The Spartan Chronicles

[Rynn]

"How long has she been like this" asked the MO, just arrived at the 47th field hospital from Sparta Command.

"For five days" the medic replied.

"tell me again what happened exactly?" asked the MO

"Well, Sir, Lieutenant Rynn has been in the penalty box for the last week or so since the Colonel took her off the Empath Squad and reassigned her to the 47th. She was doing routine vehicle maintenance while the brass tried to figure out what she was good at. Anyway, she was working on a recon rover when suddenly she screamed, clutched her head and collapsed. She's been in a coma ever since.

"We've tried everything, drugs, shock therapy, nothing works. We did a brain scan and she has some wierd implants. Was flatlining for long periods, but the funny thing was her eyes were open, but no pupil dilation and no signs of consciousness. then she'd sigh, close her eyes and the scan would pick up the waves again. Weird. that's when we summoned you."

The MO grunted. "Her file is restricted, too. Had to go right to CS herself for clearance. Rynn's an empath, neural grafting, the works. I spoke with Bonaventura before I left - he did the work on her. Gave me a tip or two. He reckons some immense Psi induced event put her into her empath trance and she can't find her way back. We'll work as a team, I'll handle the probes and psi-current, you be ready with the abort switch, but keep your ears and eyes peeled. OK?"

"OK" said the medic, dubiously.

They started.

The MO had crudely fashioned a skullcap for Ann based on Bonaventura's instructions. It didn't quite fit, but was good enough.

"Must have had her head shaved when the neurals were done", said the MO. "Let's see if this works without shaving her."

He carefully positioned the filament thin probes at the marked spots on the cap, and gingerly began the insertion procedure. Readouts constantly gave him the positioning parameters, and gradualy the probes penetrated to the cortex. He fiddled a little with the positioning as he sat with his eyes glued to the monitor.

Then cautiously increasing the psi current he pulled a small recorder from his pocket and held it to her ear, flicking it on to play the recording he'd coaxed out of their CiC.

The voice, though tinny, was unmistakeably that of Corazon Santiago.

"Lieutenant Rynn, this is your Commanding Officer, Colonel Santiago. Open your eyes if you recognize and acknowledge this."

Ann's eyes flickered open.

"Lieutenant Rynn, you have had a traumatic experience recently that has catapulted you into an empath trance. You are struggling to escape but are lost. This is unnacceptable. As your Commander in Chief I order you to exit this trance. NOW ."

The MO and the medic could see the struggle going on in Ann's mind. Her eyes blinked rapidly and her body twitched, then convulsed. Then she sank back with a blank stare.

The MO looked at the monitor.

She was flatlining.

"My God, we've killed her" he yelled to the medic.

He shook his head. "No, sir, her fingers are still twitching."

The MO heaved a sigh of relief. Well let's continue, with increased power.

He flicked the recorder back on, and turned up the psi-current further.

"Lieutenant Rynn", Santiago's voice continued, "we know that you have been separated from your empath buddy. Believe me, if we knew the whereabouts of Miles Cavenagh...."

At the name Ann's body went into violent convulsions, and her breathing labored. She rolled her head from side to side as a terrier would when trying to free a stick from a hand, then sat bolt upright, staring wildly ahead. The cranial probes flew from her skull and medic had to leap aside to avoid being impaled by the filament thin spears.

"Hive...Planetbuster...Great Clustering" then sank back to the couch.

Her eyes were open, and her breathing normal.

"Lieutenent Rynn, are you with us?" the MO asked gently.

She nodded. "Water," she croaked.

The medic gave her a drink.

She looked at the MO.

"I have to get word to the Junta. The Hive are developing spaceflight at their Great Clustering base and are building a Planetbuster there. Miles Cavenagh.." her body shuddered as she said the name.. "sent out a psi burst to warn us...I don't know how long ago. I think they killed him."

I'll deal with that", said the MO. "Right now you need to eat some solids. Medic, attend to that will you?"

"Yessir", said the medic and went off to prepare a meal.

"Rest for a bit, Ann, it's been traumatic for you. You'll be up and about in a few days."

He padded out to the corrider, and found a secure room.

He activated his commlink, and dialled up Santiago, Burge and Miller.

"Sirs, I have brought Lieutenant Rynn out of her trance. She was the recipient of a psi burst from her empath buddy that half of Chiron experienced but nobody understood. Apparently the Hive are developing a Planetbuster, whatever that is, at their Great Clustering base. Rynn believes that her empath buddy, Miles Cavenagh died in attempting the projection."

He dialled in another number, then activated his scrambler. Even at that he spoke in hushed tones.

"Get the message to Ilya that Yang is developing an intercontinental nuclear ballistic missile at Great Clustering."

He snapped the commlink shut and left the field hospital to return to Sparta Command.




[This message has been edited by Rynn (edited August 03, 1999).]

[Slats]

Scrambled Commlink burst to Chiefs of Staff:

Redeploying assets. Where do you need Penetrators? Interceptors?

Assembling a two pen wing for possible attack on Great Clustering. May need land support for airbase build and maintenance. Advice as to whereabouts of Great Clustering welcome as our satellite maps are spotty.

Airbase to provide transit access to Assassins Redoubt also needed to enable air support.

