The Spartan Chronicles

[Googlie]

I was in earnest conversation round the Boardroom table with Basel, Marlo and Alfredo when there was a discreet knock at the door.

Baz got up to answer, and was greeted by Kitty, my aide.

“There’s a Fleet Commander Baldwin and entourage wants to deliver a package to Minister Allardyce” she said. “Ive put them in his office.”

“Excuse me, I’ll go see” I said and went next door.

Baldwin and two sumbarine officers were waiting in my office, along with Ayola, who was electronically cuffed and hobbled. She looked up at me with a defiant stare and said “Hello Scott.”

“Ayola”, I said. “these are sad circumstances.”

I turned to Baldwin and stuck out my hand.

“Good to see you again – and great work in getting Ayola out of the Hive’s clutches. I’ll mention that to Burge.”

He beamed. “Well I wish we’d gotten the Colonel out as well. Thought we had, in fact, but it was only a chameleon actress. My guess is that this one knows where she’s being held. Give me and my boys ten minutes alone with her and she’ll squeal.”

Tempting as it was, I shook my head. Ours was the way of reason, not violence, resorting to violence only when reason failed.

“No, I think we’re into negotiations now, and that’s for the Diplomats, backed by our military prowess, to resolve. Thanks again Commander. Can you transfer the code to basil here?” I asked, proffering the pad.

Baldwin activated the pad, put his thumb against a panel and passed it to Hargreaves. He did likewise, and passed it back. They repeated the procedure, verifying the biocodes just transmitted. Baz snapped the pad shut.

“Thanks, Mate” he said.

Baldwin nodded and signaled to his men. As they were leaving, I called after them

“What of Jeneba?”

Baldwin turned. “Oh, she’s gone off to find her friend the Morgan news reporter – with a bloody great mindworm in tow – Alphonso I think his name is.”

He left with his men.

‘Alphonse,’ I muttered. ‘You’ve resurfaced. I wonder what mischief you and Jeneba are cooking up now.’

I turned back to Ayola.

“I hate doing this, but you realize under the circumstances I have no option. Baz, call one of the MPs and have her locked in the brig, electronic restraints and all.”

Ayola shrugged.

“We’re holding Anastasia too” I said. That got her attention as I knew it would. I had the impression that the sisters were close.

“Your co-operation will make it easier on both of you.”

“So will yours,” was her spirited reply.

[Paula Forbes]

I gazed into the muzzle of the shredder pistol and felt real fear.

Clammy, cold, palpable fear.

The air was thick with it.

Not just mine. Those around me.

I sensed fear in the face of the man holding the pistol to my head.

I sensed panic in the minds of the three MorganNews staff lying trussed up on the floor.

I saw suspicion and distrust – yes, even fear – in the eyes of the woman who sat at the side of the desk, pretending disinterest as she painted her nails.

And in one corner I sensed icy calm.

I forced my head to look round, stifling the tension in my neck, and trying desperately to quieten my rapidly beating heart.

He was sitting in one of the darker corners, his cloak pulled round his emaciated body as though to keep the last remnants of warmth from escaping, even though the air conditioning was turned off and the room was stiflingly warm. The hood to his cloak was partially pulled back, revealing strands of silver hair, and a forehead scarred with an old wound.

I looked into his eyes.

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

I sank in a sea of eternal black, the waters closing over me, and the shock giving me no time to catch my breath.

I felt the water enter my lungs and as I panicked and started thrashing about I knew with an awful certainty that I was going to drown.

I felt the bile rise in my throat as my breathing constricted, and I gasped for air that wasn’t there, drawing only more of that black soulless water into my lungs and sinking deeper into its depths.

My life flashed before me and as I sank I relived the poignant moments, the pain, the heartaches, the triumphs.

The events of the last few days and hours reran in my mind as I reached my breaking point.

Then I saw the two pinpricks of light.

I focused on them, and started to rise to the surface.

Gasping I broke through.

He looked away.

“She doesn’t know”. He said. “Our quarrel isn’t with Morgan. Untie them and let’s get out of here. Ayola’s the key. I’ll work alone from now on. Disperse, but stay focused”

He left.

The man and the girl untied the three staffers, and then apologized to them.

He turned to me.

“Sorry about the gun”, he said. “Just taking precautions”.

“Who was that?” I asked, not really wanting to know, but always seeking information.

“Sand.”

[Hydro]

Liberated Plex Anthill, Emerald Isle

*****

"Everything looks so grey," Mary said in dismay to Markus, who was standing by her side with a Spitfire Assault Rifle.

Mark looked around the feeding den of Plex Anthill, which consisted of a dome crudely hollowed out of dark veined granite. The room was over 200 meters in diameter and rose 60 meters in height at the dome's apex. Ferrocrete pillars reinforced the ceiling with ribbed vaults at seemingly random locations. No effort had been made to highlight the potential of the otherwise beautiful granite, and the pillars and vaults seemed to have been placed to destroy any remaining aesthetics of the vast room. The lighting didn't help, as the feeble light only increased the shadows and the feeling of gloom. The hundreds of Hive drones milling through the feeding line were surprisingly listless, and their hushed conversations echoed through the chamber, creating a perpetual buzz. Each wore a grey one-piece jumper, with muted colored patches on their shoulder that indicated which warren they belonged to. Huge cisterns of 'stew' and 'fungigruel' boiled in front of glassy-eyed cooks. Markus and Mary were on the other side of the chamber to avoid the stench.

It was unsettling.

Markus just nodded in agreement. Still, it was no worse than the communal sleeping dens that were placed strategically throughout the city. Each den housed up to 150 people, and each caste of workers was housed immediately adjacent to their industrial or administrative production site for peak efficiency. The minimal sleeping equipment was passed out to each worker at the end of his or her gang's shift, and returned to the commune after 5.5 hours when the sleep cycle was complete. Every Hive worker was expected to work 17 hours a day, with 5.5 hours of sleep and 1.5 for eating and elimination. Supervisors were the elite of Hive society, and they slept in supervisor dens of 50 people and had the honor of retaining their own bedding. The only personal property the workers possessed was their spoon, which was engraved with the same identification number as was in the chip embedded on each drone's neck and right forearm.

This was Yang's Utopia.

"You know, Mary," Markus said quietly, "I think we did them a favor with the chaos siege guns. All those 'This Is The Hive' MorganVids I saw as a kid, they weren't even close to true. The truth is worse."

Mary and Markus stood in sullen silence as the endless streams of placid citizens passed by. 'No, they aren't Citizens, they truly are Drones,' Markus thought glumly.

A Hive policeman approached, dragging an unresisting adolescent female behind him. She looked slightly emaciated, and couldn't be more than 15. Her shaved head had at least two days of stubble on it, and her hair color might be reddish brown. It was hard to tell through the slight patina of lubricant. Her threadbare jumper hung loosely on her frame; obviously it was intended for someone three or four sizes bigger.

