The Spartan Chronicles

[Tokek Belerang]

In Sparta, it was not every citizen's duty to go into the tanks. The service for Captain H.J. Cazemier took place at the Hawk of Chiron military burial ground, and was attended by a gathering of well over a hundred people. Friends and comrades had carried the coffin. Salvador St James, Sheila Cartesius, young Jeremy, Driss El-Khaled, Yanni Seferis, and, of course, Ni Gusti Nyoman Wenten.

The diminutive figure of the girl pallbearer, whose ancestry hailed from Bali and the rebuilt palaces and temples of the district of Gianyar, bore the pole upon her head, and flagged nor wavered for a second. Her expression was intent but peaceful.

In the translucent dome that stood in the center of the grounds, Salvador St James ascended the pedestal and addressed the crowd.

"In Hendrikus Cazemier, we have lost a loved one, a friend, a companion, a soldier, a Spartan. Each of us here has his or her own memories of him. I would beg of you to cherish those memories. They will give you Hendrikus, as he was taken away, and keep him in yourselves. We have many tragedies to bear in our day, and each of them will test our resolve, our resilience, and our faith. I can only hope we will be able to stand true to ourselves. If we do, then the memories such as those of Hendrikus Cazemier today and in all days to come will remain, and our hearts will be strong. I would have you, all here today, allow your hearts to go out to Hendrikus, together with that of his beloved Nyoman. I realise few may have known as yet, but Nyoman has asked me to let it be known that she and Hendrikus had planned to celebrate their marriage on the 36th of next month. I wish her strength, all the strength in her heart. Thank you."

Faces turned to Nyoman, who remained unaffected under their gazes, her face firmly upward, and her dark eyes shining.

Next on the pedestal was Captain Alan 'Gung Ho' Wells of XForce.

"Out in the battlefield south of Fort Superiority, not long ago, a group of Spartan forces under my command had been caught out by the Hive expeditionary force. We were stuck, and only the efforts of 4th Wing kept the Hive forces from rolling over us. My troops questioned me about the availability of the Cab Crew, and I could give them no answer. The Hive had caught us cold, and there was no telling where everyone was in Sparta. But in the middle of the night, Captain Cazemier popped out of the ground with his rundown Unity Chopper, and bailed us out. Later, transcripts of Hive communications were obtained from captured materiel. I quote one telling sentence: 'Only the devil could have got them out of there, Colonel.'"

Wells paused.

"I flew in the ****pit with Captain Cazemier. So did several others of my unit, as this chopper was packed to the limit with soldiers. That time, I witnessed how the devil would have flown a chopper. Afterwards, I am not sure what scared me more - Hive fire from three sides, or the ground-level flying of Captain Cazemier. But I survived, and because of Captain Cazemier, many more people are alive today than would have been - if he had not been there. Today we say our last farewells to a man who made a difference. I thank him for having been who he was. And I thank you for listening to me. Thank you."

Rifles were pointed up into the air, and a last salute sent Hendrikus Cazemier on his way.

After that, there was silence, and the gathering broke up.

A lone figure remained on the site of the grave. Not Ni Gusti Nyoman Wenten, who did not believe in the presence of a spirit in the grave of one deceased.

The figure, cowled like a monk, remained on the burial ground for a while, and could be seen passing the many recent graves. In the end, as she left the ground, the lone visitor passed the waiting figure of Salvador St James. With no words exchanged, they fell into step, and walked to a waiting PTU.

"I'll drive." said the visitor, and anyone listening would immediately have recognized the voice of the old leader of Sparta, Colonel Corazón Santiago.

The PTU accelerated sharply, and spun round the bend to an outbound ramp. After a short visit to the heavily guarded monolith outside the base, the PTU returned to the Hawk. Only Salvador St James was on board, and he proceeded quickly to the civilian airport to catch the afternoon flight to Morgan Industries.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri

[Paula Forbes]

I sat in the bar at the Fort Superiority Metropole Hotel waiting for my date, and thought of the past few hours and of the likely next few.

Gavin Burge. Undoubtedly one of the most powerful persons on Chiron right now. Supreme Commander of the Spartan Federation, about to launch an invasion of the strongest military power (at least in terms of numbers). I’m about to do a background on him on the morning of what may be his career defining moment. At the ribbon cutting ceremony he’d confirmed the interview at his hotel suite at 10.00 a.m. local time.

Marlo Hollis. Now there was a piece. Stunningly beautiful, and knows it. Eternally young, keeping her appearance around the 30ish level. Good cosmetician works with her, almost as good as mine. Had the pectoral muscle implants as I did, just recently. For women on Chiron the heavier gravity was murder on Landers such as Marlo, as it rapidly produced sagging breasts. The counter was to implant muscle boosters to the pectorals to lift and support the breasts naturally, as opposed to using struts and stays in the fabric, or microfilm synthsteel woven into a molded jumpsuit.

And Marlo’s cosmetic technician had done a masterful job. The first time I had met Marlo I was a rookie reporter with MorganNews and she was the Head of the Spartan News Network. It was seven years ago, and I remembered it as if it were yesterday.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

No one had warned me that Marlo was a switch hitter – or maybe they didn’t know. But I found it difficult to believe that Joe Carter wouldn’t have known. He was so tuned into everything that was happening on Chiron, the events, the personalities, and Marlo Hollis certainly was a personality in those days.

We’d met at the reception beforehand, to inaugurate MorganNews opening of their Sparta Command bureau. I remembered Marlo as being the center of attention in that room. Tall, tanned, about half way between treatments so was projecting an earth age of around 35, athletic, slim waisted which accentuated her 92cm. breasts. Every man was hanging around her either to ogle or to whisper invitations to her, both of which she haughtily ignored.

Then I had walked into the room with Carter. In those days I was a redhead, slim and of medium height, not so full figured as Marlo – smaller breasts, at 86 cms. – that my men friends described as pert. I was a real 26 in earth years, a cub reporter on my first overseas mission with MorganNews.

Marlo noticed my arrival across the crowded room. Her eyes sought mine, and as they met, hers visibly smoldered. Putting down her glass she made her way regally across the room to me. She was wearing a military uniform, rather casually undone at the throat and neck, and with the trademark Spartan tear above the left breast. On some women it would be sloppy, but on Marlo it unerringly brought the focus to her breasts as if it were a fashion statement from the latest designer.

For my part I was wearing the latest Morgan Fashioncorp creation – a synthsilk sheath dress that molded to my body perfectly. As she approached, I sensed Marlo’s eyes undressing me. A strange feeling, subtly different than when men afforded me the same scrutiny. I shivered slightly, even though it wasn’t cold.