'Slats' Miller

[Slats]

I sat behind the desk and tried it for size. Googlie’s shoes would be hard to fill.

He had cleaned the small office out completely, leaving me just the old command structure chart, the operations map, the trainee roster and the commlink frequencies sheet.

I studied the old command structure chart.

What to do about Bearcat. He’d always been the flamboyant one, the heir apparent, while I’d been the loyal second in command, the perfect staff officer, never questioning orders, but demanding and getting the utmost respect and cooperation from the airmen and women that I commanded.

I’d need to give Bearcat a sop of some kind, maybe an honorific such as Senior Wing Commander. That was stupid. Maybe go to Santiago and ask if I could create an Air Vice Marshall position. But if I went to her it was maybe showing a weakness that I had – why just couldn’t I create the rank and fill the position?

What would the other Junta members think. Come to that was I a Junta member? Sure I reported to Corazon directly, but I wasn’t an insider as were Burge, Googlie and Gecko. I wasn’t particularly close to any of them, only to Googlie, and I didn’t want to go running to him for advice every day.

I need to create links with the other up and comers, especially those recently handed largish commands. Maybe I’ll ask ‘Trawler’ McMillan for some advice. I’d always found her friendly and receptive at the joint staff functions – and she was Chiron born and about my age too.

But back to Bearcat.

I’d just been appointed Commanding Officer of Spartan Air Command, with the Air Marshall rank – Sparta’s first ever. Old Googlie was content to remain Wing Commander even though both Brewster and I also held that rank. But he could get away with it, with the informality. I couldn’t. I was Chiron born, had cut my flying teeth in the dogfights of the University War and still loved to fly, but my opportunities would be limited now.

Could I give Bearcat responsibility for both Penetrators and Interceptors, a sort of Group Captain rank? But that didn’t make sense. Googlie had always nurtured the troika concept for decision making, even if he was the lone voice in the two out of three he always went with the majority decision.

That’s what I’d perpetuate.

So Bearcat would retain Bomber Command, the Penetrators, as a Wing Commander. Or maybe as Group Captain. We had so many new trainees graduating and new aircraft coming into service that maybe we should pair a rookie and a vet into two plane wings, with the vet being a Wing Commander. That would mean that three or four wings would form the Bomber or Interceptor Group.

So Group Captain Pat Brewster of the Penetrators it was then.

I’ll leave it to Brewster to recommend ranks for his group – he’ll like that.

Who to replace me at Fighter Command, the Interceptors.?

I ran down the list:

Jill Hughes, the most senior after me
Rudi Gertz and Pedro Martinez, both veterans
Lisa Maybery and Dexter Patterson, both rookies.

Did it have to be a flying officer? What about a senior Operations Officer. My own partner, Wilma Statham was the ranking vet, but she’d be ideal to team with a new trainee graduate. So would Alan Watt, now bereft of a pilot with Julia’s defection. That left Octavio Rodriguez, who was meshing excellently with young Lisa.

Jill it would be, then. Group captain Jill Hughes had a ring to it – maybe it would instill in her more of a sense of command and responsibility. Rudi and Pedro would become Wing Commanders with Lisa and Dexter as their wingmen until the new graduates arrived, then I’d reconsider their status.

I looked at the trainees list. At this stage they didn’t specialize in either Pens or Tacs – usually we took the better team players as the Pen crews and the more individualistic ones as the Tactical Interceptor crews. I had been the exception I thought glumly. Stolidity and dependability in an Interceptor. But it had kept me alive in the University War and I did have seven confirmed kills to my credit, more than any other Spartan aviator.

The hotshot pilots seemed to be Megan Bruce and Gunther Wallis. The dependables were Mario Benedetti, Sheila Stalker and Tyler Moore. There was one real flake, apparently, who was untouchable in the air but a handful to have around on the ground, Amanda Gerling. She sounded like a perfect fit for Wilma Statham, my old No 2.

I pulled the operations map over the desk. I wished the field commanders would get back to me so that I could make more sensible deployments than Googlie’s last one of piling everything into Fort Soup. Playing the hunch was not my style.

Then there was the matter of the Hive missile capability. That would have to be destroyed. And if not from the air, then by whom? A probe team? We don’t even know where Great Clustering is. And how reliable is that empath thing anyway? Maybe it’s a Hive hoax to have us divert materiel on a goose chase. Maybe the name of the place is Goats Mustering, (us) and not Great Clustering.

I sat behind the desk and let my thoughts ramble on…..

[Rynn]

Miles sat up and rubbed his head. He had a splitting headache. He stopped, puzzled, and felt around his head. The hair fuzz was gone from one side, and his fingers were rubbing over a metal plate, cool to the touch.

“Holy Zak,” he said aloud, “what have the bastards done?”

He looked around, as the soft breeze wafted the unmistakable scent of fungus to his nostrils.

He was sitting up in a small fungus patch just across from a rockface with a fissure running diagonally up to the top, creating a cave large enough for a man to hide in. It looked vaguely familiar.

He strained his memory, a thought gnawing at the back of his mind, that he couldn’t quite resurrect to the mainstream of his consciousness.

He shrugged.