The policemen of the Hive were largely autonomous, each having had a chemical lobotomy long ago so they would unquestioningly enforce the rules. Hive rules. Any infraction, no matter how small, resulted in punishment. The Authorities meted out punishment, and it mattered not to them who the Authorities were. There were only three kinds of punishment: censure, The Scream Room, and death.

He shoved the girl in between himself and Markus and Mary. She crouched a little, with sloped shoulders and a slight bend to her knees. She was looking at the floor, trying to become as small as possible.

"This worker has violated rule 95-34 Section 2.2 Subsection 2. Awaiting orders," the policeman said. He stood at attention, as if expecting an immediate answer.

Mary and Mark looked at each other. Neither had the faintest idea of what to do.

"Policeman, uhm, recite this rule for us," Mary improvised.

"Rule 95-34 Section 2.2 Subsection 2: It is forbidden for those who are without authorization to acquire or consume nutrients," he responded immediately.

Mark and Mary looked the girl over again. Her cheeks were hollow, and her bones showed through her skin.

"Why has this girl been denied food?" Mary continued, becoming angry.

Stepping forward, the policeman grabbed the girl's right forearm and twisted it painfully. She involuntarily let out a yelp of pain, but stifled it quickly. Her exposed forearm showed three horizontal red welts below her identification number, one of which was infected. He took out a small cylinder and passed it over her embedded identification chip and read the results.

"This Citizen had her food privileges revoked 23 work cycles ago. Her censure was extended two times for continued disobedience," the policeman intoned. "The mandatory punishment for a forth infraction is The Scream Room."

The girl's shoulders started shaking. Quick gasps replaced muffled sobs.

Word of The Scream Room had rippled through the entire occupying force soon after the arrival of the Spartans at Plex Anthill. Markus and Mary paled slightly.

"And what was this girl's offense," Markus demanded.

Examining the small data screen, the policeman replied, "She gave food to another on censure. "

"I've heard enough!" Mary almost shouted, "Girl, come with me!" Mary turned abruptly and grabbed the girl, tearing her out of the arms of the Policeman.

"Oh, please, oh, please," she intoned quietly, helplessly. Her breathing became labored. She looked up at Mary with hollow, hopeless eyes, "Oh, please…"

Mary hustled the girl out of the feeding den. Markus followed.

*****

Mary sat the girl down on her bunk, which was stationed in one of the few intact cargo bays near the surface. She didn't resist, and had assumed a far off look in her eyes. Her sobbing had also stopped.

Mary crouched on her haunches until she was at eye level. "Girl, what's your name?" she asked softly.

"Mara Hollin, Delta 23," she replied automatically, and extended her right forearm, palm up. All of the welts on her arm by the ID chip looked ugly. In the improved light of the cargo bay it was clear she had numerous overlapping bruises that extended up her arm and into sleeve of her jumper.

Mary looked at her arm, and then at Markus. Markus nodded once and went to get a medkit and supplies.

"I want to help you. I'll get you some food, and fix up your arm. And clean you up a little," Mary explained.

Mara didn't respond.

Markus returned with the medkit, some rations, and a blanket.

"Markus, get some cleanser and water, please," Mary asked, not taking her eyes off Mara.

Carefully, Mary opened the medkit and got out the sterilizing pads, and gently cleaned Mara's wounds. Then she applied a little plastiskin to seal and improve healing.

Mara's head turned, and her eyes focused on Mary.

Markus came back and handed Mary a moistened towel. Mary took it and gently started wiping the patina of grime that seemed to cover Mara's face and arms.

"There, that's better!" Mary said brightly. "Now, would you like some veggies and some hot casserole?"

Mara looked intently at Mary, but didn't respond.

Mary prepared the instant ration, which self heated. While she was waiting she gave Mara a liter of cool water. She just looked at it, so Mary opened it, smiled and made a drinking motion.

Mara took a sip, then a mouthful, and swallowed gratefully. Then she took a long draw, emptying a third the container.

The meal was ready, so Mary gave it to Mara. She looked questioningly at Mary, then at the food, then at Mary again.

"It's all right. I want you to eat it. It's really very good," Mary reassured her. Mary took a piece of cooked string beans and ate it, making appreciative 'yummy' sounds as she did so.

Mara hesitantly took a bite of the beans, and her face lit up! She quickly ate the rest. Then she looked expectantly at Mary again.

"I want you to eat it all. It's yours," Mary said, as she continued to use the towel to remove grime.

Halfway through the beef casserole Mara uttered her first cogent words. "No Scream Room?" she asked hopefully.

Mary looked her straight in the eyes, as she stroked the side of Mara's head. "No Mara, no Scream Room. Ever."

Mary then sat on the bunk next to Mara, put her hand around her thin shoulders, and drew her head toward her. Mara grasped at her reflexively, tightly, laid her head against Mary's breast, and softly began to weep.

[Timexwatch]

0413 Hours
Great Collective Docks

An acrid smoke hung over the docks. It was a mix of chemical fumes and cooking-off plasma from the vents of the ships in port. It was still dark over the city, but it wouldn't be for long. He would have to find shelter or an alternate way of making it to the aerospace complex. He thought of stowing away on a maintence vehicle or crawling through the sewers. Neither of which was safe or appealing. Although he thought it was crap, he heard stories of early experiments with mindworms that escaped into the recycling tanks in many labs. It was said that they burrowed their way out of the tanks and now inhabit the sewers. He thought is was crap, but he didn't want to take any chances; besides, he liked his skull in tact.

Adam scanned the pier from his hiding place in between several supply crates. He saw a group drones milling about the end of the pier performing maintenece on a fuel intake line. He couldn't move without being spotted, so he stayed put. After several minutes, the group packed up their tools and began marching toward the maintence building, except for one supervisor who appeared to be checking the job. Adam craned his neck out slightly and watched the crew go in. He then turned toward the supervisor. Twain reached to the side of his pack and clicked a release on the clip holding his impact sniper rifle. A small *click* sounded and then the sniper rifle slip out. Twain effortlessly slipped the butt of the rifle up to his shoulder, kneeled and put his eye up to the scope. Adam focused on the forehead of his target. Reflexively he clicked the switch to activate the lasersight. Suddenly the drone looked up and saw the ruby-red light. But it was too late. The rifle discharged with a small *whoosh* of air. The head of the drone lanced back and the top of the skull dissappeared in a small cloud of blood. Like a vulture, he quickly swooped to the body of the supervisor and stripped him of his datapad and Id. But those wouldn't be enough to get around security. He removed his synthmetal knife from his boot. Twain had to get aroudn DNA and retinal scanners. He gritted his teeth and began to cut.....


[This message has been edited by Timexwatch (edited August 10, 1999).]