“And you must be Paula,” she purred. As she leaned forward to peck me on the cheek she whispered:

“And I just love your nipples.”

And she did.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now the tables were turned. I was a mature 33 year old, powerful, the second most important personage at MorganNews (if I counted Joe, which I rarely did these days) and Marlo was just a year out of the regeneration treatment facility, looking a youngish 26 herself.

All during the flight over I’d wondered how our meeting would go, what our first words would be. We’d had a tempestuous affair on and off for three years, then it had cooled after my promotion to news Anchor – that kept me almost continually in Morgan Industries. Then had come her move to Sparta Command when she was elected Governor and contact had virtually ceased.

Until this morning.

I’d landed and taken a rovcab downtown, and checked into the hotel. There had been a note from Marlo waiting for me, not curt, not cold, but not particularly inviting either.

“Paula,” it said. “You’re welcome to call on me at the government building where I have a small office. Maybe around noon.”

I’d called on her, and amidst the hustle and bustle of preparations for the ceremony had time only for confirmation of the next morning’s interview with Gavin and the date for drinks and dinner tonight.

I took the lead.

In one of the few moments when she was not surrounded by people wanting a piece of Gavin I said:

“Plans tonight, Marlo?”

“No”, she said. “Should I?”

“Of course,” I replied. “It’s been too long. Drinks at eight at the Met, then dinner. And bring something to wear tomorrow.”

Her eyes signaled her assent.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Marlo nudged me awake.

I opened one eye. She was dressed in her best military outfit, freshly pressed and starched. God, she looked stunning.

“I have to get to work – I’ve an 8.00 interview with one of the UN newspaper men who wants all our military secrets. Ugh.” She made such a face that I laughed.

I stretched luxuriously, conscious of Marlo’s hungry eyes devouring me.

“Are you here tonight?” she asked anxiously.

I reveled in it – Marlo, the predator, almost begging me to stay. That was a switch.

“I could be” I replied. “Want to get together again?”

“Sure’, she said. “Let’s take in a show. I’ll twist some arms for good tickets, then leave it to chance what happens after. Six o’clock?”

I nodded as she took one last hungry look at me sprawled on the bed, and left.

I dallied in my shower, and carefully selected what I’d wear for the Burge interview. Something provocative, I thought. Not that I intended to seduce him, but experience had taught me he’d be a better interview if he were teased a little than if I appeared in widow’s black.

Looking at my watch I saw that it was almost time.

I gave myself one last glance at the mirror, and satisfied, left my room to go the eight floors up to Gavin’s penthouse suite.

The guard at the door stood to attention.

“Morning, Ms. Forbes” he said. “We were warned to expect you. Go right in.”

I opened the door to the suite and went in.

Through the connecting doors I could see the lounge, where we’d conduct the interview, and further in what would be the bedroom.

“Gavin”, I called.

There was no answer.

Probably in the washroom, I thought, and idly glanced around.

I noticed a slight trace of blood on the carpet by the door from the foyer to the lounge. Curious I went in to the lounge. There was a smear of blood on the carpet there too.

Concerned, I opened the door to the bedroom.

Gavin was nowhere to be seen.

I looked around, and then I stopped in horror and disbelief.

The bed sheets were smeared with blood, and there was a tuft of hair just below the pillow.

I pulled back the sheets.

And found a gold button torn off someone’s tunic.

I went to alert the guard, and to find Marlo.

[This message has been edited by Paula Forbes (edited August 23, 1999).]

[Googlie]

I sat in the bar at the Fort Superiority Metropole Hotel idly swirling the fungal gin round in the glass, feeling somewhat melancholy.

I’d seen Paula Forbes at the bar when I arrived, and had been on the point of joining her and asking her for dinner when I stopped in my tracks. Marlo Hollis had materialized and they both hugged then linked arms and went through to the dining room.

So I retreated to my barstool and ordered my fungal gin.

Gavin had rejected my invite to dinner – “Got to catch up on some deployments,” he’d said, retreating to his room.

Even Sophie had turned down my invitation. We’d canceled the plans for her to go to Plex Anthill after the fighting had erupted there – even although it would have been useful for her to have noted how the perimeter defense aided the forces there. Instead we’d agreed that she should immediately begin her tour and she was on the early military shuttle for Sparta Command the next morning. I’d have enjoyed dinner with her, even though she was young enough to be my daughter – if I had a daughter that is.

But of course I have a daughter, I thought, even if I never knew her as a daughter, nor her me as a father. Nor did I even get to enjoy the act of fathering, I thought whimsically. I wondered what Julia was doing now.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Don’t you remember anything?” Julia was shouting at Santiago.

They had set up their consulate in the hastily erected building abutting the Temple ruins. True to his word, Hector had allocated to them his best commlink console and control units, and they now had the small solar generator up and running.

Julia was trying to get Corazon to update the command structure so that they could devise the appropriate loyalty measures they would use, but she was proving an unwilling commander.

“The Navy, come on Colonel, the navy. It can’t be that hard. You’ve only a handful of ships. What are their names and who’s commanding them?”

Her fingers were poised over the console, waiting.

Santiago shrugged. “I don’t know. I never did pay much attention when the Admiral gave the rollcall reports.”

“That’d be Admiral Cunningham, I suppose?” asked Julia.

“Right. He’s the one,”

“Colonel, you have no Admiral Cunningham in the Federation. Doesn’t exist. I just made up the name,” Julia shouted at her. “This is hopeless.”

Santiago looked almost as if she was ready to cry.

“It’s difficult,” was all she said.

Julia pondered.

The Colonel was under a lot of stress, that was for sure. The assassination attempt, the abduction, the escape, the wandering through the monolith chambers, the temple. But still, she must just be blocking the names for some reason.

She had an idea.

“Let’s give the military a rest for now, then,” she said. “Let’s inventory the bases, their Governors and their production.”

“I don’t know”, said Santiago querulously. “That’s just as hard. I think they’ve all been changed anyway.”

Blocking again, Julia thought. This was going nowhere fast.

“Okay, let’s just relax,” she said.

Santiago sank back in the chair with obvious relief.

Julia went to make some herbal tea, and when she returned, the Colonel was dozing.

Julia sat down at the desk and pondered.

‘I shouldn’t do it, but I must get to the bottom of this’, she thought.

She reached out with her mind, tenuously, experimentally, the way she and Miles Cavenaugh had done it so many weeks before.

