The Waves of Chiron

[Kirnwaffen]

Always wanted to do a SMAC story and finally got the guts to post the first part of one. Tell me what you think

It was a dark night on Chiron, it's moons having already risen and set. It was a perfect night to lie back and simply gaze at the stars, but that was of little consequence for the unfortunate sentries currently on duty. They stood stiffly attentive, flame guns at the ready, eyes trained on the fungus. Below decks, the situation was almost as tense. Fierce debates raged an accusations flew between the officers of the N.S.S. Horizon . The conference room hatch opened, and the imposing figure of Captain Adrick Nitzer stepped in.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted over the heated debate of his subordinates

"Captain on deck!" Someone shouted from the back of the crowded room. At once, everyone ceased their activities and stood at attention.

"At ease, everyone." The captain spoke softly, trying to relieve some of the tension. "Alright people, I need options."

Lieutenant-commander Rallan, his first officer, spoke up, "I still say we fight it out. If we could coax a little accuracy out of..."

"My gunners are just fine." Lieutentenant Nagir shot back. "The fact of the matter is that our guns can't pierce that armor and..."

"Our guns can pierce..."

Captain Nitzer slammed his fist on the conference table. "Enough!" he shouted. "I will not have my senior officers reduced to bickering little children! Is that clear?"

Everyone nodded.

"Good. Now, Nag is right. Whatever the bugs put on that ship, nothing we got is gonna' make it through. On top of it, their guns slice through us like napalm through a mindworm. We're not gonna' shoot our way out of this one. Next option."

"Sir," Lieutenant Terrance, the ship's nav specialist, began, "I suggest we let 'em come after us, then steer around 'em while they still can't see us."

"Not enough space," Nitzer replied, thoughtfully," and once they enter the fungus, we're just as blind as they are, possibly a little more so, according to our xenobiologists. The likelihood is that we won't be able to get out of their perceptive range in time. Still, that's our best shot so far. Anyone else?"

The room fell silent, and no volunteers were to be found.

"Very well then, start making preparations. I want all guns checked and ready..."

"Sir, if I may," a voice spoke up from behind the captain.

The captain turned to face the young man who had addressed him. "Go ahead ensign."

[Kirnwaffen]

Captain Ulrik Svensgaard was not a happy man. The assault on Hornbill Point had been a disaster. The superior nature of the alien armor and weaponry had wreaked destruction on his fleet of simple ships. Impact projectile tore through synthmetal armor, and the Pirate lasers had barely scratched the odd-looking red armor worn by Marr's defenders.

Two Pirate ships had been lost in the attack, and a third was chased down by the Usurper navy. Two more ships were badly damaged, but had managed to withdraw and were now sailing to natural harbors to make repairs before making a run back to pirate territory. At last report, the Horizon was unscathed, but contact had been lost after she had withdrawn from the retreating fleet to distract the Usurper navy. That left Svensgaard two fully operational vessels that would not do much to stop the potential four impact vessels that Marr could send his way.

This put circumstances firmly out of Svensgaard's hands, leaving him little to do but hope.

[Kirnwaffen]

" It's ludicrous," Rallan shouted, " Absolutely ludicrous. There's no way it'll work, and he'll just wind up getting the whole lot of us..."

"Killed?" Lieutentant Nagir interrupted. "I don't know if you've realized this yet, Commander, but just sitting here is gonna' get us killed."

"Nag's got you there, Rallan," the captain inserted.

"I hope you're not seriously considering this, sir," Rallan retorted.

"That's enough, commander. The matter is settled. Ensign, you have my approval. You may use whatever resources you deem necessary, subject to my approval. You have one hour to prepare. I expect full cooperation from everyone, is that clear?"

There were murmurs of agreement throughout the room

"Very well, dismissed."

The conference room emptied out, leaving only the captain behind. Looking down at the Pirate icon that had so carefully carved and painted into the table, he silently crossed his fingers at his sides, and left for the bridge.

[Kirnwaffen]

Svensgaard pushed the top button on his comm.
"Time frame?" The computer's slightly accented voice queried. Declining to reply by voice, Svensgaard simply keyed in ten minutes, and reclined thoughtfully in his chair.

Ten minutes later, the cream of the Pirate admiralty was to be found in the war room at Safe Haven. The scene here was tempered by the many earth-based wars these hardened veterans had witnessed, and by the shared knowledge that no one person was to blame for their precarious situation. All had had some hand in the planning for the assault, and none had forseen the utter ineffectiveness of Nautilus technology against the aliens.

The door hissed open, and Svensgaard stepped in. His admirals snapped to attention, until he took his seat.

"At ease," he spoke in his husky, yet booming voice. He decided to get right to the point. "What is Marr's next move?"

"As it stands, sir," Admiral Pissani, overall fleet commander, spoke, "Marr's next move is impossible to predict. He has a multitude of options open too him. There are, however, two very general strategies that seem likely." The admiral proceeded bring up a set of battle maps on the large viewscreen at the front of the room. "The first," he began," is a direct assault on Safe Haven itself, the primary objective being to cut communications and cause enough confusion to isolate the rest of our bases. It would come at serious cost to Marr, however, since our latest data indicates that his weapons and armor are not as effective as initially thought. Hell, with the combined efforts of our base defences and garrisons, we may even be able to blow a ship. That aside, we should be prepared to evacuate our headquarters' facilities to a more remote base, say, Dead Man Tavern."

"Exactly how powerful is their equipment, Admiral?" Svensgaard queried.

"According to our latest analysis of battle data, their impact weapons are approximately twice as powerful as they need to be to pierce standard synthmetal armor. Our scientists are working on reproducing these, but it could be some time before we have a working prototype. Their armor is an oddity. We could probably pierce it with one or two well placed shots, but it has some very interesting properties."