[Tokek Belerang]

Nyoman woke up to glaring sunshine. She sat up, instantly active as always, and blinked at the single sun standing low in the sky. "Earth." went through her head, but she knew that the other sun was soon to follow. She got up, and left the pressurized tent that they had pitched on top of the emergency hospital. Downstairs, Arihclinn was already working with his customary vigor.

"Ah, the cricket." he said cheerfully through his mask, his ancient face blinking a smile through his eyes. "Will she sing us a song, I wonder."

"You wouldn't want me to do that in an operating theatre, Frog." Nyoman said. She sang arja, Balinese opera, and it could be, let us say, unsettling to the ears of those in recovery from serious injury.

"Perhaps not. Could you move your gracious self over to the row by the far wall and get cracking?"

She did. "How are we for supplies?" she asked.

"Not bad, not bad. Your tank-sized admirer, Hendrikus, has not flown in empty, and neither has Driss. It's more beds we need now, not bandages. If you'll just check those people for travel fitness, they can be on their way to Sparta in the Meknes within the hour."

Nyoman pulled a face at the mention of the Cyborg's affections. She checked the row of patients. Most were Spartan, some were Hive. The latter were cuffed, on the off chance that they would try to escape, or inflict injuries on others or themselves. The Hive left its injured soldiers to rot on the battlefield - it cost more to repatriate and heal them than to train a new recruit. When it came down to it, Yang was more ruthlessly cost-effective than Morgan.

To Sparta, it was a matter of honor at heart. These were soldiers, and as such they deserved fair treatment. Looking at all the neural implants and cybernetic prostheses, Nyoman wondered - soldiers, yes, but humans? Anyway, the Hive soldiers were always easy to turn, once they were out from under the cosh of their superiors. Most of them wouldn't fight again, but would find useful employment on a mech farm or a solar plant. They were among the most sedate and contented of Spartan citizens.

"These are fine, Frog." she said, after checking the patients' med pads.

"Most of them have you to thank for that, sunshine. We're going down to the civvy section after this. Yanni and Massimina are down there already. This place has a standard of drone abuse that will send you absolutely staggering. Corporal maltreatment, undernourishment, psych disorders, you name it. You feel like a bleeding vet when you're down there, tending bleeding cattle."

Nyoman flinched - Arihclinn rarely ever swore.

They finished up, and after wheeling the last cazzies into the transport to the airstrip, they went back up to Plex Anthill Emergency Hospital, Civilian Section.

The mass of waiting drones was indescribable. There had not been such a facility previously in Plex Anthill, and word had got around.

But still - haggard, emaciated faces, bruised and lifeless. No protests, just resigned waiting for someone to come and get them. Arihclinn was called in straight away to an operating theatre, and Nyoman pushed through to the admissions area. Waiting while an orderly finished her accreditation, she briefly spoke to a couple from Rolling Thunder, named Mary and Markus. They had come in for advice on what to do with the many, many hospital cases they were faced with whilst trying to establish some kind of temporary authority in the base. She promised she would get back to them after things had normalized a bit. Then her accreditation came through, and she was taken straight to the ER.


------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 11, 1999).]

[Velociryx]

Gavin paced and sighed heavily, not at all comfortable in his new surroundings.

He looked at Elizabeth, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Not quite sure what he wanted to say.

Three more false starts like that before he finally found the words.

“Why the Hell do I feel like I got fired?”

“Gavin, you’re practically running the country now....what do you mean, you feel like you got fired?” She asked him with a confused grin.

“I got my ass handed to me by that Hive diversionary force, and they promote me? Take my command away is what they did. Put me in a Godforsaken deskjob.”

Just then, Sparks wheeler came into the room, his arm still in a sling. “Are you complaining about holding the highest office in all of Sparta? Is that what I’m hearing?” He glanced at Elizabeth and grinned. “There’s just no making this man happy, is there?”

He glowered at them both for a moment, but his heart wasn’t into the look, and they could tell it, so he sat down heavily at the big desk in the even bigger office and sighed deeply again. “It’s not that I’m not flattered.” He told them earnestly. “It’s just that I don’t want the job....I’m not cut out for all this government stuff.”

“Well,” Elizabeth offered, “Your friend Scott Allardyce is handling the civilian issues, so that should make things easier on you. You two can share the responsibility till Santiago is freed.”

He nodded. That made sense, and good ol’ Googlie always seemed to know what to do. He was suddenly even more glad his old friend was close at hand.

He looked back up at Sparks. “When’s the 47th heading out?”

“They’re about ready now, and I gave promotion order to Ian Allardyce myself.”

That made him smile. Lieutenant Ian Allardyce. Not bad for what? Two weeks work? If that young man had any more fire in his belly, he’d probably spew it out like those old Godzilla....

He stopped the thought right then and there, because it suddenly made him homesick.

Still, he forced the smile back to his face. Ian. Good kid. Brave kid. And if it hadn’t been for his quick thinking, then Hobbes’ Light Artillery would have been overrun by the advancing Hive forces. His platoon leader had been killed, and nobody seemed to know what to do, other than just hold their positions, but Ian had been on map detail and knew more about the terrain. He found a way to use the Hive’s position against them. Led the platoon down into a natural blind and cut God-only-knew-how many of them to pieces. They never made the rocky outcropping. Never got close to the artillery. It bought them time.

So many good people had been lost though. It had only taken twenty minutes for the Lightning Strike boys to form up and come in after them, but that twenty minutes had seemed an eternity.

And, when he’d gotten out, his command brigade (having taken 68% casualties), he’d been summoned to Sparta Command.

He figured it was to get chewed out for taking such losses, not to get promoted. That had been the furthest thing from his mind, and now look at him.

Santiago held captive, him planning a massive invasion into Hive territory and facing the none-too-pleasant task of having to negotiate with those bastard UoP resistance fellows.

Not the kind of job he would have chosen for himself.

Still, Santiago’s staff warmed to him fairly quickly, and even informed him that his poll numbers were higher than Santiago’s. The people accepted him. They trusted him to know what to do, and that made him feel better.

“Sir, General Honshu on line three.” Elizabeth’s voice broke into his thoughts, and he groaned inwardly. He had been hoping to avoid this particular conversation, at least for a little while, but as usual, the sturdy general wasted no time. He was, and had been for as long as Burge had known him, a master of efficiency.

“Burge here. How are you faring general?”

“I am doing better than I ever thought possible, now that our weak-willed leader has been replaced by someone more capable.”

Burge rolled his eyes. “I don’t think Santiago could ever be called weak-willed, General, but I do thank you for the compliment.”

The general nodded. “I have called to pledge the support of myself and all the forces I command to you.”

There it was.

No preamble, no attempt to hide it. Just a single statement, made matter-of-factly.

“General, I....”

“Field Marshall Burge, I have known you a long time. You are a sturdy and capable warrior, and our views on how the Spartans should live and make war are compatible. I urge you to do what is necessary to bring all of Sparta into a new age. You have the support of the people, and you have my support as well. You are about to orchestrate a great victory for us against Chairman Yang of the Hive, and when you do, you need but say the word, and the people will accept you as their new leader. Santiago need not be returned to Sparta Command at all.”

