how good they might seem, about thinking for myself. I hope I'm living up to his ideal by dying this way. I can think of no better death than one that will redeem every citizen from The Enemy and his terror. This is for Dad. I hope this all gets broadcast to every citizen, every last man, woman, and child, so that my father will be remembered, so his death was not in vain.

Alright. It's time. Time to go through the doors, into the command center. Part of me says I need to make sure I am close enough to the center to make sure I get The Enemy with the blast, while part of me is just curious enough to want to know that he is really here--that this was not all a waste of time.

When I step through the door, I see him. The Enemy. He stands there in shock. He is in full battle armor, with his visor down, but I know it's him. The suit he wears is the one I have seen in hundreds of broadcast holograms after each terrorist incident he perpetrated. The Enemy has never been shown without the suit. It's part of his mythos, wearing the battle suit of a common soldier, as if he were some modern day Castro. The only difference between his battle suit and all his follower's is the trademark skull on his chest. It grins at me, almost mocking me, as if it is daring me to push the button.

I reach across to push the button before he can defend himself. I brace myself for the explosion and wish the suit could still pump me full of painkillers, but I've got no such luxury since it's dead.

I reach for the button and then reach again, but it's gone. I lower my head to "see" what's wrong, where it could have gone, but the button is still there in my right hand, right where it was before. It's my left index finger that's gone. I only have stubs at the ends of my first three fingers on my left hand, each stub is long as my intact pinky. I must have lost them somewhere along the way and never realized it.

I'm about to thank God for the voice-activated backup on the thing, but my voice is gone. I'm not sure if my throat is damaged or if it's just too dry to make noise.

There's only one more failsafe on the damn thing. If it's destroyed, it triggers the explosives throughout my body.

I drop it in front of me and raise my boot to crush it. Before I can, The Enemy barrels into me and knocks me onto my back. He sticks the end of his blaster into my face and yells. Despite the dullness of the sound, I can make out the voice.

"Dad?" I manage to croak out.

"Yes, son, it's me. Don't struggle. I don't want to hurt you."

It can't be. My father? The Enemy? How could this be? It must be the pain getting to me finally.

"Dead. I thought you were dead." I can barely understand my own cracked voice, but somehow he makes sense of it.

"No, son. I'm here. I'm alive. And I'm glad you're here."

"But how?" I whisper. My throat burns. "Terrorists killed you--blew up your ship."

The man shakes his helmeted head. "No, I only did that to fake my death, to cover for my leadership of the rebellion. I wanted to protect you."

It can't be. My father would never do what The Enemy had done. It all went against everything I knew about him.

I shake my head. It can't be true. The drugs, the damage. It must be getting to me. I'm hallucinating. I have to find the trigger and smash the button. Finish the job.

I summon every last ounce of my enhanced strength. The last drip of natural adrenaline filters through my broken body and gives me the power to throw The Enemy off my chest. I roll and scramble to find the button.

Somehow I find the little box. I raise my boot over it, but my father's voice stops me again.

"Wait, son. Look. I'll give you my weapon."

I lower my foot and glance at him. He tosses me the blaster, but I miss the throw, and it clatters to the floor next to me. He raises the visor to show me my father's face. It is him. It's a miracle. It makes no sense, but there he is. My father stands before me and asks me not to stomp on the suicide switch, the device that can blow the entire tower to dust.

I shake my head uncontrollably.

"How could you? How could you do this? A terrorist? You've blown up thousands of innocent civilians, you've slaughtered cities with biomechanical viruses, and--God, you've--you've killed thousands of women and children, even babies. How could you--my father, how could you, after all you taught me?"

Inexplicably, he just smiles at me. Even through the crude simulated display of my cracked view screen, I can tell it's that same crooked smile I know is only my father's. It has to be him, but my mind rejects the idea like a foreign substance.

"What did I teach you to believe?"

It's the same calm voice that raised me. How can this be?

"You--you taught me courage and integrity. You raised me to fight for what is right, to fight for justice."

The smile never vanishes.

"And is this right," he says; he does not ask. "Are you doing this for justice or something else."

I pick up the blaster and point it at him. I try to shout. It comes out raspy and weak. "I'm doing this to avenge you!" The ludicrousness of the statement hits me even as I say it. I fall to my knees.

"To assassinate another human being? Regardless of what I have done, are you following my lessons?"

My father takes a step closer to me. I point the blaster at his head to stop him.

"I was trying to follow you, Father. That's all I'm trying to do."

He stops, and the smile fades. "Then you have forgotten all I taught you. I never wanted you to follow me. You have failed."

"No. I can't fail you. I won't."

My father--The Enemy--steps closer, and I fire the blaster out of instinct, without a thought. The shot takes his head clean off at the neck. The body clatters forward in its armor.

I toss the blaster aside. It slides across the room. My view screen flutters. I can barely make out my surroundings. The energy cells in my armor are failing. On my knees, I feel for the trigger box. Next to his body, I find it and hold it up to my view screen. Still intact. Of course it is. I'm still here. I stare at it for a moment. I look at it and then look at my father's body. No reason to smash the trigger now. I got him. I got him with an ordinary soldier's blaster. The Enemy. My father. I can live now. I can escape. They can heal me, if I can just get away. I stumble to a doorway, but before I leave, I take one last look at my father's body. He is still twitching miserably in his death throes. I stumble to my knees and stay there watching it for more than a minute. It doesn't stop. It keeps twitching and vibrating. I look more closely at the decapitated body as I try to strain the eyes I no longer have. At last I see the horrible truth through the broken view screen display. There at the neck I can make out wires and mechanical works. My God. My father. He was nothing but a construct.

Just as these thoughts wash over me, I see another man before me, standing next to my father's, or rather my ersatz father's, my mechanical father's, robot body. As I look upward to see who this new man is, I wonder if my father was a robot all my life. Was my whole childhood a sham? When I stare into the face of the new man, it hits me. I do not know the face of the new man before me, but I know the voice as he speaks.

"The simplest of plans," The Enemy says, "are usually the best of plans."

He fires his blaster and my right hand separates from my arm at the wrist. The trigger falls to the floor.

"High command's plan might have worked, but my defense was simpler. Spies revealed your mission. A tightcast hacker hijacked your thoughts. We knew everything we needed about you. Use the father, or a reasonable facsimile anyway, to confound the son."

With the stubby fingers of my left hand I reach for the trigger. The Enemy kicks it away across the room and points the blaster at my face. Mercifully, the view screen finally fails, and all is blackness.

"He was right, you know. He was programmed in haste, but he was the father you knew, made of the stuff of your memories and thoughts. If you had learned what he taught you, you might have succeeded. You should have followed the teaching and not the teacher."

END OF TRANSMISSION. TIGHTCAST TERMINATED. NEURAL IMPLANT FAILURE.