The Spartan Chronicles

[Rynn]

Kurt was moaning and whimpering again.

Shauna leant over and took his head in her arms, cradling it against her breasts. He stirred, and his mouth searched for and found her nipple. Gently she pushed his head away;

"Not tonight, Honey. We have to sort some things out. We can't play baby tonight."

It had been like this for three days now, ever since the Miles incident, and now things had escalated.

At first, Kurt had been helpless, like an infant. She had patched up his torn scalp as best she could, where the nodes had torn from him when she pulled off the headpiece. He had stayed that night with her, both of them cramped in her tiny foldout bed. He had regained a semiconscious state, and she had fed him some milk substitute. Then they had gone to bed. The whimpering had started almost immediately he'd gone to sleep, and she'd tried to comfort him, not knowing what mental agony he was still suffering.

They had made love that first night - like tonight, she thought. It had started when she crooned to him with his head on her breast. His lips had found her nipples then, and soon they hardened with desire. She found him easy to arouse, and had taken him, but it had been terribly unsatisfactory. She had been expecting an empath bond during their coupling, but when she tried, she found an almost infantile consciousness that she'd retreated from in confusion.

She hadn't wanted sex since then, not until she knew what was happening to Kurt.

Next morning Shauna had called in sick, then the next day too, while she fed and tended Kurt. But he was locked in that private hell he'd entered and showed no signs of progression.

Than had come the call.

Shauna was dozing, enjoying some quietness as Kurt was engrossed in watching a vidshow called 'Wesley, the Naughty Mindworm.' He was chuckling with delight, but she dozed through it.

Then she felt the presence.

It entered her consciousness, and pulled her out of her dreamy state and into full alertness.

Shauna, it's Miles.

Miles, what do you want?

I need you and Kurt to stir up some action for me. I can't get to him - something's funny. I sent the Lisa code but neither you nor Kurt are receiving. What's happening?

Miles, you've crippled him mentally. He's like a small boy again, and I can't get him to snap out of it.

Oh dear. That's never happened before, but I guess I came across too strong. Shauna, you must go into his mind and explore. You'll have to re-establish some connections where there are dead ends or blocks - you'll need the headset on him for that. And you'll need to get into his memories - he's retreating behind them. Is he sleeping ok?

No. Constant moaning and whimpering. Why?

The memories are unpleasant. You need to move him from them and replace with more recent ones. I can't help you - you're on your own. Just search and explore and experiment. I'r vital that you get him back functioning. We need his knowledge. I don't think you and I can do it alone.

Do What?

We're going to try and take out the borehole at Laborers Throng. Tell me, can you reach there from The Leaders Horde?

I can't. Kurt can. Maybe I can with the headset. But it's not fitted for me.

Better we get Kurt up and running. I'll know if you're successful because he can reach me. Good luck.

Now it was time for Shauna to try and repair Kurt's mind.

She cradled his head on her breasts and reached out with her mind.

Not barging in, but gently, tenderly, lovingly.

Kurt Darling, I know we agreed to only enter each other if invited, but I need to come in and poke around a bit. You've been hurt, and I'm going to help.

She went deeper, past the innocent "uh?" of a response she got mentally, past the childish enthusiasm and excitement around Wesley's latest caper, deeper into the recesses of his mind.

She came up against a barrier.

Please, don't go there - it hurts.

Sorry, love, I must

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

I was in the creche, bending over a desk, with my pants around my ankles.

The crechemistress was wielding a short correctional whip, and whacked me once on the buttocks.

"Kurt, you're a naughty boy. You know you mustn't cheat."

"But I wasn't cheating" I wailed.

THWACK

"Don't lie. It only makes matters worse."

"But mistress, I wasn't cheating. I knew the answers as soon as you gave the question. I read the answer in your mind."

"I said, don't lie."

THWACK

"Mistress you're hurting me."

I bit my lower lip to stop the tears from flowing.

"I know you like hurting me - I can read it in your head. You're enjoying this. But please stop. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Why you little sodding bugger. For an eight year old you've got some bloody nerve."