It was the longest speech he had ever heard the reclusive Honshu make, and he was awestruck. Could he really? Should he?

It was true, there had been rumblings of discontent at the way things were being run. This might be a way to finally make a difference. He hadn’t wanted the job, but it had been thrust on him anyway, so why not make the most of it.

Hope began welling up cautiously inside him. Not yet. He would not be rushed. It was too soon to decide such things.

No. First, there was the business of Yang to attend to. Make sure Yang got the pasting he deserved. And, with the troops already in place, it would be easy to order the attacks to continue in order to force Yang to submit to them utterly. That would tie up the generals who might be loyal to Santiago, and keep them safely out of the country. When word finally reached them in the field of what had taken place back home, it would be too late to stop anyway, and he could finally make the changes everyone had been grumbling about.

Yes. It could work. It really, really could.

“General, again....I thank you. I am very new to all of this, and will need some time to consider what you have said. Right now, my main responsibility is to see to the success of our upcoming invasion.”

The general nodded stoically. “Of course. Just know that my troops and I stand ready to assist you, in any way you name.”

Burge nodded.

“Honshu out.”

The screen went blank.

Well, that was a hell of a note.

He sighed heavily and pushed back from the desk a bit, pondering.

[Tokek Belerang]

Hendrikus gave up trying to find Nyoman in the crowd. Instead, he got out of the way of the doctors and orderlies racing to and fro, and sat down on a low wall outside the emergency hospital. Maybe she'd be out later. He got out a ration pack and twisted it, so the contents would mix and heat up.

"Mister? Are you a Googlie, mister?"

The Cyborg looked up. A small kid was standing in front of him, barely three feet tall, and thin as anything. Three more huddled together a couple of yards behind him, looking on anxiously.

"Eh? Er, no, I'm a... I mean, my name's Hendrikus. What's yours?"

"Kenny." the kid said, eyes like saucers. "But you fly a plane, don't you?"

"I fly a chopper. A helicopter."

"Then why aren't you a Googlie?"

"Listen, kid, I... Oh, boy." Take kids seriously, he thought. Take them seriously. "Listen up. It's like this. Googlie is the name of one of the Spartan commanders. He's a real hero, but the rest of us are just pilots, you see. We're not heroes, yet."

"So you want to be a Googlie?" asked the kid, getting a little brighter look about him.

"Do you?" the Cyborg evaded the question. He was getting the hang of this.

"I'm not allowed." Kenny said, twisting his hands and arms as if he didn't know what else to do with them.

"But if you'd be allowed?"

The kid nodded slowly but emphatically.

"Good. Now let me tell you something. If we Spartans get to stick around here, you could grow up to be a Googlie. A real ace fighter pilot. You, and your friends, as well."

Kenny looked at him in amazement, then turned round to look at his friends. They weren't much help, it seemed, for he turned right back and faced the big, big Googlie once again.

"Do you know where my father and mother are?"

Hendrikus's heart sank.

"I don't know. Where did you see them last?"

Kenny pondered that one.

"At the crèche." he said eventually.

"Did you check there?"

"They're not there. They were there last month."

"You last saw your mum and dad last month?" Hendrikus asked in amazement.

"Yeah. Sorry, mister."

"No, no. I'm not mad at you. Wouldn't... wouldn't anyone at the crèche know where your mum and dad are?"

"There's no one at the crèche, now. Just kids and some of the teachers. But they don't know."

"Kenny, can you show me where the crèche is?"

Kenny nodded, his face at its most earnest. He took the Cyborg's hand, and they walked down the broken-down autowalks together, tiny hand in huge paw.

"That's Elizabeth and Yin and little Kenny." he said, pointing back at his friends, who were following in their wake.

"Hi, Elizabeth and Yin and little Kenny!" Hendrikus called over his shoulder.

They moved a little closer. Eventually, Hendrikus got his wits about him enough to open the ration pack and share his Swedish meatballs with them. They chomped happily, sauce trickling down their faces and hands, soiling their little jumpers.

In close formation, they arrived at the crèche.

"Sweet Z..." Hendrikus said, stifling the curse.

In the pale yellow light, the Plex Anthill children's crèche looked frighteningly much like a detention center. Only, the iris door was smashed, and the inmates sat around the entrance, staring at him with fright on their faces.

Hendrikus looked around him, at the bleak underground world of the Hive, and felt utterly helpless.

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

[Veracitas]

Chapter the Fifth

Ishmael Skye stepped out of the Planet-manufactured psi gate and onto the cold synthemetal floor of the Department of Inquisition. The hallway was dark and abandoned. Staff in the highly secretive--yet infamous--organisation was always kept at a minimum. The Department rarely attracted any visitors of their own volition.

The air was cool and had a professional feel to it. Lone footsteps would often echo into the distance, met by nothing. The various doors that lined the hallway were far from inviting. The Inquisitors were notorious for their brutal, inhumane tactics of inquisition. One could imagine--and almost feel in the air--what sort of terrible things were locked away behind those cold vaults.

Two more of the Chosen stepped out of the portal behind Ishmael. Abruptly the psi gate closed behind them. Ishmael felt envy. If Planet would only teach us how to utilise these enigmatic psi gates, our power would be almost limitless. We would be omnipresent, our first step towards Godhood. Ishmael felt angered by Planet's erratic movements. What does Planet really want?

Ishmael extended his awareness. He scoured the building, and found it largely deserted. At this time of night, only a few guards were needed in the building. He examined the few floors above him but did not find the object of his search. He checked below him, deep underground where most of the Department's important facilities were located. He found what he was looking for.

He lowered the shroud of his thought barrier just enough to get a message across to his companions: The Grand Inquisitor is in the lower inquisition chambers. Our servant at security will make sure that the sensors do not pick us up as we make our trek there. Any guards that we do meet on the way will be easy to handle.

Three ominous figures in dark greatcloaks proceeded down the hallway of the third floor of the Department of Inquisition of the Spartan Federation. Reaching the end of the hallway, they descended a flight of stairs. Anyone who watched them would be amazed at how smoothly they travelled--almost as if they were hovering across the floor.

"Who's there?" shouted a voice in the distance.

The three Chosen had reached their destination floor. The distant voice manifested itself into a Spartan guard, shredder pistol pointing at Ishmael.

"Who has authorised your presence?" asked the guard nervously.

The guard flew back into the wall, as if some invisible hand had struck him down. The guard tried to recover when a terrible presence filled his mind: GOD HAS AUTHORISED OUR PRESENCE, YOU FOOL. THE ONE GOD THAT WILL ONE DAY DESTROY YOU AND ALL OF THE OTHER LESSER BRETHREN THAT INFEST THIS WORLD SO THAT THE CHOSEN MAY FINALLY JOIN THE DIVINE IN THE HEAVENS.