She played around the edges of Santiago’s mind, extending a tendril of thought and awareness, then withdrawing almost immediately. Growing bolder, repeating, and lingering just a little longer each time.

Then she was in, surfing gently down the thought waves, exploring, searching, expanding her own consciousness until she was aware of Santiago’s.

She searched for the history, trying to locate the memories of the appointmentsa of the naval commanders.

Drawing a blank, she gently prized open the memories with a slight tendril of awareness, a neural questionmark that interrogated the cortex.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The applause was deafening. I’m standing on the stage, taking a bow as the third curtain call is given.

I’m holding hands with a man on my left and a girl on my right. They are bowing too.

The audience is throwing flowers, small tokens of their approbation, on to the stage.

I am suffused with joy, with elation. I am the best there is on Planet.

The curtain finally fell for the last time.

I turned to my companions.

“Well done,” I said. “We can relax now.”

I felt the muscles on my face relax, and sag, and my body subtly changed as the muscles released their tension.

Looking at my companions, I saw it happening to them too.

The girl’s face assumed a rubbery shape as it contorted and fleshed out and her small torso expanded into that of a fully grown woman.

Across from me the man, too, was changing. The fullness disappeared, revealing the gauntness underneath. He turned to me.

“Alexis,” he said. You were wonderful. That was your best Deirdre yet.”

I glowed with pride.

Deirdre?

Dissonance.

Temporal discontinuity.

Alarm

Recognition

Awareness.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Julia retreated rapidly.

She looked at Santiago.

The Colonel was looking at her questioningly.

“Alexis, I know,” said Julia. “I’m an empath.”

“Oh, God. I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me.”

Before her eyes, Julia saw the same scene she’d just witnessed in the dream, but this time In full, stark reality.

The face of Corazon became rubbery, changing subtly, eyebrows rearranging themselves, the nose slightly reducing its prominence. The slim military figure rearranged itself into a taller, fuller woman, with warmer features and a less regal air.

“Where’s the Colonel?” was Julia’s first question as the apparition settled into its natural state.

“I don’t know,” Alexis said. “I don’t think anyone does except her abductors – and even then Scott Allardyce isn’t sure.”

“Is that who you are working for?” Julia asked.

“Yes. He’s paying me, and he gave me enough background to be plausible. Even telling me the truth about you being Deirdre’s and his daughter.”

“What”, Julia spluttered. “Say that again.”

“Oh, you didn’t know? You’re not Corazon’s niece at all. You’re Deirdre’s daughter left with the Colonel for safekeeping years ago when it appeared that Yang would kill your mother.”

“And Googlie? Where does he fit in?” Julia asked.

“He’s your father – sort of. Artificial Insemination. He’s the donor. But didn’t know it until a couple of weeks ago. Thought all those years that you were Santiago’s niece.”

“So why this charade?” Julia asked.

“No idea. I’m being paid well to be here, act as Santiago, contact the generals when I get the signal form Allardyce, and generally behave as an Empress in Waiting. The line about sussing out the loyal and disloyal military commanders is genuine. That’s part of Allardyce and Burge’s plan.”

‘And are Allardyce and Burge themselves loyal?’ Julia wondered. ‘Or do they have deeper plans for themselves?’

“What now?” she asked Alexis.

“Well I’ll continue on until I get the signal to make a public appearance. But you are free to go back to Velvetgrass if you wish. I’m sure Hector can find me a young aide to work with. You can always use the excuse that you wanted to let Deirdre know she was your mother – you need to sort that out for yourself.”

“I think I will,” said Julia. “You realize that I’ll have to tell Deirdre who you really are, don’t you?”

“She might already know,” said Alexis. “Planet seems to tell her everything.”

“Aye, it does that,” said Julia. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. And your secret’s safe with us. We’ve no desire to meddle further in Spartan politics.”

“Thanks,” Alexis said.

Julia left the consulate to check on her needlejet.

'Just where the hell is Santiago?' she thought. 'What's she up to?'

[Tokek Belerang]

Teresia Giacomazzi speedwelded the last joint on the Star's AAA module lasertight personally, and got up to loud cheers from the crew.

"Let's go inside, people."

In the mess hall, everybody took off their breather masks - little nothings that mixed the Chironian air to a more palatable concoction for humans, and quite the sliced-bread invention for outdoor activities. Limited duration only, but quite useful.

No speeches this time - the convoy got under way. Star of the North, Glory of K'el, Lycurgus. AAA plasma the lot of them.

From the panorama carrousel above the bridge, the Admiral looked over at the Lycurgus. The bizarre cargo of the Lycurgus, she thought. Not for the first time. She smiled at the image of Colonel Levavassier's haunted expression as they had discussed strategies together. The jailbird crew of this weirdest of units had been his idea, but its command was beginning to leave its marks on the poor Colonel.

Technically (as well as ironically), it was a police garrison unit. The Admiral knew little of the Spartan underworld, but a few of the names on the crew list had been awfully familiar, and had in fact turned her disbelief around. Or had, at least, suspended it for a while. Anatoli Bondarenko - protection racketeer. DeVaughn Molina (and entourage) - illegal weapons sales (and use). Fungrunner Paatelainen - mercenary / smuggler. Dolores Torma - all-round war criminal (UoP). Naawal Jones - hired assassin. Tunggul "Tree Trunk" Nasution - hi-jacker (Morganite). Vinnie Mo and the Cultmen - datajacks.

The list went on. Two hundred in all, together good for seven thousand years in jail.

* * * * *

On board the Lycurgus, everything was quiet. Some slept, some listened to music, some even read books. Colonel Levavassier had joined a group in one corner of the hold, and had spread out a map on the floor. On the map were Laborer's Throng , Deep Community, and Admiralty Base, but most of the discussion was about Laborer's Throng.

"So what do we reckon? Will they expect us, or not?" boomed the low, bossy voice of jewel-bedecked DeVaughn Molina.

"They will." Levavassier said. "But they don't know where."

"So where do we land?" Molina asked.

"Fungrunner?" Levavassier asked.

Paatelainen placed a delicate white finger on the map. There was a brief silence, and then Molina's laugh echoed through the hold.

"I like it, man. I like it already."

"But first, we pay a visit to some sea bases." Levavassier said, and folded up the map.

Molina and Paatelainen nodded.

"Just you go easy on that suicide pill you got for us, soldier. One nasty thought outta you and we've croaked."

This was Naawal Jones, her long, bony body stretched out on a mattress against the wall.

"All the more reason to make me love you." Levavassier said.

"Dream on, soldier." Jones sang.