THWACK………THWACK

"Mistress, if you don't stop I'm going to have to hurt you back."

"The cheek of you"…..THWACK….."you think you can talk back to me…..THWACK

The welts were raising blood now on my backside.

I knew another blow was coming, so I prepared.

THWACK

I took the visceral pain that I felt and channeled it through my mind, enhancing it with all the latent power my 8 year old mind could produce.

With a scream the crechemistress dropped the whip and fell to the floor clutching her head and writhing in convoluted contortions on the floor of the creche.

I hitched up my pants; the rest of the creche kids backed away from me in horror.

The door flew open and two guards burst in, grabbing me from both sides.

The whimpering form on the floor pointed weakly at me and said:

"Sedate the little monster."

I felt the cold metal of the syringe bulb against my neck and the faint puff of cold moist air as the guard sedated me.

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

Phew, thought Shauna. Heavy. Where to begin.

Gingerly she reached out and did as she had seen Kurt do before, pinching the flap of skin at his temple and pulling it back to reveal the neural plate. Then she reached over and picked up the headset and placed it over Kurt's head. Plugging it in and turning on the power, she watched in fascination as the filaments snaked out seeking the nodes and unerringly made the connections.

Then she went back in.

She went deeper than she'd ever been in someone's mind. She knew what she was searching for, and loked eagerly for the signal. Wisps of it came and went, but they were just prior experiences and memories - she needed to be more recent, but not so recent as to trigger the memory of Miles' attack.

Then she saw it. The harbor below, the farms on the hillsides opposite, her sitting by his side, lying back on the grass as dusk settled. Looking up at the stars as it grew dark, picking out Sol, their pointing to it and saying "This is where we all began."

She superimposed that memory over the creche memory, whose signature in his mind was still like a beacon.

All night she worked on him, drawing up recent memories that the trauma had submerged and consigning the early ones to antiquity. She experimented with the thought patterns, coming against dead ends much as Miles had prophesied. When these happened she looked for tendrils to bridge gaps, or to break through the barriers, and each time the link was made and the neural energy flowed. The headset helped, giving power and strength that she didn't have alone.

And Kurt helped too. He found the vidshow childish and opened his mind to her interrogatively. She explained what she was doing and he seemed to understand. He suggested avenues and procedures which she followed, aided by the boost given from the headset.

Finally she was up to date. This was the defining moment.

Kurt darling, I want to invite someone to join us.

Ok. I trust you Shauna. Who is it?

Brace yourself sweetheart. It's Miles Cavenaugh.

Kurt shuddered. In his mind, Shauna felt him recoil, sensed the neural scream 'nooooooooooooo' but before he got that far she interjected:

Darling, he didn't know. Didn't know you were trying to start a resistance movement. Didn't know about Bert . He's the one that helped me get you back again. He wants to work with us, to help us, and we him.

All right. What do I have to do?

Reach out to him. You can, with the enhancement. I can't. he's waiting.

Kurt reached out, sending his thought wave patterns out in a broad sweep towards The Spartan Federation. Past all the clamoring thoughts of Hive troopers and wives and children and bureaucrats, reaching.

Surprised, he found him closer than he thought - in Hive territory.

Contact.

Miles, you bastard. I owe you one big time.

Hey man, I'm sorry - I didn't know. I know that doesn't cut it, but I really am sorry.

What do you need from us?

Here's what we're going to do.

[Kuruk]

Steven Chan strode down the hall toward Lal’s office. He had calmed somewhat since the meeting of the Governor’s Council, enough so to smile and field questions from the press. Inside, though, he was fuming.

Steven had been in politics many years, and no longer clung to his ideals as tightly as he had in his youth. Still, he did have them. The treaty with Morgan would reduce the Peacekeepers dependence on Sparta, and would offer his party chances to increase its power. But he could not help but be infuriated at Lal’s insistence on bargaining away any edge the Peacekeepers had.

He reached Lal’s door, and, after the requisite security check, the guard let him in.

