Thomas demanded explanations and refused to believe almost everything he heard.

He believes Avata projects strange images into his mind. He believes I have learned from Avata, that I am a master of hallucination. He believes only what he can touch, and then he doubts that.

Panille recalled his own words: “Avata is not hallucinogenic. They are not even they. That’s why I use the term Avata. That’s why I call a hylighter Avata.”

“I know that word!” Thomas was accusatory.

“The Oneness which is present in the many. It’s a word from one of the old languages of my mother’s people.”

“Your mother!” Thomas was astounded.

“Didn’t Ship tell you? I was womb-bred, womb-grown and nursed. I thought you said Ship told you everything.”

Thomas flashed him a dark scowl which showed that Panille was striking at sensitive areas. But nothing had stopped Thomas from forming his army—no warnings about Avata’s nature, no jibes at Thomas’ limited information. Half of the army waited above them now—a mixed crew of E-clones and normals—all of them praying that the freighter from Ship was bringing weapons and other support. Some had descended earlier to wait among the rocks at the base of the cliff.

Above Panille in the darkness, his Avatan guardian shared amusement and dismay at these thoughts.

Can that army save you? Panille asked.

Avata will die in only a few diurns. Then it may be that a rebirth can occur.

Oakes hasn’t beaten you yet, Panille said. Lewis with his poisons and his virus, none of them understand about power.

Soft flutings rippled from the hylighter, the nearest Avata came to betraying doubts. Panille wondered then: Was this futility aroused by Thomas’ efforts, or by the imminent end of Avata—no more of ’lectrokelp/hylighters, no more of the individual cells, the great plural-singular unity?

This idea disturbed him and he thought angrily as he worked his way down the steep trail to the shore: If you think you’re done, then you are finished!

He emerged from a gap between high rocks onto a wide, rock-mounded sandy beach. Thomas stood far down the sand near the surf—one dark shadow among the many rocks. The surf was high, long rollers crashing onto the shingle. The air was damp with salt spray. Panille felt the surf’s heavy rhythm transmitted through skin and feet simultaneously. He put a hand against one of the gateway rocks through which he had entered this sea realm. The rock was cold and wet, and it also vibrated to the surf.

Without the kelp to subdue the sea, the waves had become destructively wild—raging against the cliffs at high tide, throwing giant rocks in their surgings. Soon, very soon, all that Avata had built here would come crashing down into the wilderness of the sea.

The Avatan guardian hovered near his shoulder. One tendril touched his cheek, transmitting remembered emotions.