But there wasn't a single person in that group that hadn't been told that the little neural graft that they all had could short out their entire neural net in one instant. They would be killed the moment Levavassier let go of the restrainer he had in his own graft.

The Colonel had made a point of it to make sure they knew that.

* * * * *

"Admiral, we have a bogey." the ensign at the main console said.

"What? Cruiser, foil?"

"Negative, sir. Penetrator, sir, coming in on the Lycurgus."

The Admiral realized her error of judgment instantly. The base was already up. Yang had already built his out-post. And those pens had been set loose on Admiralty Base.

No, wait.

Think.

This was a scout run. If it had been for real, we would have encountered ships. Most likely, these were rookie pilots, as well.

"On the Lycurgus, Commander Lewis. They're serving our pie." she said confidently.

The Star of the North and the Lycurgus converged quickly, so that their AAA modules could track together. The Glory of K'el remained at her relative position to the Lycurgus, and would be the first to get the pens in range. The ensign at the main console began a continuous report.

"Missile pens, sir. Three, four of them. One full unit. Attempting to bypass identification blockers… normal sequences failed… compensating for evolution patterns… failed. Attempting unverified intelligence… succeeded. Identification blockers bypassed… communication channels tapped… We have the "Badger" unit, from the Throng, build year… this year, Throng has no Aeroplex. Glory has opened fire, I repeat, Glory has opened fire."

"Gunnery, take your cue from the Lycurgus." Giacomazzi snapped.

"Aye, sir." replied the officer at the gunnery console.

"Comm channels are blurred, sir, comm tap has failed. Pens are commencing attack pattern… looks like a standard cloverleaf, not very tight. Missiles fired. Targeting… Lycurgus, but shots are short. Glory has a hit, I repeat, Glory has a hit. Lead pen is hit. Wavering… Attack pattern aborted. Two pens are running. The third is hit, and the lead pen is coming in range of the Lycurgus. It seems to have lost part of its rudder control."

"Commencing tracking. Lycurgus has connected. Opening fire." said the gunnery officer.

"Lead pen hit. Going down. Down. Second pen overshot, is attempting to run wide."

"He'll never make it. No way." Shiloh Lewis said excitedly.

Over their other bow, the lead pen crashed into the ocean and exploded into a gray cloud of smoke, with orange veins where the heat of the explosion shone through.

"Second pen is running for home."

"It must be close, then. After it. Follow that plane. If it's making for home base, then we've got their location." Giacomazzi said levelly.

* * * * *

The damage to the Lycurgus was minimal. A stray salvo, scratches on the plasma and a minor repair job on the aft superstructure.

The atmosphere on board the Star was pretty elated. In the early evening the listener on the comm scan added to the optimism.

"I think I have base traffic. Someone is opening up a channel out there, and they're not scrambling. It's runway control, sir. I think we have them."

"Show the position on the comm screen, ensign."

"Aye, sir."

Not thirty clicks west of the estimated position from the Pen's flightpath, a sloppy air traffic controller had pin-pointed the location of the latest Hive sea base on the Star's comm screen.

"Hive pens coming out. I repeat, Hive pens coming out. Missile cruiser. We have a Hive missile cruiser."

"Battle stations." The Admiral announced.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri

[Tokek Belerang]

double - deleted.
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 23, 1999).]

[korn469]

1537 hours SMT
Spartan Field Training Facility

The large transport needlejet made a perfect landing, it taxied off the run-way and came to a complete stop. They had picked up their cargo in Plex Anthill and flew to here, stopping only for refueling. As the plane came to a complete stop, the cagro bay doors opened and Sargent Henry Keller supervised his crew in unloading an unusually large fission reactor. On it's sides were a Hive designation. HFR-112k CLEAN. Once they unloaded it, a group of technicians took over and started moving it towards a nearby hanger. Waiting for him at the bottom of the planes were two men, one from the looks of it was an older looking former UoP scientist. The other man was a tall, thin man, he had carefully watched the Sargent Keller's crew throught the entire unloading process. Much to Keller's disgust though, the man had on the jet black uniform of a SISF officer. Keller hid his contempt and walked over to them, and saluted the SISF officer.

"Here you go Major. Sign right here and the transfer is complete." Without saying a word, he took the stylus and quickly scrawled his signature. He saluted and Keller hurried up the ramp. The loading bay doors closed and the transport began preparing for take off. This place always gave Keller the creeps. They had brought in all kinds of weird things, and this place was always crawling with SISF, and former yoopers. Keller didn't like it one bit. Thankfully though they were already begining to take off.
[This message has been edited by korn469 (edited August 23, 1999).]

[Rynn]

I wandered into the Metropole Hotel, and made my way to the bar. It was easily the tallest building in Fort Superiority - had been a research hospital before the Spartans had captured the base from the university. The building had taken a lot of damage during the fighting but the shell had stayed intact. Morgan Hotelcorp had bought it and refurbished it as a luxury hotel. Officially it was the Morgan Metropolitan but somehow everyone just called it the Metropole.

The bar was noisy, with flashing strobe lights and patrons milling around the little dance floor. Two women were dancing in the center, the other dancers making room for them. They were good. Good rhythm and great togetherness.

Then I gawked. I recognized Paula Forbes, the MorganNews anchor lady. With a start I recognized her companion. Marlo Hollis, the Sparta Command Governor. I was mildly shocked. Although samesex couples were fairly common, it was rare to see two from different factions being so obvious about a relationship. And they were leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that there was a relationship.

I looked over at the bar.

Scott Allardyce was there, drinking alone.

'Pity', I thought. 'I'd have preferred Burge. I don't quite trust Allardyce. But he'll have to do - if he's sober enough.'

I went over.

"Mind if I sit down?" I asked.

He looked at me.

"Don't I know you?" he slurred.

"It depends" I replied, then found myself looking right into the barrel of a small airforce issue fleschette pistol.

"Talk, Cavenaugh, and quickly" he said, ice in his voice. Completely sober now.

"Here? I asked.

"Where better?"

"OK."

I told him everything.

To his credit, he didn't interrupt, but rather heard me out, with an occasional "Hrmmph" or "is that so?"

After I finished, he steepled his fingers to his chin and said:

"This gives us tremendous possibilities. Let me think.

"You've jumped, haven't you? Yes, of course you have. The abortive rescue. Here's what we'll do.