"Such as?" Another officer at the table asked, now thoroughly interested in the conversation.

"Well," the admiral began, " based on reports from one of our spy ships, the armor seems to have some kind of scrambling effect on native psi attacks. We have only the most rudimentary understanding of the mindworms, and can't even begin to discern the reasons behind it. The strategic benefits of this effect, however, need not even be discussed, I'm sure."

"Though I find all of this discussion quite interesting," Captain Svensgaard interrupted, "we must return to the matter at hand. You mentioned a second strategy, Admiral?"

"Yes, sir. The second strategy gives Marr much more flexibility and will be much more difficult to defend against. It's basically opposite of what we discussed. Instead of trying to cut us off at the head, he may try to isolate Safe Haven first, which leaves him any number of targets. He might hit the frontier bases, or he might bypass them completely, and go for the core bases. Basically what I'm getting at, sir, is that he can hit us anywhere at any time, barring the speed of his ships, of course."

"Well," Svensgaard said, "we can't hold every base, so we'll try to hold those most important to our survival as a faction. Concentrate our defenses at the key core bases, including Safe Haven, Port Svensgaard, and Parrot Landing. Distribute resources to the rest in descending order of general production ability. In the meantime, we'll begin preparation for the evacuation of headquarters to Deadman Tavern. Also, begin evacuating the frontier bases. Destinations should be those bases that will be most heavily defended. Questions?

There was silence in response.

"I want a detailed list of proposed defense allocations on my desk in three hours. Dismissed."

Everyone knew the option that not been discussed. Surrender. Nobody dared to mention because

The Lower admirals and officers slowly filtered out of the room to make preparations, leaving Pissani and Svensgaard alone.

"How do you see our chances, Derrick?"

"We'll hold for the short term, sir, but Marr can build more ships faster than we can prototype new weaponry. In the long term, we'll eventually be forced back to Deadman Tavern, and we'll only survive there until Marr gets his forces together for amphibious assault. I'd hate to say it sir, but I don't see any way out of this for now."

"In other words, we're doomed," Svensgaard replied sarcastically.

"Well that depends sir," Pissani said, a mischievous grin forming on his face, "do you believe in miracles?

[Kirnwaffen]

The cutter pulled slowly through the fungus, as close to open sea as her crew dared. As she approached 100 meters, she slowed, then stopped, and two of her small rubber life boats were launched. Seven men were crammed low to either side of each dinghy to avoid detection by resonance scanners, and another was positioned to steer and keep fungus clear of the motor.

As each boat hit the water, they separated, and slowly made their way to their target. It took nearly an hour to reach the foil at speeds low enough to muffle the sound of their motors, but each successfully reached their unsuspecting foe, undetected as far as they knew. The dinghys crept to opposite sides of the aft section, and the young ensign with another to carry the rope began to scale the ship, with Lieutenant Nagir and another ensign doing the same from their boat. They had been fortunate for the forethought Pirate command put into equipping their ships. Suction wear came standard on all boats for conducting field repairs. They were surprisingly quiet as well, leaving little for the bug sensors to detect. In addition, resonance scanners were ineffective this close in.

So the unfortunate Usurper to fall to the young ensigns blue synthmetal knife did so with complete surprise. After that, all hell broke loose. The sentry having torn the resonance field, the rest of the ship was now alerted to the presence of the intruders.

The young ensign took down another sentry, and Nag's group took down two. Grabbing the dead bugs' weapons, they stormed below decks, finding most of the aliens still groping for their equipment in complete disarray. Within minutes, the small human force had made their way to engineering, most having acquired new toys on their way. Then, the explosions started to die. Engineering was seized, the bridge was secured, and it was all over. A few prisoners were taken, a few die hards were routed from rag-tag defensive positions, and Nag made his way back to the bridge. A head count revealed that their newfound toys had come at a cost of only two dead, and five wounded. Nag smiled, and walked over to the PDA attached to the bridge computer to act as a translator and keyed a simple message to the Horizon:

Mission Success.

[Kirnwaffen]

Svensgaard's personal commlink chimed, waking him from a shallow, restless sleep. He had not slept well since his conversation with Admiral Pissani following their disaster at Hornbill Point. Pausing briefly to focus, he strode across his quarters.

"Yes?" He queried, anxious to find out who would call at this hour. Anyone who would raise their commander this late at night bore important news, frequently of the negative type.

"Sir," came the reply, "your presence is requested in the war room."

Svensgaard suddenly found himself more alert. "Has the Usurper fleet been spotted?"

"No, sir," came the voice of Pissani, "but there have been some interesting developments since we last spoke."

The urgency in Pissani's voice could have been good or bad, but his tone suggested that sooner was better than later. "I'll be right there, Svensgaard out."

[Kirnwaffen]

The tension in the conference room of Courage: To Question was tangible for the Usurper commanders in the room. As Marr himself stepped in, he took note of feelings his commanders expressed through the resonance fields. So it was no great surprise when he began to "speak" with undertones of irritability.

"Problem: what is it?" He resonated.

His chief admiral bore the responsibility to break the news. "One of our ships: contact lost. Presumption: ship destroyed."

The rage was now fully apparent in Marr's resonance. "Possible: How?. Superior weapons : We possess. Failure: Tactics?"

"Cause: Unknown. Probability: security lapse. Horizon: enemy ship pursued."

The meeting continued for some time. Marr continuously thundered at his command staff for the incompetence he perceived from them. When it was over, all quickly, yet shakily exited the room. Their nervousness was understandable, for in truth, all but one left. The vivisected corpse was removed promptly and unceremoniously thrown in a hastily dug hole.

A more suitable commander would have to be found for Marr's navy.

[Kirnwaffen]

"What news do you have?" Svensgaard prompted his top commander.