The guard squealed in pain as the powerful thoughts crushed his consciousness and his individuality. He could feel his mind receding to a presence far more powerful than it. He tried to fight back--to regain his soul--but to no avail.

YOU ARE NOW A SLAVE OF THE CHOSEN. YOU WILL TAKE US TO THE GRAND INQUISITOR.

Slowly, the guard's body rose from the floor. His eyes were lifeless as he led the Chosen through the hallways.

---

The Grand Inquisitor was sitting alone in his private office when the door burst open. Three figures dressed in greatcloaks came in, escorted by a guard. It was evident that something was amiss, but the dignified Grand Inquisitor smoothly stood up and addressed the leading cloaked figure, Ishmael: "What brings you to my office?"

Ishmael entered the Grand Inquisitor's mind: WE WANT AYOLA. WE WANT SANTIAGO!

"Santiago, what makes you believe we have Santiago?" asked the Grand Inquisitor mockingly. Suddenly, he fell to the floor as if stricken, clutching his head in his arms. The infamously cruel and ruthless Grand Inquisitor was a pathetic sight on the floor. Ishmael would enjoy this: the prideful ones are always the most fun.

---

Ayola awoke feeling somewhat disoriented. She was lying on her back, gazing at the cold and grey synthemetal ceiling. She lay there for a moment, trying to establish her bearings and felt restraining straps on her arms, legs, and neck that allowed her little movement. She was entirely naked.

She felt an ominous presence nearby, but she could barely turn her head to inspect the room that she was in. Her last memories were her being taken away--supposedly to the brig, according to Scott's orders--bound in electronic restraints. However, the guards that held her had taken a detour to the Department of Inquisition. Upon her protest, they had knocked her out.

Now, she dreaded what would come next. She had heard stories of the ruthless practices of the Inquisitors. The so-called "inquisitions" really amounted to nothing more than raw torture. Fear pervaded throughout her mind.

"I see you are awake, my dear," came a voice in the darkness. A figure suddenly appeared over her head--an old greying man. His small body was lost in his large, flowing white robe. On his chest was the symbol of the Spartan Inquisitors: a white sickle on a circular black background. The gold lining of his robe identified him as the Grand Inquisitor.

His face was stern, and he had evidently seen much more than any man should see in his lifetime. His mouth was twisted in anger and hate--things that seemed to have haunted him all his life. But his brown eyes were lifeless, devoid of any emotion.

Ayola could feel the Inquisitor attaching something to her cranium. Pain Amplifier nodes, she thought, my father's men invented those. How ironic! She braced herself for what she knew would come. The reality of it was--like many things--far more than she could have prepared for.

Intense pain flooded Ayola's body. Her muscles flailed, trying desperately and instinctively to move, but the restraints brutally quelled their uprising. She tried to keep from screaming and had been determined to keep her dignity--but those lofty thoughts in the face of reality were mere wisps of nothing. As suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped.

Ayola's thoughts were in a whirl of confused jumble. The pain was still agonisingly fresh in her memory. She tried to collect together the shattered pieces of her mind when a voice brutally invaded her thoughts: WHERE IS SANTIAGO?

Ishmael was careful not to completely take over Ayola's soul. That would mean that most of the information that she held in her memory would be lost, and he might never be able to find Santiago another way. Ishmael had been surprised to see that Ayola possessed a certain amount of psionic disclarity. She had instinctively erected a thought barrier--she probably would not even know how--and Ishmael knew that he would have to tread lightly. Oh, it would be no problem to rip her mind to shreds--especially under such conditions--but to extract information through a thought barrier would be a delicate and difficult process, even for one of Ishmael's power. Well, not too delicate.

The pain returned, and this time in greater force. It was steadily getting more agonising, and with each new level achieved opened up a new level of consciousness for Ayola. Under normal circumstances, she would have been delighted to explore them. Now, her jumbled thoughts rested on anything but such luxuries. Nay, they did not "rest" on anything at all.

The voice continued: YOU KNOW WHERE SANTIAGO IS. TELL US NOW AND YOUR PAIN WILL PASS.

Ayola would have come up with a mocking or sarcastic response, but she couldn't. The agony made her painfully aware of what she had been forcefully deprived of. She longed for the warmth of solace. She longed for the comfort of her home and the haven of her father. She longed for the protection afforded by the womb. She longed for...love.

But now she was being attacked by hate and anger. Death felt ever so clear.

As Ayola lowered her guard, ready to die, Ishmael extracted the vital information that he needed. Santiago in a monolith? he thought, What irony is this? What is Planet trying to accomplish?

"Enough of that," Ishmael said, "I have what I want. Dispose of her as you wish."

The Grand Inquisitor deactivated the pain amplifier nodes. "Chosen," he said respectfully, "have you ever heard of drawing and quartering?"

"Indeed I have not," Ishmael responded.

"It is an ancient terran execution ritual, most famous in a country called England." The Inquisitor's eyes passed over Ayola's body. "An important step in the process was castration, but that is obviously not possible. I can probably concoct something similar, though."

The Grand Inquisitor crossed the room to the far wall. Two giant and sinister sickles adorned the wall in a cross pattern. The Inquisitor picked up one and returned to the inquisition table. There was bloodlust in his eyes, the first sign of emotion since his enslavement.

Ishmael watched with fascination as the Inquisitor plunged the sickle into Ayola's flailing abdomen. The daughter of Zakharov let loose an agonising scream that shattered the stillness of the air. Ishmael felt only a pang of regret that he was not quite as skilled as the Inquisitor in such matters.

---

Atreus had a morbid sense of what the future could hold for him. Not pure clairvoyance, surely, but something more than a hunch bothered him. I am only 105 years old, dammit! The landers have managed to live much longer than I have, thus far. But still, that feeling of dread pervaded, despite any self reassurances.

The Isle of the Deep was still on its way towards Plex Anthill. The storm at sea had gotten little better, and his legion was beginning to complain of uncomfortable lodgings aboard the Isle. Atreus laughed at the thought. They were not expecting a five star hotel, were they?

But despite everything, the loyalty of his troops was something Atreus did not have a problem with. His legion was fiercly loyal to its Field Marshall. Atreus wished that he could say the same about the Worms.

Atreus was troubled by the reports coming in from the core Spartan colonies. Santiago was reported dead. Some rumours had it that she had been taken captive. Whatever the story, the Federation was in chaos. He had heard disturbing reports that Field Marshall Burge was trying to gain supreme autocratic power. Burge would ruin the Federation. Atreus was determined not to let Burge seize the complete authority over Sparta that he was wont to have.

But how he would be received, Atreus wondered. Burge certainly would not welcome him with open arms. And the Junta--that milieu of rabble--was Burge's puppet, according to Atreus's spies. There were even rumours that a large Peacekeeping invasion force was on its way to Sparta. To "keep the peace" in our "rebellious Sparta," no doubt. Some rumours claimed that the Peacekeepers had already landed in the Great Dunes and were making their way across. Do they want a piece of the Spartan pie too?