"Get in touch with your resistance friends. Have them go to Laborers Throng, and create mayhem there. Get Hive troops fighting each other, maybe even subvert a Hive battalion or two. Or can they do it long distance from where they are just now - The Leaders Horde?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'll ask them."
"If they can, let them stay where they are", he replied. "But we'll drop you there tomorrow. Watch out for our own empaths - Lord Atreus' boys. They're going into the city. Warn your two. And as for you, if you could take out their borehole, that'd be awesome. In fact, come to think of it, work with your two contacts and make that your priority."

I nodded. I had some work to do.

Googlie was watching the dancers. I followed his gaze. The music was reaching a crescendo, the bass notes thumping out their hypnotic rhythm. The whole room seemed to reverberate to the beat. On the dance floor the dancers were losing what little inhibitions they had left.

The band was called "The Wormheads", and the number they were playing was being aired for the first time - it was called "The Planetary Thunda."

The beat grew more insistent, until every nerve ending pulsed in rhythm to the base rumble. Almost everyone was on the floor now, swaying and stomping. Googlie and I were about the only two remaining seated.

Still in the center of the milling crowd, Marlo and Paula had joined the rest of the dancers in shedding their tops and whirling them around their heads, the energy of their gyrations sending little rivulets of sweat coursing down their bare breasts, hilighted by the strobe lighting as it pulsed around them.

Googlie muttered "And to think I could have either one tonight, for the asking. Both, even"

"Sir?" I queried.

He turned to look at me.

"Just an old man's fantasy, Miles," he replied. "I wouldn't know what to do if invited to join them - and I don't mean on the dance floor. I'm 200 years old tomorrow, Miles, and I feel every one of them. Well, maybe not the 40 in cryosleep, but all the rest.

"Marry young, Miles, and cherish her. Lisa Mayberry I'm talking about."

I was flabbergasted. Then I remembered - he had been her commanding officer, so probably knew all their secrets.

"And stay away from Julia. She's not meant for you. She's my daughter, you know."

I didn't.

[Tokek Belerang]

Salvador St James looked out of the porthole window of the MorganLiner, and felt his mind go in random directions.

Why make the window look like a porthole? There was no need for it, and all it did was make your neck hurt.

He picked at his bag of assorted nuts. No, smoked almonds. That was another thing - why were those still there? The little bag would still rip in an unwanted direction, causing the nuts to scatter all over that silly little folding board. Which was automatic now, and autobalanced, but still.

Santiago. What earthly reason? Or what Chironian one?

The person he had met at the Cyborg's funeral had not been Corazón Santiago. For one thing, Corazón Santiago drove like a goat. This person had been a skilled driver. Now there was an earthly reason - she had taken a sabbatical to brush up on her driving skills. But there had been other things. She hadn't reacted when he had, unintentionally, referred to Fort Superiority as Fort Soup. Santiago hated that nickname, considered it a personal insult (she used to baptize all new bases herself). Other things, little things. Confusing things.

Had the person he had met in the monolith the first time been Santiago, then? Perhaps not. He had seen what he had wanted to see. He had wanted her to know the answer to his secret question. They had thought it up together, ages ago, the night before they boarded the Unity, when he had made his final decision to join the secret Spartan faction. It was then that he had assumed the name of Salvador St James, and back then only he and Santiago had known about it.

But she could well have told others about it.

Secrets were romantic notions, anyway.

The plane banked, and the captain droned about the mirror arrays in Morgana. There you had it, get us a normal view and you don't need to do silly maneuvres.

Earthly reasons. Know thine enemy. Who was it that she was afraid of? Gavin? Googlie? St James? Nah.

The plane was made to wait in the stack outside Morgan Industries, and began to turn a lazy upward spiral. You'd think they would have realized there was a plane coming in, he thought.

Honshu. The usual suspect.

Nah. Not really. Repressive tolerance had blunted the edge of the rogue general's subversive mindset. The major bases had come down hard on anything that looked even remotely like a paramilitary branch of Honshu's. A threat, perhaps, but not one that Santiago would treat with circumspection.

Chironian reasons. Planet reasons. The Planet visionaries tended to regard Planet as slightly too anthropomorphic an entity. Planet was not an outspoken force. It was conscious, of that he was convinced, but to St James's taste it seemed to need a tad too much gullibility on the part of its human receptacles. Could it, then, have arranged the disappearance of Santiago?

He thought hard, pushing cynicism aside.

No. Still just not convincing. Cavemen looking up at the thundering skies postulated an angry god. Earthlings staring into the face of a sentient planet did likewise. It was a religion of a quite feeble kind.

Santiago.

He tried to focus on the problem he had formulated.

Santiago.

The problem turned upon itself, and then a clearer notion appeared, and hesitatingly took on revelation-like proportions.

Lately, ever since the longevity treatment he had received before his little vanishing act, he had felt tired.

Others, too.

Googlie, losing his flying skills. More importantly, losing the devil-may-care seat-of-the-pants bravado that had earned him his laurels in his flying days.

Googlie, out to grass in Gaia. Conversations with Deirdre. Conversations? They used to be at each other's throat, hammer and tongs.

Gavin. Resolve incarnate, but a doubter now, a thinker. Nice.

Gavin Burge had become a nice man.

Salvador St James. Dunroamin', duncarin', dunlivin'.

Nah. Not that bad. But he was tired.

The fact that man had learnt how to refill the bottles of life, apparently hadn't changed the bottles.

St James looked out the window again. They were still in an upward spiral. He thought of William Butler Yeats, and the falcon spiraling away from the falconer. Things are falling apart / The centre cannot hold.

Santiago.

Longevity.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 24, 1999).]

[Velociryx]

Darkness.

He opened his eyes and tried to look around. Tried to get his bearings, but the darkness remained. The only thing he remembered was the explosive pain in the back of his skull and then….nothing.

He tried to move his arms to feel for the wound.

Couldn’t.

Disorientation.

Confusion.

Where was he?

Prone. He knew that much. Lying down on something hard, and vaguely cold, perhaps a synthsteel slab? And bound. Tightly enough that he could feel the fungal rope digging into his flesh. Tightly enough to draw blood if he struggled.

He closed his eyes.

Didn’t do any good to have them open anyway, and he needed to focus.

Drew in a deep breath and listened. His old Warrior’s senses slowly rumbling back to life from their decades-long slumber.

Someone was in the room with him.

Behind him.

Close. Less than five feet away.

“I don’t suppose you’d favor me with a little information.” It was not a question, but it had the desired effect. He heard the slight gasp of surprise. He’d managed to surprise them. With so many of the cards stacked against him, that was important. He grabbed onto it.

A woman’s voice purred back to him. The embodiment of sensuality. “Good evening Gavin….you surprise me with your strength. You’re up much earlier than expected.”