"It would seem," Pissani replied, "that the bugs have given up their pursuit of both the Helena and the Wave Master."

"Just given it up?" Svensgaard was astonished. When you have an enemy on the ground with your foot on his neck, you don't just let up. "Possible reasons?"

"None yet, sir, but there is another interesting note. Both pursuit vessels took a bearing towards the Horizon's last known position."

"Can we raise the Horizon?"

"Nope. We've tried repeatedly, but we've had no response so far."

"I'll be in my office. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir."

Svensgaard returned the admiral's salute, and headed for his office. A thought danced it's way into his head while he walked:

Maybe miracles do happen, after all.

[Kirnwaffen]

The cheer that let up from the Horizon could be heard for miles across the empty expanse of Planet's oceans. Grins broke out, hugs of relief were shared, and the crew repeated Lieutenant Nagir's simple words.

Mission Success.

They were practically home free. They could leave.

Captain Nitzer, however, knew better.

"That lucky son of a...," Rallan started.

"Can it, commander." The captain was getting tired of his first officer's commentary. "The fact of the matter is, we need to get both of these boats safely back to our own territory."

"Sir," an ensign who had been manning the comm station interrupted, "we're being hailed by command, shall we respond?"

"Negative, ensign," the captain replied, "all communication is to be restricted to the alien vessel only until we enter friendly territory, or we meet up with friendly forces. Is that understood?"

With a curt nod and a sharp salute, the ensign returned to his station with his orders.

"Ensign, open a channel to Lieutenant Nagir," the captain ordered.

They would have to perform flawlessly if they were to get back home in one piece.

[Kirnwaffen]

War is inevitable. We are all ready to fight for one cause or another. Be it over pride, ideology, or resources, war will continue to occur for as long as these nouns exist. At any given time, at least one will be present, therefore, war will always be inevitable.

This is not to say that we are doomed to fight continuously for the rest of our meager existence. Peace is equally inevitable, as the time when we have reached agreements with our enemies regarding the factors above, or when we have vanquished our foes all together. These peaces can last thousands, or even hundreds of thousands of years. In the end, however, such wonderful times will always degenerate into hatred and betrayal as agreements no longer become convenient, or new enemies on new frontiers are found.

It is also not to say that we will be locked in a continuous cycle of warring amongst ourselves. Indeed, planets, even vast interstellar empires, can be maintained at an internal peace. Such planets and empires, however, can only be maintained during times of external peace through the sharing of a basic ideology, which inevitably puts them at odds with other empires as they are discovered, which again leads to the inevitable demise of peace.

Do not think that I contend that empires cannot cooperate. This is demonstratably false based on our own experiences here on Planet. War, in fact, is healthy for both internal and external peace due to our overwhelming need to survive and be free. When faced with a common enemy, these instincts, which, ironically, are also partly responsible for war as a whole, naturally compell us to combine our efforts, regardless of ideology, stereotypes, or previous incidents. When war is not present, cooperation between empires of similar ideology can still be maintained with relative ease. These empires may even eventually merge to become more influential. Between empires of differing ideoloies, however, peace becomes an issue of trust. It is generally accepted that peoples of differing ideology, as well as different species, are frequently inclined to distrust each other. Therefore, peace and cooperation between such empires will only be maintained through great concessions on the part of both, or a major ideological shift in one. If neither occurs, war between the two becomes an inevitability once again.

I do not argue that we should simply accept war. Indeed, peace can be maintained, for a time, through modest concession and non-agression. I also, however, do not argue that we should not defend ourselves when the time comes. The survival instinct, after great periods of time and social engineering, can be overcome. It should, however, be noted that species who overcome this instinct in this way are eventually exterminated by a less more violently inclined foe. I, for one, refuse to trade my corporeal existence, as well as that of my entire race or species, for peace.

It should also be noted that I do not advocate the defender in every situation. I am of the opinion that there are good reasons to take the side of the agressor. This is rooted in my personal belief in freedom and natural rights. We must also realize, however, that all parties to a war have their reasons for being there and no matter how abhoring they may seem to us, they are obviously valid to that party. History is written by the victor; if the victor is the defender, then the agressor will be forever villified in the anals of our history texts, and vice-versa.

Finally, let me say that I do not believe war is good. "There never was a good war nor a bad peace," as was said on Earth. I merely wish to state that war will happen, and as such, we should always be prepared. I have no disrespect for the pacifists of our nation. In fact, I applaud their idealism, but the fact of the matter is that the ideas they preach are feasible only in a perfectly pacifist universe. We, as a faction, do not seek to provoke war, but to abolish our offensive capability would be a fatal flaw that may very well plunge us as well as the rest of Planet into full scale war. It is an unfortunate fact of the moment that deterence is the only thing keeping us from such tragedy.

Maxwell J. Prax
Opening Arguments, "The Pacifist Debates", 2302

[Kirnwaffen]

he colonel took a seat at the library terminal at University Base. His completely black garb stood out a bit among the ordinary citizenry, but he had been able to go about his business unquestioned on the sparsely populated night streets of the rec district. He smiled to himself, thinking of the arrogant elite of University society, about to be put in their place. If all went well, they wouldn't even know. If it didn't, they would most certainly blame Miriam. He would see to that, and he was fully capable of doing so.

He patiently set about his business, guiding the cord slithering through his overcoat to the jack at the front of the terminal. He then began to upload the trace-protection protocols he had personally programmed.

"Trust no other", he mused to himself.

Now came the tricky part. Carefully, and with his usual patience, he began to circumvent each security protocol one at a time until...

Jackpot.

The University data files. Within seconds, all of the University's critical files regarding Retroviral Engineering were safely encrypted on the mini-computer attached to his leg.