Lal sat in his chair, his back to the door, looking out at the expansive view of UN Headquarters. He had vanished after the Council meeting, letting his press secretaries and the United Nations Party governors handle the press. His holoprojector sat, turned off, on the desk.

“Steven,” he said, “I’ve been expecting you. What are the governors saying?”

“Your party, of course, supports the treaty. The PRP and PDP do as well, since they are staunch free marketers. The Citizens Collective of Chiron is objecting vocally, but they hold only one base, and haven’t completely recovered from the allegations that they accepted campaign contributions from Hive sources. The Green Party objects, but they also hold only one base.”

“I see,” Lal said. He paused, “And your party?”

“The PNP supports the treaty, as it reduces our dependence on the Spartan military. I cannot support your other dealings, though,” Steven tried to keep his voice under control.

Lal turned in his chair to face Steven. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw drooped. Every muscle on his wiry frame seemed to sag. Lal always appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, but from his appearance the world was especially heavy lately.

“I knew that the technology trade would most likely be a part of the treaty. What Morgan offered in return was more than fair. We need allies Steven.”

“But you have armed potential enemies. Morgan is still more Yang’s ally than ours. Do you think that he will really try to fight Yang if he is backed into a corner?” Steven asked.

“What else could I do, Steven?” Lal looked as though he had asked himself the same question many times.

“Let the United Nations stand on it’s own two feet, Commissioner” Steven replied quietly.

Lal was silent. He turned to look back out the window.

“That is something I still mean to do, Steven. How is your side operation proceeding?”

“Well underway,” Steven said.

“Good. Keep me informed.”

Lal fell silent again. Steven turned and left the office, as angry as when he entered.

[Slats]

PLEX ANTHILL


" WATER? ", shouted Bert Evans, " IN HERE? "

The ex-Hive messenger nodded sheepishly. Bert slapped his hand to his head in dismay.

" How long till it rises up here? "

" I don't know sir, we are only slightly underground but........ " murmered the runner.

" Thank you, that'll be all ", half whispered Bert, The young man scurried off.

Bert turned on his heel and walked tiredly back into the auxiliary hanger of Delta sector, they'd had to give up the main hangar when the roof had half collapsed. A Spartan armed guard at the door saluted him as he passed throught the archway. The large cavern which greeted him was brightly lit and was packed closed to capacity. Two Fusion Penetrators and a Fusion Interceptor huddled in the space, wingtips nearly touching.
As the most senior pilot here, he thought of himself as the leader of this Spartan Airforce detachment. This was essentially correct and everyone else had no problem with it. It was agreed that Bert was a good stick.

The remaining crews lounged about on or under their aircraft, as per orders, awaiting any scramble alert that may come. Pedro and his ops officer were painting a Hive fighter symbol under their Interceptor's canopy as credit to their last kill. Thrasher 8's crew were now in the field hospital set up by the Spartan forces after their belly flop onto the runway. Both were unconsicous but not seriously hurt. Thrasher 8 itself had been towed around to Beta hanger via tunnel as a donation for the Rolling Thunder Aardvark squadron.

The aircraft mechanics had previously been amusing themselves by fiddling with Hive hanger equipment and supplies. Bert had put a stop to touching non-essential equipment due to a minor incident involving an old, battered 500lb bomb which had dropped off the weapons rack of Pinwheel 2 after the mechanics had tried to fit it as extra muntions. The good news was it had been found that the hangar could be evacuted in 8 seconds flat. Bert knew everyone was itching for some more action. The Rolling Thunder were up to something he decided, he'd seen large quantities of armour disappearing into their parking bays as well as some anti-aircraft missiles he'd been hoping to snaffle for his plane, most odd....... He settled down into in his 'pit next to a snoring Ken, his weapons officer, to wait for either the water to come or the Hive fleet to pack up and ship out. The Penetrators dared not chance a dash outside with Hive naval guns hungrily awaiting any sign of life.

Either way it was going to be a long wait.

[Tokek Belerang]

"Round-up, ensign De la Hoya." the Admiral said.