The Isle rumbled beneath Atreus's feet. Bothered by my indecisiveness, no doubt. Atreus was resolved: he did not know what to do but he knew that he had to do something.

Atreus lowered his thought barriers: Li!

Yes, your excellency, came the clear reply, channeled through the power of the mind worm.

Set a new course to Ironholm.

Acknowledged, your excellency.

Atreus closed his thoughts, once more slipping away into reverie. Like the grey clouds that roll in the horizon, Death is inexorable. We may outrun it for the time being, but it will eventually catch up with us.

That feeling of dread lingered in Atreus's mind more strongly than ever.
[This message has been edited by Veracitas (edited August 11, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Morgan Industries Capital Building

*****

The room is large, even by Morgan standards. Arranged in a half circle with a center podium and seats rising toward its perimeter, it evoked the classical parliamentary style popular in old Earth European and American Capitals. Some even said it was inspired by the U.S. Capital Building as it stood before it was razed by the Christian States of America for the construction of the American Temple of the People. As was befitting the duly elected representatives of Morgan Industries, the Chamber Prime was dressed in somber bluish-grey Chiron marble accented with dark grey and pink granite, heavy red curtains, and solid walnut trim and furniture. To each side of the central podium stood a Morgan flag, with his triangular motif symbolizing private enterprise on a field of bright yellow.

It was rare indeed for President Nwabudike Morgan, Sr., to convene an Executive Council, and require all to attend in person. It was even more unusual to convene the council in the Chamber Prime.

Morgan's six ministers filed in and seated themselves to the left of the podium. Next, the CEOs of the six largest corporations entered and seated themselves to the right of the podium. Lastly, the six City Managers of the most influential Morgan cities entered and seated themselves in front of the podium. All wore ceremonial black robes emblazoned with a token of their office, corporation, or city.

After all were seated and quiet Morgan Senior entered through the great beaten bronze door to the left of the podium. Immediately following him was his first son by his second wife, Nwabudike Junior. The assembled Executive Council was taken aback. Morgan Junior? He had never before attended a Council meeting, and now he was the entourage of the President? What did the mean? A low murmur broke out, and quickly died down as Morgan Senior ascended to the podium. His son took the subordinate Duty chair left of portal.

Morgan stood fully erect, supremely confident.

"Greetings honored ministers, industrialists, and managers. I enjoin you to meet with me to formulate our strategy to ensure the prosperity of Morgan Industries," he said ritualistically.

The assembled council rose as one, "We come to serve."

Morgan nodded to each group, then walked from the podium to the rotunda in front of his assembled Council.

'More departures from procedure?' thought many on the Council. Morgan had their undivided attention.

Morgan drew a deep breath. "We live in trying times, fraught with peril. Recent events have compelled me to call this unorthodox meeting of the Council. Some of you are more than familiar with the challenges that we have faced," Morgan looked specifically at the City Manager from Morgan Industries, who was still cleaning up the debris from the borehole collapse, "but none of you know all of these dangers. Today, I will illuminate the issues that we face."

On cue, six holographic images appeared in the air surrounding Morgan.

"Some of these issues are not necessarily threatening," Morgan said as the first hologram activated. It showed Lady Deirdre Sky walking in the grove of white pines at Gaia's Landing, now long destroyed. "Our ideological nemesis of old has returned, apparently out of years, even decades, of hiding. Will this turn the balance of power? Time will tell. We must reformulate our strategy to include yet another variable. "

"Other challenges are more immediate," Morgan continued, as the second hologram activated. It showed the spectacular collapse of the borehole outside of Morgan Industries, and the subsequent frightening growth of fungus. Mercifully, it did not show the 12,000 citizens who died horribly from the following mindworm attacks. "This event highlights two areas we can no longer ignore: our lack of planning in dealing with ecological damage, and the pitiful state of our defenses."

The City Manager from Morgan Industries shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"The fault is as much mine as anyone's. For decades we have ignored our defenses and relied on others," Morgan emphasized the word, implying Yang, " considering, rightly, that spending our resources and energy on the military is a waste. Perhaps it is time to rethink this strategy. Moreover, the damage wrought in this one incident shows that we must address our vulnerability to ecological damage. Here, perhaps, we can draw the Gaians in to advise us. In the past the Gaian's wisdom has been considered, shall we say, misguided? While obviously true in general, there may be some portion of their position we can incorporate without significant impact to our society. More importantly, it will start a dialog. And dialog, as every negotiator knows, is the start of a potentially profitable relationship.

"The third issue facing us is that of lost opportunity," Morgan said as the third hologram sprung to life; it showed empty seas and unused warehouses. "Fifty years ago the seas around Morgan territory teamed with transports, bringing to bounty of our factories far and wide to all, and enormous profit to us. Slowly over the years we allowed these lucrative trade relationships decline, shrivel, and die. The first to go were the Believers and Gaians, then the University, as they were conquered. Then we allowed ourselves to be drawn into a Planet-wide war, with its far ranging implications. Our relationships with others soured and withered. The first to go was trade with the Spartan Federation. Next the Hive insisted we not trade with the Peacekeepers, since they were nominally allied with the Hive's foe. So, over the years we lost one, then two, and finally five opportunities. Were these bad decisions at the time? No, taken as single decisions the advantages were obvious. Cumulatively, however, they are quite detrimental.

"War is always dangerous," Morgan said as the forth hologram sprang to life, showing the siege and destruction at Plex Anthil. "And the ongoing struggle between the Hive and the Spartans continues to embroil the entire planet. Each of these fanatical factions is becoming more and more obsessed, drawing in its allies. More and more resources are demanded and are consumed. The tides of war seemingly do not favor the Hive," Morgan paused significantly, as Plex Anthill in the recreation finally fell to the Spartans. The Councilors let out involuntary groans. "Our intelligence suggests the Hive has significantly inferior weapons technology, which was telling at the disaster at Plex Anthill. Even though they have a material advantage it is unclear if that advantage can be parlayed into victory. The likely outcome is a long, drawn out war that will be very expensive, even for those not directly involved.

"This brings me to my fifth point, and this is something none of you know and must not leave this room," Morgan said. Morgan paused, looked each of the 18 Council members in the eye and getting their affirmation. "Seven years ago our 'pact brother' Yang demanded a 'contribution' to his war effort in the amount of 1,400 energy, which he 'graciously' decreased to 700."

The fifth hologram winked into existence showing a portrait of Yang in battle dress. The Council members all gasped, then became angry.

"The thievery and insult does not stop there. Yang's request was veiled in the threat of military force. I, as a steward of our people, had no choice but to submit or face the consequences. "

Morgan paused again, to let his statement sink in. "Last night I again received a call from our 'pact brother', and he again demanded 1,500 energy, but agreed to accept 750. He even had the unmitigated gall to call this extraordinary sum of hard won energy 'meager'." Morgan violently emphasized the word, his disgust and rage showing through his carefully crafted demeanor. This was not lost on his Council, who were now similarly enraged.