The University network is actually quite secure, he thought as he worked. Their security problems actually stem from...

Two quick tones sounded from the terminal. Trace warning. He quickly uploaded two files to the University datalinks and disconnected.

Time to make a quick exit. He was about to stand up, but was cut short by the sensation of a circular metal object pressing against his head.

"Very slowly," she ordered, and nudged the gun slightly upward against his skull.

... Their incopetent securtity force.

The colonel listened carefully as he stood.

******

Officer Lakari of the University Security force kept a close eye on her prisoner as he rose, hands on back of his head. An overwhelming sense of satisfaction swept over her. She was ambitious, and this would most certainly make her the youngest officer ever to be promoted on the University Security Force.

Keeping one eye on the man as he carefully rose, as not to provoke her, she pressed the activation button on her commlink, allowing an ever so subtle stream of white noise to come through.

The first shift was hard into the man's shoulder as he ripped the gun from her hands. Just as suddenly, she found herself on the floor gasping for breath, eyes squinted shut in pain, lungs searing from the devastating blow to her solar plexus. The cracking of several ribs had been sickening.

She felt the first two slugs enter her body, and then lost conciousness, not even having seen the face of her quarry.

*****

The colonel placed the officers weapon in his overcoat, and pulled out a silenced Mark II Shredder.

Sorry sweetheart, he thought, then pulled the trigger.

The first two shots caused violent spasms, but her limp body failed to respond to the third.

He quickly made for the exit, but he knew he'd taken too much time. As he approached the doors, he could make out several figures along with multiple vehicles outside. He quickly pulled the control visor attached to his mini computer out of his pocket, with a few quick commands, he accessed the trojan horse he'd slipped into the University power grid.

At first, the lights across the street dimmed; that was the build up before the surge blew out the entire first floor of the building with an explosion powerful enough to destroy the door frames and windows in the public access building. The colonel, with two quick shots from his grenade launcher to clear the way, made his exit.

There was plenty of pain to go around outside, but the colonel didn't feel the need to share in it. Despite the destruction, a figure rose in the dust cloud, but was quickly taken down with a shredder burst. The colonel moved quickly, and with a burst of five grenade rounds to mop up, quickly left the scene.

He moved by foot until he was halfway through the next residential district. There, he summoned an auto-cab.

"I.D., please," the The AI requested.

The auto-cabs were a free source of transportation witthin the base, usually requiring only a destination for use. They were clamping down.

He quickly retrieved the card attachment for his mini computer and slid it through the reader.

"Thank you," the unsuspecting AI, with its security protocol disabled, courteously replied, "please select your destination."

The colonel used the manual input, ensuring there would be no record of his voice.

Thirty minutes later, the cab deposited him at the outskirts of the city, and he walked towards the outer perimeter. Rookies would have headed for one of the spaces between guard towers, but he knew better. The "fence" would be lit up like downtown on a busy night, but one of the curious flaws of University security was the lack of protection for the guard towers from internal attack.

And so it was that, two very surprised (and very dead) University guards later, he exited the base unpursued. It was two hours on foot to the rendezvous point. The chopper was waiting, and he jumped in, eager to rest after the long night.

"Sir," the gunner said, "You're to report to the briefing room at HQ on your return."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he replied, and then closed his eyes to get some sleep before the meeting.

[Kirnwaffen]

The gunner nudged him awake on landing. After thanking the crew, the colonel jumped out and headed for the headquarters district.

The operation had gone relatively well. Late that morning, the intel techs had burst out laughing when a picture of Zakharov with flaming horns and a pitchfork replaced all University video broadcasts for five minutes and then melted into broadcasts of fundamentalist Believer dogma. Apparently, it had taken nearly two hours to regain control of the network.

The colonel was equally pleased to hear that ballistic reports indicated the use of weaponry unique to the Believer faction at the scene of an aborted probe operation. There had been several deaths and several more injuries. He was pleased to hear that the beautiful young lady who had served as his temporary captor. The Believers shot to kill, but had no knowledge of University "Re-Gen" tanks. Hence, he had been able to get away with putting the shots in her back rather than her head, and still made it look pretty good.

He proceeded through all of the check points without being stopped, until the final checkpoint to the Admin level, at which everyone had to undergo a weapons scan. With his overcoat still on, he stepped through the gate, And immediately set off the highest level return.

"Step over here please, sir, and remove you're coat," one of the guards ordered.

Before he could finish untying his coat, a voice came over the intercom, "Let him pass," it ordered.

The colonel carefully removed his gadgetry from his coat and tossed it nonchalantly to the guard, who nearly fell over at the weight of six Shredder pistols, with additional ammo.

"Knock yourself out," the colonel told him, and then headed for the briefing room.

Without bothering to knock, he opened the door and stepped in, turning several heads.

"Ahh, Colonel Prax," Svensgaard said, "glad you could join us."

[Kirnwaffen]

"Please, Colonel, take a seat," Svensgaard said.

Prax took his seat, much of his weaponry still attached to his combat suit. This visibly unnerved those at the table who had never made his acquaintance. Prax's temper, though he was actually quite patient and calm. This stemmed from an incident shortly after the end of the progenitor wars when his ship had survived an encounter with an Isle of the Deep. One of the ship's medics was treating a young ensign still suffering residual effects from the vicious psi attack when the quivering ensign suddenly lashed out against his benefactor. The then much younger Captain Prax heard the commotion and turned to see a medic slumped unconscious against the railing with an ensign rising and drawing his sidearm. Prax called for a rifle from a nearby marine, who tossed it to him. Without being properly aimed, the shot from the Mk. 2 Impact Rifle took off the ensign's entire arm.