As his gaze took in more details, he saw something glinting in the fungus. He raised himself to his feet and walked over, parting the tendrils to look more closely.

It was a shredder pistol, non standard issue, that had a flamer attachment hanging loose from the butt, and configured for fleschettes. He hefted it. Surprisingly light. Flicking the ‘on’ latch he saw that it was fully charged.

He felt for his weapons pouch, but couldn’t locate it on his belt. Taking stock of the situation he realized that he was largely unarmed, except for the shredder pistol conveniently left for him, he had no idea where he was, and he had no food. Apart from that, life ws a blast.

Reflexively he picked at his nose….

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

Bert let out a yip:

“Kurt, I can’t believe this, he’s actually dreaming he’s screwin’ her. It’s the blonde this time. Oh, and she’s gorgeous. She’s straddlin’ him, and they’re goin’ at it like two rabbits. Oh, wait till we get on the invasion force, I want her. Lisa’s her name. Oh, yeah, baby, do it to me”

Kurt looked over at his companion with distaste.

He hadn’t wanted this assignment, but for some reason he was stuck with it. He was one of the few Hive empaths, and had been removed from the mindworm assault team to babysit this gross experiment and monitor the emissions. Bert was Miles’ control and right now was having a difficult time controlling himself. He was like a voyeur, with his vidcom helmet on and the neural amplification nodes attached and the filament probes inserted.

Everything that Miles dreamed Bert saw, not as a dream, but rather as a first person vidshow. Kurt was aware of it too, but more as a dream in his subconscious. The empath bond was weaker over the distance and while he too had a helmet and visor that provided amplification he was content at this stage to take the emission faint.

They were sitting in the control room at Hole of Aspiration, surrounded by empath paraphernalia. There were skull caps, probes, filaments, even some nerve stapling equipment. Kurt shuddered. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t defect. He hated this regimentation, this always being watched feeling. He felt freedom when on worm patrol. He’d even sensed mindworms trying to communicate with him, but when he’s told the Captain that she’d laughed at him, spat on the ground, and told him he was getting soft. But he liked the fungus jungle patrols.

This though was different. Bert and Miles had been brought in by a hive probe team, then the doctors had performed some ‘personality re-ordering’ on Miles. He’s had a few days in his and Bert’s company, and that had disgusted him. When Bert had the equipment on he could thought-control Miles to a certain extent – Kurt wasn’t really sure where that extent ended. He’d been retained to bond empathetically with Miles while Bert had him in control. Bert was a sadist, and the nicks and scars on Miles’ arms and body were proof that Bert could make Miles cut himself enough to bleed. He’d even supressed the neural analgesic dampers so that Miles would feel the pain, and Kurt could testify that great pain had indeed been inflicted, as he experienced it himself through the empath bond.

He’d also discovered the trance inducer, and frequently got Miles picking at his nose, but it didn’t work every time

Kurt looked over at Bert. He was moist with sweat, and panting heavily. Kurt reached over and hit the disconnect toggle.

“Now what the hell did you do that for?” he asked. “Things were just comin’ to a head, man.”

“We’ve got work to do,” Kurt said icily. “Now bring him out of that trance.” He retoggled the switch.

Bert sighed, and focused, his face screwed up in concentration.

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

Miles snapped out of the trance, and his headache was worse. He had this mental image of Lisa lingering in his mind, and it gave him resolve.

He had to rejoin his unit. He looked up at the evening sky, and from the position of the suns reckoned that he would need to head north to civilization.

He pocketed the shredder and commenced walking.


[This message has been edited by Rynn (edited August 03, 1999).]

[korn469]

Security Council Conference Chamber
U.N. Headquarters

"Ilya, you must understand my position. The Spartans are our allies. Diplomatic protests will fall on deaf ears. Santiago and the leaders of the Junta, have already told me to drop the issue. There is little I can do about this issue without provoking the Spartans." Lal was courtesy, yet stern. The situation looked desperate, but Koptev had one last card to play.

"Pravin, there is something you don't know. We have kept this quite till now because we do not have enough evidence to prove it. However, there is circumstanstial evidence that partially backs it up..." Lal cut him off.

"Ilya, I don't have time for games. What is this claim of yours?" Koptev took a deep breath, then he began.

"Near the end of war with the Spartans we had completed the first Chaos tank prototype at Lomonosov Park." Lal gave him a quizzical look. "I can tell by that look on your face you have never heard of Lomonosov Park. Well it was our test bed for new weapons. Our new tank was years ahead of anything they had. Their best tanks had gattling lasers and were powered by fission reactors. This had Chaos weapons and fusion powered. The base was completely classified, very few people knew about it. They had developed a new manufactoring process that allowed them to speed tank production, so far the Spartans haven't been able to duplicate it. The base was relatively small, it had a population of 40,000 and it was well defended. Perimeter defenses, sensors, everything. Our defenders were using weapons that were a generation ahead of anything the Spartans had. That base should have held against any Spartan attack. Well there was a sunflare that disrupted communications. Lomonosov Park was our last hope, we had lost University Base and only Lab Three was holding out. The war was almost over." He paused and took another breath.