He said nothing in response, and she stood to move toward him. He felt long, soft hair tickling his face as she bent over him. Smelled her perfume.

It was all so…..Familiar.

The moment of realization hit him at the precise moment the new voice boomed out.

“Angel, enough! Leave the prisoner be.”

Angel.

One of the Circle of Ashaandi.

Bad news indeed.

And the new voice. Cultured. Refined. He had never heard it, but he thought he recognized it anyway.

Harrand Ashaandi himself.

“Leave us.” He commanded Angel, and she silently, obediently left the room.

The man stepped closer, and Gavin could almost feel him smiling. And then a light. Small hand lamp, held by Ashaandi.

He had a handsome, almost chiseled face. Sharp, pointed features. Piercing, clear blue eyes. Stunning eyes, actually. Lustrous dark hair, so black it was almost blue. “Gavin Burge….you’ve given us quite the little fit.” He said pleasantly.

Gavin smiled weakly. “Why do I get the impression you didn’t bring me all the way here to tell me that?”

Ashaandi nodded. Conceding the point.

Gavin waited.

Ashaandi sighed. “One of my cryptologists intercepted a coded message outlining your planned attack on the Great Clustering….a good plan. Well-conceived. You are a credit to the Spartan Federation.”

Gavin groaned inwardly. They knew. The element of surprise was critical to the success of….

“Oh, not to worry….I killed the man who de-coded the message. The only Hivean alive who knows of the attack is me, and I’m none-too-inclined to tell anyone. In fact, I want to help you make sure it succeeds.”

Now Gavin was really confused. “I don’t dance with the Devil, Ashaandi….and I’m not about to start now. We don’t need your brand of help.”

The assassin smiled. “Ahhh, but my dear Gavin, you have no choice. You forget that it is you who are bound to a table in the darkness, and I who hold the power of life and death, freedom or slavery.”

*Good point*, Gavin thought sourly.

“So what do you want from me?”

“From you? I want nothing at all from you. You were merely in my way. You see, it’s not enough for the Spartans to win the battle against Yang….*I* must win the battle against Yang.”

“You? Oh I get it, you’re just gonna walk into Sparta Command and ask to get into the War-Room.”

Ashaandi smiled, and as he did, his features began to….blur slightly. Contort.

Change.

Gavin watched, fascinated.

Horrified.

In less than a minute, he was staring at himself. A perfect match.

“Yes, something like that.” Ashaandi said cheerfully. “And even if your Empaths think to probe me, which they’d have no reason to, I have more than enough power to cloak my own mind.” He pulled out a syringe almost casually and rolled up Gavin’s sleeve. “Of course, I’ll need to borrow your memories….don’t worry, this won’t hurt much at all.”

Gavin winced anyway.

Steal his memories, put a body double in charge of the invasion….and then what? He couldn’t see what else they’d need him for, which meant….

Ashaandi read his thoughts and smiled. “You’re right of course….and you’ve seen my face. I can’t very well let you live.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t matter to you if I told you I don’t care what you look like….that all I really want to do is retire?”

Ashaandi smiled and shook his head. “No….a fine sentiment, but you’re right again. It would make no difference. You will die, Gavin Burge. You will die to placate others of my Order.”

And that could only mean one thing.

Sand.

Again, the Master Assassin read his thoughts. “You’re “batting a thousand” as the prase went back on Earth, Gavin Burge. And yes, Sand is most anxious to re-make your acquaintence. He and Angel have been restless for a new plaything, and you are the lucky winner.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Gavin said dryly, his mind racing frantically, trying to figure out what his best chances for survival were.

Bound.

Weakened.

Old.

Facing a pair of assassins.

Not even sure where he was.

*Come on, you old Bastard….think! Improvise. That’s what you’re good at, and if you want to live, then you’d better damned well start!*

The needle slid into his arm, and Ashaandi touched his temple. “Sleep.” He whispered.

And Gavin did.

[Tokek Belerang]

"Captain? M'am?"

Karnjariya Sukrung turned to her First Mate, Claudinei Da Silva.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Your orders, m'am?"

"Suggestions?"

Da Silva looked at the comm screen. In full view, a Hive transport. Synthmetal armor. Low in the water, so probably full of troops, plus hardware. Either that, or the Hive ferried ground lava to the Plex to throw at the defending forces.

"I suggest we open fire, m'am. The Hive transport seems immobilized, and we have no indication of other Hive troops in the area. It seems prudent to sink this transport before Hive reinforcements arrive."

Sukrung swallowed a question about the possibility of a Hive submarine trap.

"Proceed as suggested, Commander." she said.

The bridge was utterly silent while the Southern Cross's chaos guns pounded the Hive transport to scrap metal. At the end of it, there was nothing left but a boiling sea and scattered pieces of debris.

"Report." Commander Da Silva said.

"Transport destroyed. Probable payload: marine units, sir."

"Thank you, ensign. Take us to our next waypoint, and keep scanning the long range."

"Yes, sir."

Da Silva looked at Sukrung. She seemed not to have noticed his exchange with the ensign. Da Silva cleared his throat, and Sukrung looked up.

Her expression was vacant.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri

[Hydro]

Plex Anthill

*****

<..thowok, thowok..> <..thowok..>

The last Hive missile impact coincided with a low throaty rumble that filled the dank hallways of Alpha Sector. Lights flickered, went off, then grudgingly glowed to life again, at half power. After the rumble did had died away somewhat, it was replaced by a multitude of muffled cries, screams, and male and female voices yelling, trying desperately to be heard through the bedlam. The cries increased as the sound of rushing water started slowly, and then increased to a torrent.

An old Cleanliness Worker dashed into the Alpha Sector’s Authority management warren. She was covered with dust and her threadbare grey jumper was wet to the knees. Her thin grey hair hung damply against her skull. She knew that entering the Commandant’s office without permission was a transgression punishment by Censure, but she didn’t care. Need over came fear.

“Commandant! There is water in 42, 2nd quartile! WATER!” she said breathlessly.

The Commandant, with his two aids, stopped all activity. He closed his eyes.

“Yang help us!” he intoned. Water was what all Hive citizens feared. Their warrens were all below ground, and water and groundwater management was always a serious problem. If the pumps failed or seals breached, the uncontrolled inflow could kill them all. Second only to suffocation, a water breach was the most feared natural catastrophe to a Hive citizen.

“Are the Damage Brigades activated and in operation?” he asked, turning back to his task on his HiveLink terminal.