The ensign was treated for his mental and physical wounds, and most of the damage was repaired. In fact, he eventually regained 80% use of his arm. The incident was properly reported when they returned to port, and the ensign held no grudge against his captain.

Unfortunately, a widely distributed Morganite tabloid (yes, even after all these years, they still existed) got wind of the story, and turned it into a case of a captain shooting a crew member for cowardice. In their version, of course, the ensign was killed. It was a PR nightmare for the Pirates. There were hundreds of calls for Prax's resignation, but everything was eventually straightened out. Svensgaard was furious with Morgan over the whole incident (the tabloid had world wide distribution, and now had created an image problem for the Pirates), and Morgan was in turn furious with the owner of the tabloid for jeopardizing relations with one of Morgan's biggest trade partners. The paper was run completely out of business (some rumors about the fate of the owner and editor persist today), but Prax's reputation had never been entirely salvaged. It was of little consequence, however, for Prax was far to valuable to be lost to such trivial causes as baseless rumors.

The faces at the table had changed greatly since he had last been invited to attend one of these meetings. Indeed, not single member of Svensgaard's original command team occupied a seat at todays conference. Prax stole a quick glance around the table. Some of the faces he recognized. The former lieutenant, now Vice Admiral Nagir sat to his left and down the table. The admiral gave a brief nod in acknowledgement, which Prax quickly returned.

Both had skipped rank to Captain for their part in the "Horizon raid", as it had come to be called. Nagir's promotion had come as a result of the courage and superb combat skills he had demonstrated on the alien vessel; Prax's was for the same reason, as well as the ingenuity and daring of his plan. It was noted by both Admiral Pissani and Captain Svensgaard after several years of Prax's career that what he lacked in experience he made up for in courage and raw brilliance.
The raid was still considered his greatest exploit to this day (though there were many more that followed it), as it had been the single most important event of the Progenitor wars. The technology that had been reverse engineered from the captured vessel was incorporated into Pirate vessels, and sold to other human factions for other technologies. Though this had seriously unbalanced their own research efforts, the Pirates wasted no time incorporating this new technology into new research facilities that made them a dominant competitor in the research arena.

Captain Nitzer had also been promoted for organizing the escape of both ships after the raid. His simple, but effective, "triangle maneuver" became a standard procedure for such operations for years to come, and was still in use as a back up escape plan today. Unfortunately, the Captain's promotion to Commodore (a rank no longer present in the modern day Pirate fleet) was also his downfall. Nitzer had been assigned to lead the second assault on Hornbill Point. During the battle, he had moved his ship into a risky position that would have allowed him to destroy the final operational shore battery in the base. The Usurper battery, however, got to his ship first and in what was potentially the luckiest shot of that century (Prax still had not seen another shot like it), destroyed the bridge and sent shrapnel flying into the reactor. Nitzer was killed instantly, and the shrapnel punctured several power conduits and coolant tanks. Several seconds later, there was nothing left but pieces and badly burned survivors. Incidentally, Prax was again cited for heroism when he took his ship in to rescue the survivors, braving the battery fire and eventually destroying the battery all together.

There were two others at the table that Prax knew well. Erica Haberton, who sat on his right, was the director of Nautilus intelligence. He worked with her on a regular basis, both coordinating and planning probe operations.

The other person with whom Prax was very well acquainted was Admiral Jessica Meran. Jessica was another interesting story. In his final years as overall commander of the military, Admiral Pissani had come to the conclusion that the Nautilus military would respond better to leadership that had been born and raised on Planet. Hence, he decided that his retirement was necessary. Before he retired, however, he would need to groom a replacement. Prax had been his initial candidate, but after careful evaluation, he concluded that Prax was much more valuable as a field commander and instructor than he would be as a "paper and pencil admiral". Pissani spent the last years of his career sorting through potential replacements. Many times he came across outstanding individuals, and many of those would make terrific officers, but none quite "cut the mustard". Until Jessica Meran. Pissani was astounded by her academy entrance exam, and watched her carefully her first year there. She flourished to be sure, finishing at the top of every class. Pissani, however, felt that she was being stifled by her instructors, who had been schooled in more traditional tactics than Jess was trying to use. At one point he even considered personally teaching her classes. But Pissani also realized something about himself: for all his strategic brilliance, he was not a mentor. Pissani could command any army you handed him, but he could not teach someone else how to do that. He needed someone like himself who could do that, someone who had been around before the days of the academy. And so it was that Prax was ordered to report to a teaching position at the academy. In the mean time, Pissani personally manipulated Jess's schedule so that Prax was her only instructor.

Prax had carefully watched his classes the first day, and it wasn't long before he realized why he had been ordered to the academy. He had watched Pissani closely in the previous few years, and he knew exactly what he had planned. Jess flourished under his instruction and careful psychological manipulation. She achieved heights never before reached at the academy. When he wasn't instructing Jess, Prax was completely revamping the academy. There was intense dislike for him at first, because he taught ideas that were radically different from what the other instructors taught. Besides that, he and his students always won the war games that were played between classes. Some of the instructors quickly realized what he was doing, and formed lasting friendships and friendly rivalries with him. Others didn't come around and eventually got shipped out to make room for better instructors.

Graduation time eventually came for Jess, and with her left Prax. He made sure she got all of the experiences she needed to understand the realities of Planet (sometimes putting Prax at odds with Pissani). He also made sure that she served under a variety of different commanders, each of which lent something to her style.

And now, here she was, sitting at the opposite end of the table next to Captain Svensgaard, who had been let in on Pissani's little secret only so that he would give approval for his best field commander to be sent to the academy. Pissani was still alive (Officials deemed necessary to the Nautilus cause had received longevity treatments until the advent of a drug that could fortify cells and keep them reproducing, popularly known as the "Longevity Vaccine". Morgan was still a bit upset that the Pirates had gotten their hands on it.) and was still consulted on some strategic matters.