"I flew out to see why we had lost communications with Lomonosov Park and when I arrived it was gone. There was nothing left. The base had been completely raised to the ground, there was nothing there except for smoking ruins. We found ashes, it looked like they burnt all the bodies to hide the evidence. From the evidence we can only hypothesize that they captured the base and put all of its citizens to death. We think they executed all fourty thousand of our people." He raised his voice in anger. "They butchered fourty thousand people Pravin!" Then Ilya regained his reserve.

"It appears like our Chaos tank brigade was heading towards the front when a messenger caught up with them and gave them the news about Lomonosov Park falling to the Spartans. From the evidence they turned arounded and headed to engage the Spartans and liberate Lomonosov Park. We'll we found where they engaged the Spartans, except it looks like a total slaughter. No real signs of combat except for our dead troops. There was another strage thing. There wasn't a single destroyed chaos tank on the battlefield. Only the dead tank crews. No extenal wounds were found on any of our dead soldiers. Yet, they were all dead. Lal, there is only one explanation. They nerve gased our troops. Our men never knew what hit them." One of Lal's aides interupted Koptev. It was Ewan Grayson, the Commander of UXFOR, the U.N. Expeditionary Force.

"These are very serious allegations. Ilya, to be frank I'm skecptical. You need our help, and there is nothing you wouldn't say or do to get it. Suddenly all these years after the war it turns out the Spartans broke the charter and nerve gased your forces, and then destroyed a city nobody has ever heard of. Is that what you are telling me?"

"Yes it is General Grayson. However I don't think that Santiago or the Junta authorized the use of nerve gas or the destruction of Lomonosov Park. After having my Spartan contacts research the event there was only one unit that was equipped with nerve gas at that time. It was the Spartan Advanced Combat Methods Test (SACMT) unit, commanded by Colonel Jack Bradberry. It's operations were totally independent of the war effort and it's location was unaccounted for. Bradberry's unit tested out many different methods of waging war, and that included chemical warfare. Bradberry was killed in a boating accident when he was on leave. He was in his small sailboat when an Isle of the deep surfaced and attacked his boat. We do not know who the other officers in his command were, that information is highly classifed. All we do know is that as a result of his unit's work, the Spartan Force Projection Test (SFPT) unit was formed. War games conducted by the SFPT resulted in the creation of th Spartan Drop Force, and the Spartan Aphibious Assault Corps. It is presumable that some of the officers under Bradberry are now memebers of the Spartan Drop Force, or Marine Corp. However this is speculation."

"So this rouge commander decided to test how effective chemical warefare is? Ilya it is hard to believe. You story is full of nonexistant units attacking nonexistant bases." Ewan stopped speaking because one of Ilya's aides entered with an urgent message for Ilya. He whispered something in his ear, and Ilya's entire demeanor changed. The aide left.

"Gentlemen, I have very bad news indeed. I just received a very disturbing message from one of my most trusted contacts. It appeard that Chairman Yang has developed the technology to produce intercontinental ballistic missles armed with a powerful nuclear warhead. It is powerful enough to vaporize an entire city. He has already started production of one of these missles. We also know that Santiago has the technology to produce nuclear missles too. It appears that a horrible arms race is about to begin." A somberness decended on the room. Lal and Koptev were both Landers and they both knew of the horror of nuclear war. Lal stood up and the rest of the people in the room stood with him. He walked over to Ilya.

"Ilya, we will continue this discusiion later. In the meantime I will investiagte these charges of yours. However, because of your news I must meet with my full cabinet and act as quickly as possible. Farewell, my friend." Lal shook Koptev's hand then they bowed to each other.

"Farewell Pravin. I hope when we see each other agin it will be under better circumstances."

"Yes I agree. When we meet again, I hope that we can have a pleasant conversation. I hate to have to talk of war, and occupation, and weapons of mass destruction. Lets hope reason and logic win the day." With that Ilya left and Lal went to convene an emergency session with his cabinet.
[This message has been edited by korn469 (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Kuruk]

Gunnery Sergeant Royce Armstrong sat on his track sled, sharpening his dagger. It was an utterly unnecessary action, as the silksteel alloy blade would never lose it's edge. It was, however, something to occupy his hands and mind. Around him, hundreds or so marines were trying to do the same, looking for anything to take their minds off of the tense wait. Some sharpened knives, others checked and re-checked equipment, and others simply paced back and forth. It was as if the entire transport bay had developed a mass case of Tourette's syndrome. Though it went unsaid, everyone knew that the order could come at any moment.

The 10th NCM Marine Company was awaiting the final go ahead for the assault on Huddling of the People. The artillery had been put ashore several days earlier, and had been relentlessly pummeling the base. The repetitive sound of the large chaos rounds was little more than background noise now. No one noticed it unless they actually stopped to listen for it. The probe team had gone ashore with the artillery, and was now working on brining down the perimeter defenses. For the most part, the grunts were glad to have them off the ship. The arrival of the soldier spies had been met with distrust. Most of the younger troops saw no need for the probe team. Their black boxes of electronic witchcraft took up valuable cargo space that could have been used for extra hardware or another platoon. Royce knew better though. He had been on enough amphibious assaults to know that the perimeter defense would mean the difference between life and death for many of these kids.