"These are not the actions of a 'pact brother'" Morgan concluded after a moment, when he had regained his composure.

"Lastly, we have the most serious issue," Morgan said, as the sixth holo sprang to life. It showed a mushroom cloud with Yang's picture in the background. The furious Council now sobered quickly and a hush fell on the room. "Our operatives have discovered that the Hive is building an intercontinental nuclear missile that makes all those of old Earth pale by comparison. This horrific device has the ability of not only of just killing and destroying millions, but also of destroying the very face of the planet. This missile is within range of all Morgan cities. We are vulnerable."

The Council was bewildered, stunned, and angry. Morgan Senior smiled to himself. Perfect!

Each of the six holograms faded away.

"I propose a significant reordering of our priorities to deal with these threats, and turn them into opportunities. First, I suggest we reestablish diplomatic contact with all factions, since this will inevitably increase our options and information and profit. We will have to tread carefully with the Spartans to avoid the immediate displeasure of the Hive, but my son Nwabudike Junior will use his contacts and 'unofficially' reestablish relations. Second, we will need to ensure we are no longer in the position of being bullied by the likes of Yang. We have the second best technological resources on Planet, and our abilities are increasing faster than any other faction. Historically we have been weak on military technology, but I propose we buy or trade for these abilities. And we will need to re-prioritize our building and societal support structure. I propose to be able to defend ourselves, or even assert our authority if absolutely necessary. And do this soon, before the tides of war sweep us away."

"With new friends and strength we will be able to stand on our own, and not grovel to the likes of Yang. We must not shrink from the challenge."

Morgan finished. The CEOs immediately acclaimed the wisdom of Morgan's suggestions, seeing huge profits with military spending. Each city manager was privately relieved to be able to exert more control over their citizens, and have viable military units to defend themselves against the deprecations of Planet and, apparently, Yang. Morgan's ministers were generally supportive. Unity was a rare pearl in Executive Council meetings.

"We have much to discuss, and I will entertain any ideas this august group develops. I suggest we retire to my suite for a brief rest and refreshment. "

Although he had an outwardly serious demeanor, Morgan Senior was delighted.

'Stage two will come shortly,' he mused as he ushered the emotionally exhausted Council to his private retreat.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 11, 1999).]
[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited August 11, 1999).]

[Googlie]

The meeting with Marlo and Alfredo had finished.

They didn't like the outcome, but were powerless to resist. I made them take the oath or lose their jobs.

They swore the oath.

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

MY2225
Seventh month
Fourteenth day.

To All citizens of The Spartan Federation

SUSPENSION OF CIVIL LIBERTIES

Whereas Colonel Corazon Santiago is missing, possibly deceased; and
Whereas The Spartan Federation is formally at war with The Human Hive; and
Whereas dissidents within our Federation are in a state of armed revolt

BE IT KNOWN THAT

The Charter of Rights and Freedoms adopted by the Governing Council in 2199 is hereby suspended for an indefinite period.

Suspended pursuant to this notice is:

The right of every citizen to vote to elect city Aldermen and regional Representatives to Council;
The right of any citizen to refuse to bear arms in defense of the Federation or to serve in its armed forces;
The right to resist arrest and seizure if not accompanied by a magistrate's warrant;
The right to a hearing before a magistrate within three days if arrested and held in detention; and
The right to refuse testimony under oath for reasons of self or family incrimination.

The suspension of Civil Liberties shall take effect immediately and shall be reviewed following the successful prosecution of the war and the suppression of the dissident minority within our Federation.

Issued by Order of Federation Governor Scott Allardyce and with the Authority of Field Marshall Gavin Burge, Supreme Commander

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

To all Base Governors and Base Administrators

Re: Continuance in your current positions

With the disappearance of our leader, Colonel Santiago, and the rise of the insurrectionists in our midst, your Ruling Junta has determined that the Colonel's duties and powers will be split between Scott Allardyce - as regards Civilian matters within the Federation and Gavin Burge as regards Military matters. Field Marshall Burge will Chair the Ruling Junta.

We require you to submit within 24 hours either your oath of renewed loyalty to the Junta - and specifically to its civilian and military appointed leaders - or your resignation from office.

Federation Governor Scott Allardyce

[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited August 12, 1999).]

[Googlie]

Julia jumped down from the wing and ran to find Stephen.

He was busy discussing with his mechanic and his newly operations officer some ideas he had for tweaking performance on his machine. He looked up as Julia excitedly approached.

"What's up, Jules?" he asked. "You look like you're in a hurry."

'If you're not busy I need you for a couple of hours" she said - "if you guys don't mind" indicating the two crew in earnest conversation.

"Go on" said Perry, the mechanic. "We were finished anyhow. We can do the mods while you're away and you can test them when you return."

"Super" said Stephen. "Let's go then".

He had taken Deirdre's old fossil burning transport and tweaked it to a slightly faster moving vehicle. It couldn't quite keep up with a rover at cruising speed, but was nifty enough for buzzing around Velvetgrass Point. Deirdre now had an official Governor's Personal Transportation Unit, or PTU for short. The locals referred to them as Pitooyies.

As they drove into the base, Stephen pumped julia to find out what was making her so excited, but all she would say was "Wait till we get Deirdre 0 it'll save me telling the same story twice."

They entered the residential area of Velvetgrass Point and made their way past the habitation clusters to the commercial and administrative district. Stopping at the Governor's node, they ask a worker if Deirdre was around.

"Down by the shrimp nursery, I expect" was the reply, pointing down river.

They walked down the river bank, looking at the activity on the water. The river was quite wide as it flowed through the Base, and it neatly divided the city in two. Apart from one main bridge, it was primarily ferries that enabled citizens to cross from one side to the other. Under the bridge were the shrimp farms.

They could see her before they reached the bridge. Deirdre was standing knee deep in the water by the river's edge, at the farm, earnestly talking to a worker servicing the pens. Every now and then she would dip her hand in the water and bring up a handful of wriggling shrimp and hold it out to the worker with a torrent of questions and instructions. Across the river was a fresh water kelp farm.

She saw them coming, and with a last minute flurry of instructions to the bemused worker, waded out of the water, holding her skirt high with one hand to save most of it from getting wet.

She smiled as she approached.

"Ah ha , my two Air Force captains. Up to no good, I'll wager."

"Lady Deirdre - do you have five minutes? I need to tell you something."

Deirdre saw there was no escaping the moment. Julia was too charged up with excitement to imagine her waiting, so she gracefully conceded defeat.

"Let's go sit down at yon coffee stall - I can let my legs dry in the sun while you unburden yourself", she said.

They crossed from the river's edge to the modest stall.