It flashed through Juanita de la Hoya's head that she had just lost an expensive wager. She had staked her holoroom privileges on Admiral Giacomazzi not knowing her name. She nevertheless concentrated right away on the task at hand and began calling out the status of North Fleet. As she did so, however, she could have sworn that out of the corner of her eye she caught a little curl of a smile on the Admiral's lips. The woman never smiled!

"Hive attack jets approaching from direction two five seven. Three, possible four. No lock on identity, signals are jammed. Presumable first contact twenty-seven seconds. Hive missile cruiser is coming into range, falling away to the north. Lycurgus has dropped behind us and is heading for a fungal dive. Glory is to port and ahead, equidistant from the Hive cruiser."

"Thank you, ensign. Defensive patterns, people. Let's see what they can do."

Shiloh Lewis raised an eyebrow. Defensive patterns?

"Hive cruiser is in range. Hive jets are in range. I have an identity. Unit "Buttercup", from The Hive. Definite three, not four. Commencing defensive pattern November. Glory has engaged the missile cruiser."

"Weapons?" Giacomazzi asked.

"Tracking has commenced. Bogeys are low. Bogeys have fired."

"Glory has taken a hit. Twenty percent damaged. Guns intact."

This looked more serious than before. Buttercup was an elite unit, the best The Hive had to offer. The low approach foretold as much, as the aim was horrible from that altitude. If the Glory went under to the missile cruiser, then the prospects for the outcome were not good at all.

"No impact from pen fire. We weren't hit."

"They fired too early! They missed!" Shiloh Lewis exclaimed.

"Move to active defense pattern, ensign De la Hoya." the Admiral said.

"Aye, sir. Pattern X-Ray One engaged. Hive pens have pulled up and out, regrouping. Man, they're sloppy. Glory has a hit on the cruiser. Cruiser has a hit on the Glory. Damage fifty percent. Guns affected. Pens coming back in, clover leaf."

"And where have we seen that before." Giacomazzi said.

De la Hoya looked up.

"Verifying identification patterns. I'll be damned!"

"I hope not." Giacomazzi said.

"Attack patterns are within the deviation margin for the Badger attack pattern. They're the same morons as before!"

Shiloh Lewis spoke up.

"Incoming transmission, sir. Secure channel."

"Well? What does it say?"

Shiloh looked nonplussed.

"On your screen, sir."

The Admiral looked at her comm.

"The cavalry has arrived, people." she said. "All engines hold. We sit and take it. Let's get those jets."

"Engines hold. Jets are coming in."

"Tracking. Got them. Firing. Hits on lead and second jet. Hit on lead jet. Lead jet is running. Pilot is out! I repeat, pilot is out."

The Admiral walked away from her comm to face the big screen. One of the ensigns at the weapons console peeked over.

"Tally ho." the Admiral's comm read.

At that moment, the overhead speakers hissed into life.

"Gooooooood morning, North Fleet! Want me to get that nasty cruiser for ya?"

"Morning, Pinwheel Five. Be our guest." the Admiral said.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 25, 1999).]

[Hydro]

MicroTrade Megaplex, Morgan Industries

*****

Morgan Junior sat impatiently drumming his fingers. These board meeting dragged on interminably.

The VP of Marketing waved at his holo presentation with a flourish, the lilts in his voice rising to a crescendo. “So, let me recap again. It is in our best interests to reposition our network position by embracing our mission and vision statements. This will increase our quarterly performance through synergy, and will produce a positive spin in the PR department!”

Other VPs nodded approvingly, a small sea of heads bobbing up and down, each making small comments to their neighbor on the speeches’ brilliance and clarity. A low buzz filled the air.

Morgan placed his hands on the table and slowly stood up. The murmuring subsided and all eyes focused on Junior expectantly.

“Malcolm, I have not heard a presentation like that in some time,” Morgan stated in a neutral voice. Agreeable murmurs filled the cavernous MicroTrade conference room.

“That presentation was, with little doubt, the finest agglomeration of meaningless clichés I have heard in months. You took 25 minutes to say, basically, that we need to have more meetings. Meetings do not lead to increased energy, particularly if when they are a gross waste of time. This meeting was a gross waste of time,” Junior finished.