"So, these things really float, Sarge?" Royce turned to see Private Orlando Lopez. Lopez wore a strained grin. The kid's probably nervous as hell, and probably scared, too, thought Royce. He would do alright, though. Royce had personally chosen Lopez, along with Serena Reed, as the two smokers for the command squad.

"They've never sunk before, but there's a first time for everything," replied Royce. The amphibious track sleds looked like the ugly offspring between a foilcraft and the track sleds used by the regular infantry. They were about three meters long and two wide, with round airfoils at each corner. Their treads were narrower and lighter than those of their land based cousins, designed for quick dashes from the shore to the gates of a base, not for long marches through the fungus. At the front was a hydraulic monopod weapon mount, while the rear held a small power plant. The overall effect was almost comical. The assault vehicles looked more like cartoons than advanced military hardware.

"If we have to wait much longer, I might just swim there myself," Royce said.

"Keep busy," the sergeant advised, "You can always re-check your gear. I'd rather fight the Hive if they're asleep. Make sure those gas rounds are good to go."

Orlando grimaced, "I feel like I've been staring at ammo for the last week. It's time to fire some."

"Agreed," said Royce, nodding. He looked at the strange looking gas pod gun mounted on the front of Orlando's track sled.
"I couldn't go into battle with one of these. I wouldn't want a weapon where the rounds vaporize when they hit something."

"They're not so bad," said Orlando, "If this thing turns into a cakewalk I'll let you give it a try.

Royce braced his shoulder against the gun, testing it for feel. Then something caught his eye. There was a small, shiny lump on the magazine. It looked almost as though a single mindworm had burrowed into the metal. In fact, it almost looked like-.

Royce had seen military grade nanorobotics in action once before. During the war with the University, his patrol had come across a platoon of Spartan rovers, all stopped dead in their tracks. The hatches had been sealed shut, and there were no external markings, save for a few shiny bumps that looked much like the one Royce stared at now. When the hatches had finally been pried open, there was nothing left of the interiors. Metal, glass, and plastic had all been reduced to elements. There was little sign of the rover crews. Most of the carbon in the rovers had been burned as fuel for the nano. Royce and the other members of the patrol had been quietly told to forget what they had seen. The Spartan government refused to officially acknowledge that the University had ever held, or possibly still held, such a technological lead. The reports of advanced University tech had been quietly buried, along with rumors of atrocities and a chemical weapons brigade.

Chemical weapons. With a sick feeling in his stomach, Royce realized what was happening. If the nano could be programmed to take chemical compounds apart, it could also be programmed to rebuild them. The chemical rounds that would be used today were no longer benign knockout gas. Nadia Dimitriov was single handedly engineering an atrocity. And this one would not remain a rumor. It would be displayed for the world to see. It would be blared over Morgan NewsNets, spoken of in hushed tones over drinks at the officers club, sighed at by Peacekeeper relief workers. It would bring questions to the minds of allies, and hate to the souls of enemies. And it would change the Hive-Spartan conflict from a war into an eye-for-an-eye killing contest.

"Sarge?" asked Orlando, "What's up?"

"Listen Orlando, " said Royce, "I want you to round up everyone in the brigade that you can absolutely trust. Keep quiet. Tell them that when the time comes they are to follow my orders and my orders only."

"Sarge, what's going..."

"I don't have time to explain. Just do it. And keep your pistol where you can reach it."

[Tokek Belerang]

Levavassier eyed the crew lists with interest. Under the Gecko, the Crew hadn't crewed. The pilots picked whoever would be around for a mission, or flew solo like the Cyborg.

First, Captain Driss el Khaled, for the Chaos Chopper 'Meknes'. Still their prize possession - an evac crew cleaning up enemy bunkers before coming in for the rescue wasn't your everyday kettle of fish. Crewing for the Meknes, let's see... triage surgeons Jason Hewitt, Mikel Etxevarria, Kyalo Mwatu. Good.

Captain Ni Gusti Nyoman Wenten - was that her name? Nr 2 VTOL Needlejet 'Nyepi'. The needles were good for quick long-range roundups, but could take only about a dozen people on board. The one surgeon - hello. Arihclinn Ó Cathaoir - The Frog From The Bog. Now there was an unlikely combination.

Captain Giannis Seferis - nr 3 VTOL Needlejet 'Eleutheria' - bloody hell. Whatever, Yanni. Crewing, Massimiliana Giacomazzi. The admiral's daughter - interesting.

It would do. Things were getting tighter around the place, and that was good - back to business.

Levavassier looked at his task list for the day, and noticed an entry about getting in touch with Ben Miller. Same year as him in the academy, different base. But both Chironians. This was becoming a thing - the takeover of the junta by the Chironians. Dammit, he was part of the junta himself, now. Hey there - Ben also used to live in HQ. He walked to his comm terminal to put through a message. "Hello, Ben. Congratulations on your appointment. Care to exchange some CO thoughts? Seems like we have enough to talk about now 1st Wing is filling slots in the 4th. I sent Hendrikus on his way with the Rotor unit. And I'd like to hear everything about old Googlie dancing naked among the trees with Deirdre. Eugene out."

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 04, 1999).]