“Yes, Commandant. But two of the water discharge surface ports are non-functional. We can’t evacuate the water fast enough. At least 5 groundwater seals have breached. The brigades just can’t keep up,” she said, worry etched on her face.

As she finished, a rivulet of water crept up the floor from behind her, touching her foot. The water was grey with dust and had an iridescent sheen on it.

Looking down, she gasped. , “Commandant! It’s here! We have to leave!” she said desperately, plaintively. She knew that without orders all Hive citizens would drown in place. She didn’t want to die.

“Our Spartan overlords better be able to deal with this,” the Commandant said as he turned from his HiveLinks.

Without hesitation the Commandant turned to his desk, activated a panel, and passed the ID chip embedded in his right arm across the sensor. A second panel slid away, revealing a red button. He pressed it.

WHHHOOPPP, WHHHOPPP, WHHOOOOP

Evacuation claxons sounded in Alpha Sector.

*****

“Sir, part of Alpha Sector is being abandoned. Hive bombardment broke through, destroying a critical portion of the water ducts and damaging the power grid. We can’t spare the…”

<..thowok, thowak..>

“manpower to fix it, even if we knew how. The lower 4 levels are filling with water,” Markus informed Rao. Since completing the inventory he had taken over as comm officer, which was becoming increasingly critical.

“Thanks, Mark. We can’t do anything about it now. The best thing we could do is finish here so we can defend against the aircraft. And we have to get those battleships silenced!” he said in frustration. Without naval or air support they were helpless to stop the punishing bombardment.

“What is the status of our jets,” Rao asked as he pored over engineering specks with Mary and two other engineers.

“The hanger over in Beta is still intact, but the runway is taking a pounding. It’s been several hours since anyone has risked going up to look at it. The 469th is holed up in the corridors of Gamma waiting for orders. They didn’t have to take the time to complete all the armor refits we did. That’s about it, sir. Now word on comm. It’s silent, except for local traffic. There is one more thing,” Mark commented.

“Yes?” Rao said, putting his finger on a reference point he didn’t want to miss.

“The Hive are demanding our surrender, with threats on war crimes trials and the like. Just thought you should know.”

Rao snorted.

“Mark, squirt a message to HQ. Encrypted. Make SURE they know what is happening. Give them the minimum in case it is intercepted. MOVE!” Rao ordered.

Mark retreated to the makeshift C&C station they had erected down in the Delta Sector Nutrient Center. Six hours ago the East Cargo Bay had been compromised and all available equipment had been evacuated. The rovers of 2nd Armor were now housed in the access hallways from the bay.

In the meantime, the plasmasteel refit of the 4 rover brigades was complete. One special refit remained: Lou’s ‘antiaircraft’ gun.

“So, do you think we can do it,” Rao asked, looking at Mary.

“Yes, I think so. What we will have is one of the strangest, immobile missile AA rovers ever known. We will have to remove the chaos gun since the tracking systems are not compatible, and the gun just can’t get the range. I say go for it!” Mary replied.

“OK. Let’s do it. We’ll put it on our best brigade - Blue Death. They are our elites, and should be able to make due, if anyone can.”

“I’ll tell Lou! Mary said excitedly as she paced off.

Lou was in the background, watching every movement. His missile launcher stood partially disassembled, with the unnecessary bulk cut away. A semi-ordered pile of electronics and components stood in a pile all around.

He stood like an expectant father, waiting for the news.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 24, 1999).]

[Kuruk]

The air was thick with tension in the Peacekeeper Capitol. Special sessions of the Governor’s Council, though not entirely unheard of, were rare. Protocol demanded that base governors attend such meetings in person, rather than via holo. It was murder on tightly scheduled campaign trips, and Lal’s summons the day before had sent a small army of publicists and travel secretaries scrambling to send apologies and reschedule flights.

A flock of journalists hovered outside the main chamber, hungrily searching for any hint at the nature of the meeting. It was generally common courtesy to hold a press conference before special sessions, but there had been no leaks this time around. The meeting had been on such short notice that many members of the press corp had barely made it to the Capitol in time for the meeting. The governors stopped for thirty second sound bites before entering the main chamber, but as a whole they seemed as clueless as the press.

Inside, the governors took their places. The entered at the top of the chamber and filled down the various levels to their assigned desks. The seats were arranged in tiered semi-circles, mimicking the design of the UN back on Earth. Small desks lined the wall at the top of the chamber, near the doors. It was here that the real power brokers sat.

Steven and Traci sat at one of these, Traci idly watching the politicians enter as Steven scrolled through the messages on his datapad.

At exactly two p.m., the doors were shut. The only cameras that would be allowed inside the main chamber were government ones.

At the front of the chamber, a door slid open and the spindly figure of Commissioner Lal entered. Looking tired and haggard as ever, Steven thought. Lal had been in for longevity treatments only weeks before, and already the black in his salt and pepper hair was being rapidly replaced with gray.

Lal reached the sythwood podium, his head and upper chest visible over a blue and white UN emblem. His eyes surveyed the crowd, and he began:

“Fellow citizens,” he said, “We have worked together to bring democracy to humanity. We have carried the torch of the vision of equal rights and justice for all from Earth to the new cradle of civilization.”

“I know that many of you have shared in my dream, that one day the human race will be united under fair and just leaders, and that one day all people will speak with an equal voice.”

“Today, friends, we are one step closer to achieving that dream.”

“I have spoken with Nabwudike Morgan, Sr., and we have agreed to begin normalizing Peacekeeper-Morgan relations. We have pledged to each other a Treaty of Friendship.”

The Capitol chamber erupted.

Jennifer Davis, the young PNP politician who had taken Governor Johnson’s place at UN Disaster Relief, jumped up, her voice clear above the noise.

“This is an outrage! The Morgnites are allies with Yang! This will unite Planet under a police state!”

“Shut her up!” Steven hissed to Traci.

Traci tapped her comm and spoke quietly. Steven watched as Jennifer trailed off and sheepishly sat down.

After thirty seconds had passed, Lal banged his ceremonial gavel for quiet.

“When faced with a choice such as this, we must ask ourselves…”

Lal droned on, speaking mostly for the cameras now. Steven hurriedly scrolled back through his messages to the brief letter that he had received from his wife. He scanned over the small talk to until he found the paragraph he was after.

“Same ‘ol same ‘ol here. Had some Morganite scientists in the other day, wandering around the fuels and energy division. Apparently they had clearance. I’m sure it was nothing, probably just the fuels team trying to scrounge some extra funding. At the worst, expect private transit prices to go up- good old Morgan monopolies. Biologicals had a breakthrough. They’ve been working on combining Planet and Earth ecosystems, and it looks like the hybrid forests they’ve been working on are going to happen. Meanwhile, things are slow as ever here in Cybernetics. : (“

The message has set off mild alarm bells when he had read it, but now the picture was clear.