The meeting dragged on for another hour, and Prax paid only minimal attention. Nothing being said here applied to him anyway. If his opinion were asked, he could simply look at his vid screen for a summary of what had been said. When it ended, everyone left except for Erica, Prax, and Svensgaard.

"So," Svensgaard began, " I here there were some interesting happenings at University Base last night."

"You could say that," Prax replied, staring out the window at the vast ocean view.

"Did you retrieve the data?" Erica, who was never much for small talk, asked.

Prax pulled a mini disc out of his computer, turned to the table, and slid it to Svensgaard. Svensgaard in turn, slipped it into the tray under the desktop and began reading the data that scrolled into view on his vid screen.

"Excellent," he said, "apparently the good Provost wasn't being completely honest about his research priorities. How did the the operation go?"

"As well as can be expected for having been ratted on." Prax replied.

Svensgaard's eyebrows rose. "What do you mean?"

"We have a mole somewhere. Security was doubled when I entered the base, and they were able to trace me to fast to have been unprepared."

"Only five or six people knew about this mission," Erica said, "They should be easy enough to ferret them out."

"I recommend we fake an assassination attempt. It'll help solidify our evidence, and we should be able to keep an eye on our "friends" in the intel program." Prax said.

"Very well, make it happen. In the mean time, do we need to worry about the University?" Svensgaard asked.

"No," Prax said, "Zakharov would have to tip his hand completely to provide a reason to the council, or he'll look like a complete fool. A little technology and a couple of dead guards isn't worth it." Prax reassured.

"Good. That's it then. Let me know when you find you're mole."

[Kirnwaffen]

Major Chiknikev vinced visibly as he thought of his coming meeting with Zakharov. He could only hope that the verbal dressing-down he was about to receive would not be followed by something more severe. The last man to fail on a scale this grand had been posted to Lab 3 shortly before the disaster. His death had, apparently, been quite horriffic at the hands of the mind worms. Zakharov had been quoted as saying that that particular officer's death was the only good thing to come out of that incident.

Chiknikev took his seat in the lobby, and waited.

****

Prax didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. Though, as Erica had pointed out, catching their mole would be a simple task, simple was a relative term. Compared to the operation he had executed last night, yes, it would be simple. That did not mean, however, that it would be without risk. None of the persons whom they would need to survail would be easy targets, and none were predictable if confronted.

Not that he hadn't dealt with the unknown before. Indeed, that was his specialty. Perhaps, then, what plagued him was the familiarity of his quarry and the knowledge they undoubtedly possessed of him. One thing was certain: Prax definantly didn't like the idea that the prey knew the hunter better than the hunter knew his prey.

Disturbing.

At the same time, however, the challenge of it invigorated him. It would be a chance to use abilities he had not called upon in years. But the fact still remained that some of his people might have to die for that opportunity, and that haunted him.

Prax sighed, and walked towards his apartment.

****

Chiknikev left Zakharov's office pale and demoralized. A transfer to Cosmograd (ironically enough, built on the former Lab 3 sight) was not a good indication. He had no doubts about the reason for the choice of bases. It was unlikely that he was being transferred to the only base in University territory to make use of punishment spheres by sheer coincidence.

He strode shakily to his office to pack his personal effects. He had every intention of doing just that when he arrived, but he instead walked to his desk. There, he sat and placed his forehead on the surface, covering his head with his hands.

After spending several minutes in that position, he abrubtly sat up and cleared his eyes and nose.

Calmly and deliberately, he reached for his sidearm, and lifted it to his head.

****

Bang. Prax closed the book and returned it to its proper place on one of the bookshelves that lined the walls of his modest study.

The shelves were quite nearly filled to capacity and not just for show either. Prax had carefully read each and every title that graced his walls. Of course, each was available in electronic format, but that was the quirk Prax was most famous for: he found books, paper and ink books, far more readable and enjoyable than their electronically formatted counterparts.

Of course, this turned out to be a very expensive quirk. Paper was very rarely, if ever, used on Planet, and was quite costly to obtain. That, however, was of little consequence to Prax, who, primarily from his savvy investing, had amassed a fortune to rival that of Morgan's chief lieutenants.

The titles on his shelves dealt mostly with warfare. Their were titles from the greatest Spartan generals, and the Hive's best assassins. There were also essays by Lady Deirde Skye herself concerning the biology and ecology of Planet, as well as some beautiful Gaian poetry. In addition, there were various classics (both fictional and non) from earth.

The shelves themselves were constructed from synthetic wood, as was the floor of his study. Some of the elite had spared no expense in obtaining real wood for their homes. Not Prax. After all, it all looked the same, didn't it? In the end, their obsession with wood was could be called the same thing as Prax's obsession with books: a quirk. In the center of the study was an elegantly carved desk (also synthetic), which was always kept completely clear, save for a photograph of his parents (his love for two dimensional photographs over holograms was another of Prax's expensive abnormalities). The surface of the desk could be opened to reveal a small vidscreen that was attached to the Nautilus network. His entire study was well varnished and always had a beautiful shine to it.

The rest of Prax's apartment was relatively sparse. The walls were a very clean white and completely bare. In the living room, the floor was carpeted. Contrasting nicely with the white walls and carpet was the black synthetic leather furniture: A large, comfortable couch at the head of a glass table, with an overstuffed chair on either side. At the other end of the table, embedded in the wall, was a large vid screen. The wall to the right of all of this was made up of consecutive glass panels, providing a sweeping view of the ocean. Two of the panels were actually doors, leading to the balcony where Prax kept two recliners matching his living room furniture.