[korn469]

TOP SECRET/DESTROY AT ONCE:

TITLE: REVEIW OF THE SACMT TEST PROGRAM
CONCERNING: SACMT OPERATIONS
OVERVEIW: CHARGES OF VIOLATION OF THE SPARTAN CODE OF HONOR/RECOMMENDATION FOR THE ORDER OF SPARTA
STATUS: DESTROYED

DELETED/DESTROYED

ADDITION: 3/12/2224
RE: SACMT OPERATIONS
CONCERNING: SACMT OFFICERS

Colonel Jack T. Bradberry
Deceased: Boating accident* 2206
Lt. Colonel Quincy D. Abbot
Deceased: Suicide 2216
Major Ishmail F. Aru
Deceased: KIA 2203
Major Charles B. Garibaldi
Deceased: Boating accident* 2206
Major Roberto J. Vega
Deceased: Natural Causes (refused longevity treatment) 2221
Captain Juventus Apulto
Deceased: Boating accident* 2206
Captain Vlad N. Armasi
Deceased: Boating accident* 2206
Captain Marcus A. Brown
Retired: Retired 2208 as a Captain
Captain Aeri B. Folkes
Active Duty: Current rank is Colonel
Captain Leejay Lockhart
Active Duty: Current rank is Colonel
Captain Gregory C. Nestor
Decease: Boating accident* 2206
Captain Travis L. Stuadamyer
Deceased: KIA 2204
Capatin Andrew I. Vendetti
Deceased: Boating accident* 2206
Captain Jonathan P. Wells
Deceased: KIA 2213

*All were killed in the same boating accident in the year 2206. Apparently an Isle of the Deep attacked them off the coast of Centurion Cave.
[This message has been edited by korn469 (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Tokek Belerang]

Ni Gusti Nyoman Wenten was of Balinese descent. Ksatria caste - warrior. Caste had not meant much on Bali in the last centuries of Earth, but there had been a resurgence in the very last few years. To that she owed her honorary title, Ni Gusti. Nyoman meant she was a third child, as Balinese children are named, be they boy or girl, in the order in which they are born - Wayan, Made, Nyoman, Ketut, and then Wayan again, and so on. Wenten was not a surname, it was just another name. She also had a Sanskrit name, but she rarely ever used that. And then every Balinese had a nickname, and she was Nyoman Jangkrik - the cricket.

Now the cricket was a captain in the Spartan army, flying rescue missions into enemy territory to get stranded soldiers home, or shuttling the wounded off the battlefield post-haste. She had been in the latter business so far, stroking the tips of the fungus with the belly of her jet as she flew into the carnage of war. Most of it had been before she'd even graduated from the two Academies - Air Force and Medicine - and by the time the graduation ceremony came around she'd seen more of the realities of war than many a veteran. They said eighty percent of war is preparation - it wasn't. Eighty percent was mopping up afterwards.

The Cyborg could fly in to pick up units at a time from the live action, but he'd rarely seen what the med units had - mostly dead people. Black magic indeed, and there were black magicians in Sparta, as well. She talked about it often with her Pedanda, her priest, and although his words could soothe her, the feeling would remain. On quite a couple of her sorties, she had come back empty, or with corpses only - nerve gas.

"Captain, M'am?"

"Yes, Jeremy. What is it?" she asked the young mechanic, one of Sheila Cartesius' Magic Monkeys.

"Something happened I think you should know about, sir. I mean M'am"

"Then by all means tell me."

"Yes M'am. Someone from Sparta Command was just here, sir. He asked if the new Rotor unit was still here. I told him, no, took off this morning. Then he asked if they had been fitted with the new auxiliaries already. I asked, what auxiliaries. You see, I didn't know of any auxiliaries and I would've known on account of me working on one all the time to get the Cyborg's chair in, I mean Mr. Cazemier's chair, sir. M'am."

The boy paused for breath. Nyoman let him.

"Well, when I'd asked him what auxiliaries, he sort of looked funny and said these things looked like, well, pods. Had I seen any of them. I said no, and started to explain how I would have known... But then he took off."

Nyoman had gone pale.

"Was this man in uniform, Jeremy?"

"Er, well, no. Just a fancy-looking suit."

"All right, Jeremy. Thank you for telling me. It's good that you told me. Are you ready on the Nyepi?"

"Yes M'am, fit as a fiddle."

"Good. Then take the evening off and tell the duty sergeant I okayed two holotheatre tickets for tonight's show for you."

"Gaian Exodus, M'am? Whew, thanks."

Nyoman, watched him jog to the mess hall, then paced out of the hangar and up to Levavassier's office.

"Eugene? Eugene, close that frigging commlink!" she yelled before even going in.

The new CO looked up from his commlink, then said into it: "I'll get back to you, darling. Something just came up."

Next, he leaned back in his chair, and practised his this-better-be-good look on Nyoman. All of her five foot two shook with rage as she blurted out what she'd come to say.

"Those bastards are fitting the Rotors with nerve pods, Eugene."

Eugene was all attention. He listened to Nyoman's story, his jaw setting harder and harder.