Stunned silence.

“I have no use for your well-polished incompetence. How this did not come to my attention in the past I can not imagine. The immediate solution is clear: you are fired.”

“This meeting is adjourned.”

Malcolm was white as a sheet. No one moved. Junior drew himself up and left the room. Security would ensure that Malcolm found his way to the lobby, and out of the MicroTrade Megaplex.

The beaten bronze doors closed silently behind Junior. As it closed he could hear the exclamations of surprise and dismay, and some of outrage. Morgan smiled as he walked alone to his private office, his heels clicking on the Chiron marble floors and echoing through the10 meter tall hallway. Of course he knew Malcolm had risen far beyond his station. The point is that the recently promoted and now dismissed VP of Marketing had served a purpose: to ensure that no one indulged is such unproductive rhetoric, and to ensure all knew who was in charge. That was now abundantly clear.

After five minutes Junior was once again in his inner sanctum, surrounded on all sides by the beautiful panoramic Morgan Industries skyline. He walked deliberately over to his desk.

“Comm center, activate,” he ordered

“Good Morning Mr. Morgan,” the computer responded, “You have 239 new voice, vid, and holo messages that have arrived since yesterday evening. Awaiting instruction.”

“Are there any messages from Salvador St. James?” Junior inquired expectantly.

“Negative.”

“Damn. My three inquiries have all been ignored. I do not like being ignored,” he fumed. “This ‘unofficial Spartan liaison’ task Father assigned me is not proceeding as I had hoped. I may have to approach other venues.”

“Comm, segregate the personal, government, and MicroTrade messages. Delegate all personal to my administrative assistants, route governmental to me, and flag coded MicroTrade to me immediately,” Morgan ordered.

It was time to get to work.

[Harold the Bastard]

"Com 2......green light" the Cosmonaut barked.
"Valve grip control?"
" Valve control is go"
"Ok Peter we are ready, 1 minute until Launch"
" Ok, I'm ready, the reactor is okay. Clear to remove moderators."
" Moderators are lifted. Watch the temperature"

Peter was afraid. He was strapped to a 70m untested rocket. They were using a technology that they had never put into rockets before.
Despite the size of the rocket, his capsule was only about 2 metres wide. The conical capsule was tight and claustrophobic. The single window directly in front of him showed him nothing, except blue sky and a distant horizon.
Looking at the data on the archaic computer and corelating it with the input from his Implant, he considered the events that had led him to this place.

Yesterday morning they had recieved a broadcast from the triumphant Hive news networks. Luckly the victory was shortlived. The Hive had almost managed to get a man in space, but the 5th stage did not seperate, and the rocket pulmetted back down to the ground. This was on MorganNet Live!

The shock had propelled the Spartan Space Agency into authorising the experimental Sagan rocket.
The problem was that the escape velocity of Chiron was 25% faster than that of Earth . This caused many many problems for ordinary rocket designs. Some requiring 6 stages or more. The only type of rocket that could lob a person into space, in one stage was the fission rocket. It had a Isp of at least 3 times the fastest rocket. The boffins just hoped that the rocket didn't explode, and scatter radioactive debris over Sparta Command.

The electrodes in his suit were itching. His hands were strapped in, so that he could not scratch. He looked again at the picture of the team, scanning for Charlotte. This woman had become an almost secret obsession for him. He barely spoke to her, but he yearned for her. If he made it back alive, he would certainly ask her out. His mind turned again to the job at hand. Especially since the MMI was clouding his thoughts.

"Peter we are clear, countdown"
"10"
"9"
"8"
" Reactor Temperature is hot, maybe abort"
" Negative, you are clear"
"3"
"2"
"1"
" Releasing Hydrogen"
"GO! "
The rocket strained upwards, the umblical cord pulled away, as the rocket began to ascend.

[Harold the Bastard]

delete this post
[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).]

[Harold the Bastard]

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

[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.

[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.

[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).]

[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

[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]

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).]