There was little else in the living room, save for a few extra matching the two by the table to be used for entertaining guests. His kitchen was quite plain with two tall chairs (again, matching the his living room furniture) placed at a counter for meals. His bedroom contained (not surprisingly) a bed, a pair of synthetic oak nightstands, and a rather dark painting of a forest with a ray of light pouring through a hole in the tree tops and focusing on a tan, warrior like figure holding a spear decorated with feathers and wearing dear skin clothing.
The painting was centered over the bed with the nightstands occupying either side of the bed. A doorway in his led to his bathroom which contained a medicine cabinet, a sink, a toilet, and a shower.


Prax divided most of his time between his study and the balcony. Both were places where he could concentrate and reflect. He spent many hours in both, either reading or watching the sun set. Tonight, however, he would turn in early, and catch up on some much needed sleep.

****

Chiknikev was about to pull the trigger when he made a startling realization.

He could escape. Rather than leave his wife and children to fend for themselves (one thing was certain: there would be no benefits for the family of a dead and disgraced officer), he could defect. To whom would be something to consider, but he could do it nonetheless.

Chiknikev holstered his sidearm. That's what he would do. Defect. He would have to make his move soon, however, for his transfer took effect in just a week.

Chiknikev began packing with a vigor, and then caught himself. If he was going to do this, it was going to require a great deal of caution.

Hopefully, he could exercise it.

[Kirnwaffen]

Prax awoke with a start. Something wasn't right.

Then he felt it. Native attack. But where from? There wasn't any sea fungus within several hundred clicks of Safe Haven, and an Isle would have been spotted and intercepted long before it penetrated this deep into Nautilus territory.

No matter. Prax dressed quickly and carefully constructed a mental defense. Reaching behind one of his night stands, he retrieved a flame gun. After collecting several additional weapons, Prax grabbed his commlink and raced out the door. Upon his exit, he almost collided with a private sent from headquarters.

"Sir," he said, gasping for breath, "we have a transport waiting for you."

Without replying, Prax resumed his pace, making for the government car waiting for him at the front of the building. The private followed on his heels, both practically diving into the transport when they arrived.

The commlink inside was flashing. Prax reached forward and keyed his receive code. Admiral Meran appeared on the screen. She maintained a calm facade for the benefit of her staff, but Prax could tell she was pissed.

"Where the hell have you been," she exploded, "I've been trying to reach you all morning!"

Prax glanced at the time display. He'd slept nine hours to his normal six. "Guess I overslept," he replied in a tone that would have been considered insubordinate coming from another officer.

"Forget it," Meran said in an exasperated tone, "we've got at least eleven large boils sitting right on our doorstep."

"Forgive me," Prax began rather sarcastically, "but where did they come from."

"Can it Colonel," Meran replied, her patience at an end. "We had a major fungal bloom this morning that shorted out a harness. On top of our Isles, we now have several locust boils as well. Now, I suggest you stop giving me this sarcastic bull**** and get to where ever the hell you can do some good. Understood?"

"Yes, Maam," Prax replied sharply, "I'll report to the perimeter immediately. Prax out."

Prax closed the channel, and instructed his driver to head to the outskirts.

****

Admiral Meran's anger towards her mentor quickly turned to frustrastion with herself. She had just allowed herself to get angry with him for being him. It was just his style; very rarely did Prax ever show or express anything other than calm.

She also felt a tinge of guilt for allowing him to take a position on the perimeter. A lot of people were going to die out there over the next week or so as the boils sporadically attacked. For all she knew, he might be one of them. On a deeper level, however, she knew that he wouldn't. That was what separated him from the common soldier: Prax, through a combination of luck, experience, and raw determination had survived circumstances that would have killed any other person five or six times over.

Besides that, it wasn't entirely his fault that he'd slept through the pages intended for him. He'd worked hard for the past two weeks, generally obtaining three hours of sleep or less each night. Nobody could be expected to keep going on that forever.

Her thoughts were interupted by a nearby lieutenant.

"Maam, I think you should see this," he nervously stated.

Jess strode over to the tactical display. As she viewed the symbols that danced across the screen, she became visibly shaken.

"Get me all regimental commanders," she ordered sternly, "now!"

****

Prax's transport raced throught the submerged tunnels that connected the various complexes of the base. As they moved, Prax thought about his recent conversation with Jess. That was the one thing Prax had never been able to give her: the ability to actually stay calm in a combat situation. She could maintain a very good facade, but underneath, she was the same wreck that most commanders are when faced with a serious situation. He couldn't blame her, or anyone else for that matter. It was difficult not to get excited in these types of events.

The transport dropped him at the edge of the so called "outskirts", the last industrial district before the perimeter. Prax located a nearby airlock and began to jog towards it. The rest of the troops at the base were already on station, so it didn't take him long to reach it and enter.

In earlier times, any person leaving the protection of the pressure dome had to where a pressure helmet to protect them from the effects of the high levels of pressurized nitrogen. Since the mid 2200's, however, a genetic alteration had been made available by Dr. Lukas's team that allowed the body to effectively deal with the nitrogen. The alteration was immediately declared mandatory for all officers and enlisted men for reasons of safety and practicality. Since then, equipment costs had dropped, and combat effectiveness increased considerably. Without bulky pressure helmets, infantry personnel had an unobscured field of view and were no longer at risk of a punctured helmet leading to nitrogen narcosis. It was the only non-medical alteration Prax had ever accepted.

As he waited for the airlock to complete its cycle, Prax reviewed the assetts available to him. There wer several marine and drop infantry battalions available, plus the two garrison battalions.

'That should be plenty,' he thought.

The airlock opened and Prax stepped into the carnage. Immediately, he happened upon General Schroeder, who was being tended to by a medic.

"You okay, sir?" He asked.