"Zakforsaken bastards. This has been coming all along. And I'll tell you right now who's behind this. CinC cabinet. The bloody bureaucrats. The exact same people who tried to get Googlie fried by our guys just to keep him out of Sand's hands. The bloody same creeps who grilled me and Cartesius just to get leverage on the Gecko. I need to talk to Ben Miller about this. Thanks, Nyoman, good work."

"Yes, sir." she said.

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Assassin’s Redoubt

*****

Captain Rao was in a field hospital, finally allowing a medic to look him over.

“You have a torn ligament and a hairline fracture in your left wrist. You are to wear this wrap, which will assist in healing and partially immobilize the arm. Keep it on for at least a week. Understood?” the medic asked. She was so busy she did not notice she was talking to Captain Rao, commander of ‘Rolling Thunder’. Rao didn’t notice, since she was a civilian out of Assassin’s Redoubt. Even Spartan citizens didn’t always acknowledge military protocol.

The battlefield outside of Assassin’s Redoubt was finally secure. Now all that remained was the cleanup, and that was no small task. Most of the rovers from ‘Rolling Thunder’ that were damaged were easily repairable, given a little time. Some were destroyed. At this point his three brigades were at between 70% and 85% of full strength. All told they had 326 Hive prisoners, two of whom were command rank. Each of these had been immediately sedated to prevent them from committing suicide. Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t. Very few Hive officers survived to be interrogated.

Rao walked out of the field pressure dome, cycling the lock. If it weren’t for the blasted landscape, full of seared and burned trees, rover debris, craters, and occasional body parts it would have been a beautiful day. Rao made directly to his command rover Lightning to check on its status.

On his way, an unknown aid appeared and handed him an official Spartan Command datapad. Rao looked at the aid, who was ramrod straight and saluted smartly. Rao reflexively saluted back. The aid didn’t meet Rao’s gaze, but looked over his left shoulder.

“What is this, private?” Rao asked curtly.

“Official communiqué from HQ, SIR!” the private yelled with unnecessary volume.

“Very well, dismissed,” Rao said as he started off.

“Excuse me, SIR! I am ordered to watch you read and acknowledge the communiqué, SIR!” the aid said.

Rao’s interest was piqued. ‘Well, this is unusual,’ thought Rao. ‘I have never received a message in this way.’ Rao activated the datapad, submitted to a retinal scan, and read the message.

* Urgent Communiqué to 2nd Armor ‘Rolling Thunder’ commander
* Date – M.Y. 2225 9.11:1023
* Ref ID – 29890-A-XXX
* Authorization – 2nd Armor Field Marshal Hui Wang
* R.E. – Refit of 2nd Armor

* You are ordered to submit rovers in your command for refit at Assassin’s Redoubt by 9.15.2225. Rovers are not to go to the Assassin’s Redoubt repair bay, but to the subcontractor Armasi Incorporated. During the refit rover crews are to be placed on leave. Any inquires are to be directed to me, personally.
* Field Marshal Wang


Rao return acknowledged the order and gave the datapad to the private, who saluted smartly again and marched away. Rao smiled, remembering that he was that green once upon a time.

‘Refit?’ Rao thought. ‘We were just refitted 2 months ago. Why would we need a refit? And not in the repair bay? Who is this contractor Armasi? That name does sounds familiar, I just can’t place it.’

‘The orders are clear enough,’ Rao thought. He had more to think about than refit orders. There was a battlefield to clean up.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Tokek Belerang]

"Ben, I'm still unable to reach you, and I'm afraid the matter has become urgent. I code-blued this one because it's a live one. Ben, I have good reason to believe that someone is trying to force nerve gas pods on us. My one firm lead is to the Rotor unit that is coming to you from the Hawk right now. Apparently, some lines have gotten crossed but someone expected them to have been fitted with 'auxiliaries' while they were still here on the complex. I'd like to know your feelings on the subject, and I'll give you mine right away - if this is true, and someone is fitting MY Rotors with nerve gas, then I'm resigning my commission."

Levavassier checked himself.

"Okay. That's said. Now, my view on what's happened is this. This is about attack units. Pods are next to useless on medvac birds. So someone intended to have pods on my Rotors because they were going to the 4th and would be in attack position soon. Now I know this couldn't ever have been Googlie's idea, and I'm hoping to Zak it wasn't yours or the Cat's either. Leaves us with another source, and I say it's a typical CinC cabinet steamrolling job. Company paper, deliberate misinterpretation of standing orders, you name it. Next thing you know your mechanics have fitted the damn things and someone else pops up who says, well, of course we wouldn't have condoned this if we had known about it beforehand, but now that we have the option, and seeing how the Hive campaign is going, and what with the nuclear threat... We know exactly how it would go, we've done it ourselves dozens of times. Only not about something like this. And, by the way, nuclear threat my sweet backside. With all that talk at the CO meetings about an orbital defence capability, we could have had a score of them up by now, don't you think?"

Another pause.

"Okay, Ben, I guess I've made my feelings clear. But this isn't just about war anymore. This is about dignity. This is about Sparta. I hope we can do something about this. Eugene off."