Lal was dealing with the devil.

[Slats]

AIRBORNE NEAR PLEX ANTHILL

The four silver hawks that were Hive missle armed needlejets dived downwards towards Spartan needlejet Thrasher 8, crewed by Amanda Gerling and Wilma Stratham, who awaited their fate which fell like an executioner's blade.
But it seemed fate would be delayed a while longer as the attackers suddenly became the attacked. Several things suddenly happened at once. Thrasher 8's missile salvo exploded two of the four Hive bombers about to make their final turn on their attack run, the four Hive fighters switched their attack radars on to gain a better targeting lock on Thrasher 8, a odd, old WWII battle cry echoed across the Spartan frequency's and Fusion Interceptor Indigo 4 manned by Petro Martinez and Paul Stergeon opened fire from high in the clouds above the melee with their forward firing Chaos cannon. A stream of 9mm field disruptor rounds tore through the open sky and slammed into the rearmost Hive fighter. The burst of fire tore off the fighter's tail section and port wing like mere paper. The now eviscerated aircraft tumbled earthwards like a broken bird, after a couple of seconds the canopy of the jet jettisoned away and two ejector seats blew free. Their occupants quickly deployed their parachutes. The remaining Hive interceptors sensing this new, more lethal threat, immediatly broke off their attack on Thrasher 8 and pulled up quickly. Sensing more blood, Indigo 4 inverted onto it's back and went into a full power dive, hunting for more kills.
Below Amanda and Wilma burst into cheers as they watched the Hive aircraft scatter.

" Thrasher 8, this is Indigo 4 go for the bombers, we'll handle this lot " commed Indigo 4's ops officer, Pedro, the pilot, was obviously very busy.

" Indigo 4, this is Thrasher 8, thanks for the save big brother, much appreicated! ".

In response Indigo 4 waggled it's wings in the distance as it raced away in hot pursuit.

" Wilma, where are our two friends now? "

" I have them..... , boy, they sure are persistant. Still on course for the 'Hill, bearing 23 degrees and now at 9 kilometres, Angels 6. "

Amanda cursed loudly. With all of Thrasher 8's medium range weapons used up and the enemy aircraft being under the minimum range for the two big longe range missiles contained in the planes belly she'd be pushed to catch up and use their little IR missiles or their 20mm cannon located in the nose. Amanda pushed the throttle to full military thrust, glancing at the fuel level indicators showing now one third empty, these low level constant thrust changes were eating up fuel like no one's business.

" Get ready, 6 klicks and closing, arm missiles and cannon just in.......... "

A loud and very close explosion cut her off as the plane was thrown hard to one side. Warning alarms began howling and red lights flashed all over control panel.
Unknown to the crew of Thrasher 8, one of the Hive fighters had chanced a missile launch from the dogfight behind while still being chased by Indigo 4. The missile had been in passive mode, seeking in on the aircraft's heat emissions, with no active sensors to alert the systems aboard Thrasher 8. This missile had detonated close under the left wing, it's onboard computer judging that this was the closest piont at which it would pass next to the jet on it's current trajectory.
Amanda's head connected sharply with the canopy edge just under her helmet rim. Head now gashed open, blood streamed down her face into her eyes and nose. Coughing she sat upright and looking forward into the HUD, could see the two Hive bombers just ahead, coasting along, weapons bays beginning to yawn open. Through her misty red vision she saw the c0ckpit ' weapons armed ' light glowing merrily. Amanda instinctively stabbed the gun trigger and a deep thrumming rattled the plane as the nose cannon pumped shells into the one of the bombers ahead. Some struck home, metal tore and thick black smoke streamed from the plane, which began to lose height and the crew decided the better part of valour and bailed out. Amanda couldn't keep her concentration any longer and turned her aircraft for the airfield ignoring the other Hive jet. She needn't have worried, a barrage of fire from the Rolling Thunder guard detail positions winged the aircraft and made it abort it's attack.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Amanda felt drowsy and light headed, most likely from blood loss she thought with a strange smile. No word from Wilma in the back seat yet, she thought and I'm just too tired to turn my head. Ah there's the airfield........ Here we go.

The commlink crackled to life:

" Thrasher 8, this is Indigo 4, we've driven off all three fighters but they'll probably be back so I think we should........ , by Santiago herself !!!", Pedro had just caught sight of the damaged jet, " How are you? What's your status? ".

" Not good, Pedro........... " replied Amanda, it was all she could think of saying.

Someone was saying something but she couldn't quite hear it, like it was far away. Old lessons began to emerge from her memory, spuring her into action. Amanda dazely flipped the electronic master power switch to off, to minimise the chance of a fire, and eased back the throttle while keeping the nose just above the horizon. She rotated the landing gear selector to DOWN and frowned when the panel registered HYDRAULIC MALFUCTION. Staring at the panel required a lot of hard work she thought, as she drifted off to sleep...........

Both of Thrasher 8's crew were unconscious when the plane flopped heavily onto the battered and cracked plascrete runway, slid and then bumped onto the grassy verge were it came to a peaceful stop. An almost perfect gear-up emergency landing.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FORT SUPERIORITY AIRFIELD, SAME DAY

The once packed Fort Superiority airfield hangers were now empty, filled only with the ghosts of their former owners. Outside on the apron, there was a buzz of activity. First off was a Fusion Interceptor which howled into the sky and turned south westerly, to begin the hop to Plex Anthill. A further two Interceptors accompanying two Fusion Penetrators peeled away from the ground and the larger formation began the longer flight to Sea Base.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

ADMIRALTY BASE, SAME DAY

Pinwheel 5 hadn't been at Admiralty Base long and already there was action brewing. The word was that the fleet unit dispatched just a short time ago had commited to battle and SAC wanted to give some air support to the Spartan vessels in the area. Fine my me, thought Mario as he checked the long range deuterium fuel FLASH packs fixed under the wings and belly of the Penetrator. All this gear brought them close to their maximum takeoff weight but he reckoned they could manage it.

Nine mintues later he and his crew were in the air once more.

[Harold the Bastard]

delete this please
[This message has been edited by Harold the Bastard (edited August 24, 1999).]

[Harold the Bastard]

delete this one too.
Evil Knevil tells me that he will resume as soon as his ban is lifted.
[This message has been edited by Harold the Bastard (edited August 24, 1999).]