The General looked up. "Fine, Colonel. The worms got one of my boys. I managed to get out of the way of the shot, but those shard pistols are a hell of a lot more powerful than chaos. A little more to the right and my arm 'd be gone."

Prax nodded. That was the curse of new weaponry on this planet. It was great in a man to man fight, but if the worms got to you, it did a lot more damage to you. The biggest issue of the moment was that of the marine and drop battalions here, only two had ever fought native life outside of the controlled conditions of the academy.

"What's our status," Prax queried.

"We're taking it pretty hard," the general said, "Word came down from command about five minutes ago that the Isles were gathering into attack formations. On top of it, the psi talents are saying that something else is influencing these worms. There's no way that we can get 'em under control. One thing is certain: this is a coordinated attack. They're hitting us at too many critical points for it to be random. See what you can do."

"Yes, Sir," Prax replied, and headed off to the forward positions.

****

Colonel Ptalmi was getting more frustrated by the second. General Schroeder had been wounded, and several of his men had succumbed to the psionic attacks employed by the Isles. Several had flamed themselves and in doing so detonated the fuel packs for their flame guns, which in turn killed and wounded several others. Others had tried to kill their comrades, some being successful, others not so. As his personnel cracked, the colonel had to fill the gaps, and the line was getting thinner. Over half of his unit had become casualties.

Just then, he felt the slightly pointed end of a shard rifle against the side of his skull. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hollow look in her eyes and knew she was gone. Ptalmi was about to make a move, but he didn't have time. The girl dropped under a blow to the back of her neck, and in her place stood Colonel Prax.

With Prax on the scene, Ptalmi visibly relaxed.

"You're timing, as always, is impeccable," he said.

Prax didn't answer the remark, he merely ran over to the weapons locker and pulled out a harpoon gun with three spheres roughly attached to the harpoon.

Tossing it to Ptalmi and grabbing one for himself, he said, "Follow me."

"What the hell are these?" Ptalmi asked, bewildered.

"Potassium grenades," Prax answered.

A look of amazement and realization spread across the colonels face as Prax spoke those words. It was something that even a garrison private would know, but to marines who were unaccustomed to this type of duty, it was something they would never even think of. In the hasty deployment, these simple weapons had gone unmentioned to the non-garrison battalions. So they had been fighting with shard and and flame guns, which were somewhat less effective in an aquatic environment.

Grabbing a fuel pack for his flame gun, Prax raced to the defensive wall, which the Isles were beggining to chew through. Ptalmi, while following on Prax's heels, was inspecting his new weapon with the excitement of a three year old who had just received a new toy. The launch mechanism was a simple, but reliable powder device. The construction of the projectile consisted of little more than several chem balls (also used for nerve gas projectiles) welded to the harpoon, but was also reliable and effective.

As they approached the wall, Prax shouted, "You take that one," and pointed to the nearest Isle, "aim for the center."

Though the level of coordination they were observing today was unheard of, it was known that Isles somehow learned from each attack made on the human settlements. From many attacks, the Isles had learned that they could severely limit the effectiveness of flame guns by repeatedly submerging themselves. And so, when the harpoons hit, the Isles were completely soaked. The chem balls exploded, each releasing two kilos of potassium over the creatures, setting the whole of their bodies alight.

The Isles immediately attempted to submerge, but this only fanned the flames. With the coat of water completely dissolved, Prax and the marines went to work with the flame guns. The attack soon came to an end in this sector as well as several others, as word spread to the other marine units that the harpoons were available. The garrison troops, with their knowledge of the tools available, had quickly mopped up their Isles, and had set to work clearing the locusts, arming the AAA guns with incendiary rounds. The incendiary rounds, when fired, released a ball of burning napalm at predetermined altitudes. It was basically flak for locusts.

By the end of the day, the cleanup was proceeding well. The wounded were being cared for and the perimeter defense was being repaired. A super former unit had moved out to the new fungal patch to remove it and replace the harness.

Prax had moved back inside to a barracks lounge. And was having a large glass of water, for he hadn't had anything to drink all day.

It was ironic, he thought, that for all of the technological advances made on planet, fire still remained the common soldier's best defense against the native life. He was joined shortly by Ptalmi.

"So, Prax, who came up with those harpoons," he asked, knowing that Prax had an extensive knowledge of the history of even the most obscure Nautilus weaponry.

"You remember that attack on Privateer Quay a while back? The one where the garrison was completely obliterated and about a thousand civillians were killed?"

"Vaguely. They use it as a text book example of why we have multiple garrison units at all of our cities." Ptalmi replied.

"That's it," Prax said. "Well, a young garrison captain by the name of Higgles was at that particular attack. When he realized that they were getting mauled, he ordered his unit to hold the Isle off while he searched for something more effective. When he got back to the barracks, he discovered a small fire in the sink where someone had dropped a potassium supplement.

"He immediately went to the storage units in the center of the city and grabbed jars of the stuff. After a little tinkering with the chemical with the help of some chemists, he tapped the jars onto a fishing harpoon.

"By this time, however, his men had succumbed, and the Isle had penetrated the perimeter. They had fought valiantly, but the attack was to strong. He raced to locate it, but found it right next to the rec facilities, where it had killed it's thousand residents. Knowing that everyone inside the facility was dead, Higgles fired the harpoon into the Isle, and the potassium jars burst. The explosion blew the isle to bits, and flooded the rec commons. Higgles himself was nearly killed. Medics eventually found him, but he died in the hospital a week later."

Ptalmi had become thoroughly enthralled by the tale, but was disappointed by it's end. He simply sat back and gave a moment of silence for the captain who had saved the lives of he and his men today.

Prax did the same, but was interrupted by his commlink.

Jess appeared on the screen.

"Prax," she said, "Captain Svensgaard wants to see you."

"I'll be right there," he answered, "Prax out."