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

[Hydro]

MicroTrade Incorporated Megaplex, Morgan Industries

*****

‘Father was, indeed, very pleased,’ Nwabudike Morgan, Jr. thought, still relishing the afterglow of his interview with Morgan Sr. His father was a hard man, and had readily given his son ‘direction’ but rarely praise. But his cunning deal with the Spartans at Assassin’s Redoubt had broken the records on profitability, so even the normally demanding Morgan Sr. had taken notice. And he had uttered the words that made Junior’s heart leap with joy: “You could have gotten 10% more out of them, but it is an acceptable level of profit.”

Moreover, Senior wanted his son to pursue additional trading ventures with the Spartans. Hive or no Hive, these were deals too good to pass up. Eventually Morgan Industries might be able to get a trade treaty with the Spartans. For now, the Spartan-Hive war sidelined those plans. Even so, it would be good to lay the groundwork. Senior even mentioned that additional ‘unofficial’ trading events would be acceptable, as long there was plausible deniability. The Hive was a little touchy right now.

“How shall I celebrate,” Junior mused aloud as he looked out his real-time holowindows in his executive suite. The view of his glorious metropolis of Morgan Industries was always so soothing. “First, a massage from my extraordinarily talented mistress Helga. Then a soak with Lani. No, not Lani. I’ll have one of the boys sent up from the stables. Those little ones can provide such unique pleasures…”

Junior’s infamous grin spread across his face - the grin of a predator.

A low, far-away rumble started and slowly built. Junior snapped out of his sensual reverie.

The images on his holowindows started to vibrate.

Alarms throughout the building started going off, and his comm console lit up.

The building started to shake. Junior braced himself against the wall, now thoroughly alarmed.

Movement caught his eye from the western holowindow. Something was changing.

As he watched, one of the gigantic thermal boreholes started to collapse. Great slabs of earth and rock broke off and, seemingly in slow motion, slid into the great fissure that was the borehole. The ground seemed to crack and blacken as earth and rock erupted through the carefully manicured and maintained machinery and farmland surrounding the borehole. Even at this distance, he could see long threads of metal curl, twist, snapp, and disappear into the black abyss.

Slowly, pink showed through these opened areas. It grew with terrifying speed, literally mushrooming from the ground, like a great a great flower unfurling. The fungus appeared in three, then a dozen, then hundreds of locations.

<….PAAAAAAAIIIIIIINNN…>

The Voice slammed into Junior’s mind. Reflexively, he screwed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears.

<… OOOOURRRSSSSAAAGGGGAAAIIIIIN…>

Tears of blood appeared in the corner of Junior’s eyes, and his breathing became labored. His mouth opened into an ‘O’ of pain and disbelief. A single rivulet of blood ran down from his left nostril, curled off his lip, and cascaded down onto his ample belly.

<…discontinuity…>

After what seemed like an eternity the Voice died away, and Junior could breath again. He sucked in the air greedily, and looked in alarm where the borehole had once existed. In its place was an enormous expanse of pink fungus, which visibly growing even at this distance.

Junior was transfixed by the horrible spectacle.

Then something caught his eye, and he finally panicked.

Nightmare! Worms were boiling out of the fungus.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Deleted. Double post.
[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 04, 1999).]

[Slats]

I drummed my fingers on the desktop impatiently, wishing I were one of these empaths I’d been hearing about that could thought-force the technician to work faster.

My command console was down right now. It had only been able to send, not receive, and I was unaware of the fact until CS herself had commlinked me in high dudgeon to ask why she had seen no action on her request.

I had stammered that nothing had come in.

The Iron Lady had been implacable, and her words were still ringing in my ears:

“Miller, it was I who recommended your appointment to Googlie before his retirement. If you feel yourself incapable of running SAC tell me now.”

“N-no Ma’am” I’d stuttered.

“Well don’t give me crap about machines that don’t work. If yours can’t receive, get on one that can. Get back to me within the hour with a recommendation. Santiago out.”

The technician had been ten minutes on the job.

Finally he straightened up, keyed in a few commands, and said “Working now, guv. Your predecessor had a filter activated that screened all calls and sent identified ones through a Fort Soup loop. That had deactivated so they were all constipated there.”

‘Now why would he have done that?’ I wondered. ‘I must ask him about that.’

I thanked the technician, and swiveled the monitor round.

There they were, thank goodness.

Then my heart froze;

Incoming:

Corazon Santiago ………….deleted…………..
Eugene Levavassier……..Congratulations
Eugene Levavassier*………..deleted
Paula Forbes…………..Interview
Scott Allardyce………Drinks
Basil Hargreaves………deleted
Basil Hargreaves*………deleted

I gazed at the screen. The asterisked messages were Blue Coded, for my eyes only. No-one but me could delete them

Our security has been breached

[Paula Forbes]

My commlink beeped.

It was Carter, MorganNews’ CEO

I turned my wrist outwards. He was not going to see my shaggy hair or lack of makeup this early in the morning.

“Hi, JoJo”, I said sweetly, knowing that this would infuriate him. “What gives this early in the morning.”

“Paula, cut the crap.. We need you back at HQ ASAP. Some borehole’s gone and collapsed on us there and I need our best on the spot. You’re it. Get your ass in gear.’

“I can be out of here within the hour”, I said. I’m about 4 hours flight from Morgan Industries. Schedule my report for the 6 o’clock news.”

I flipped the commlink to my travel agent and made my transportation plans