Some small tree stumps served as chairs, with a cut of the bole doing duty as a table. When the steaming coffee arrived, Deirdre teased Julia by turning to Stephen and asking sweetly and innocently "Now what's this news you are hoarding and won't tell me?"

Stephen played along.

"Oh, I wouldn't say I'm hoarding it. It's just that I've thought of a way of getting the needlejet to turn tigh….."

"Stephen." Julia interjected, scowling at him.

Stephen and Deirdre both laughed.

"Out with it then, young lady" said Deirdre.

She told her story.

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

"I was just flying a shakedown with my new Ops officer - you know, getting her comfortable with me and me with her, learning how we each react to certain situations.

I was east of the base a ways - I would guess about 800 clicks, and flew over the colony convoy heading east looking for a suitable site to found a new base.

I waggled my wings at them and gave them a low slow flyby - let them see the Gaian markings on the plane, then I headed further east.

About two days journey, maybe, for the convoy, I saw the strangest sight. I flew lower to get a good look. Lady Deirdre, I saw the ruins of an old city."

"What faction?" Stephen asked.

I carried on as if there had been no interruption.

"I flew closer - it was like no architecture I'd ever seen on a Morgan Vidshow or even in holos or vidfliks of old Earth. It looked like the remains of a huge factory, or arena, surrounded on three sides by ruins of smaller buildings."

"What's unusual about that?" Stephen asked. "It's not an uncommon layout for a base."

"No," I granted , "but it was the immensity of it all. The Arena or factory or whatever it was must have been at least three kilometers long. And from my flyby I'd estimate its remains are at least a kilometer high - that's taller than any other building on Planet that I know of.

"I think we should both do a thorough aeriel of it, then alert the colony convoy to send scouts ahead to reconnoiter."

"I'd like to go look as well", said Deirdre. "Perhaps I could fly with you, Julia, to see it from the air. Is there still time this afternoon before the light goes?"

"It will be the best time," I replied. "The shadows will give greater perspective."

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

Deirdre squeezed into the crew seat behind Julia, and together Stephen and she took off.

Julia retraced her pattern out east, over the convoy - and although they were deaf to it a hearty cheer went up from the thousand or so colonists as they saw two Gaian needlejets fly past.

They neared the ancient ruins.

Julia sensed something different this time.

Almost like a presence, hanging in the evening sky over the ruined buildings.

Then she heard the music in her mind

Eerie.

Haunting.

Evocative.

Filling her with yearning and longing.

Then the Voice in her mind all around the plane filling her consciousness never getting out of her mind no matter what else she tried to think of it permeated her entire being. She listened;

Welcome Earthdeirdre and earthdeirdredaughter. We have been waiting.

Julia was surprised to hear in her mind Deirdre.

"Welcome felt PlanetVoice. The waiting is over. We will live together."

"Julia, pull up, pull up" the harsh voce of Stephen squawked over her commlink.

She snapped to attention.

They were drifting down on a glide path that would take them right into the largest of the ruins.

She hastily pulled up, and swung the Thrasher around to veer away from the ruins.

"That was close" came Stephen's voice again. "What were you thinking of? Did you fall asleep?"

"Something like that" Julia replied cryptically.

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

As they made tracks for home, Julia relived the experience.

One thing puzzled her.

Activating the secure commlink, she asked Deirdre:

"When the voice in our heads said "welcome earthdeirdre and welcome earthderidredaughter", what did it mean?"

Deirdre replied "You and I need to talk, but not here".

Puzzled, Julia set course for Velvetgrass Point.


[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited August 12, 1999).]

[Tokek Belerang]

To: Federation Governor Scott Allardyce
From: Governor Eugene Levavassier, Hawk of Chiron base

Esteemed Governor, dear Scott,

This is a personal communication, but please consider it to be an official one, as well.

Suspension of civil liberties is not the way that Sparta should go. It is a Yangian monstrosity.

I hereby resign my commission as governor of Hawk of Chiron base, effective upon receipt of your confirmation.

I will continue to serve as 1st Wing CO for as long as Gavin will have me, but will accept any consequences stemming from my resignation as base governor and my motives theretowards.

Beware, my friend. You are paving the way for the likes of Honshu, and for the fall of Sparta.

Yours,
Eugene

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

[Googlie]

Secure transmission burst. Code Blue

Eugene Levavassier
Governor,
Hawk of Chiron Base

Strictly Personal and Confidential

My dearest Eugene

I have rejected your resignation. To make it official:

__________________________________________________ _____
I hereby resign my commission as governor of Hawk of Chiron base,
effective upon receipt of your confirmation.

REJECTED by order of Federation Governor S. Allardyce
__________________________________________________ _____

Eugene, these are perilous times we are entering, perhaps the gravest danger we have yet faced.

Consider:

We must win this war against the Hive. Therefore moving temporarily to a Police State will ensure the full dedication to the war effort that is necessary if we are to defeat Yang's superior numbers.

The University dissidents are growing bolder - it is they who have abducted our Colonel. The oath is a test of the five former university bases. Neither Gavin nor I would expect it of you.

There are forces afoot that should and do cause us dread and fear. The Circle of Ashaandi is here in Sparta Command and their operative, Sand, is among us.

Santiago's aide, Ayola - in reality Zakharov's daughter, or granddaughter, we are not sure - was the UoP agent who abducted Santiago. I say was, as she is now dead. Tortured by a cult I am unaware of, by someone styling themselves The Grand Inquisitor. How do I know? Ayola has a twin - it was she who accosted me to alert me that the Colonel is indeed alive. The twins have a strong empathy bond. (Indeed I believe thatthey are latents). Anastasia (the twin) felt every stroke of the torturer's blade as if applied to her own body. She sought me out and is currently under my protection, a nervous wreck. These animals who perpetrated this stalk our alleys tonight.

Eugene, my friend, I need the ability to arrest them on sight and incarcerate without trial. I need the ability to conscript, as does Gavin. We did not do lightly what we did.

But we need - I need - men and women of principle and integrity to stay the course and fight with us. You are such a man.

As a friend and colleague, I beseech you to work with us toward these common goals of restoring the Colonel to her rightful place and ridding our federation of this new menace. As your Federation Governor, I ask you to understand and accept - even if you do not agree - why these measures are necessary.

Your friend no matter what,

Googlie

[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited August 12, 1999).]

[Tokek Belerang]

To: Federation Governor Sc. Allardyce
From: Admiral T. Giacomazzi, Combined Northern Fleets

Esteemed Governor,

I salute you on the decisive and forceful way in which you are handling the situation on the home front, to wit your recent communiqué. Although the suspension of civil liberties is a drastic measure, I utterly fail to concur with those who would call it Draconian.

It is with pride in my heart that I hereby renew my oath of fealty to Sparta.

The Combined Northern Fleets have all but caught up with the rearguard of South Fleet, and will be ready to play their part in the successful conclusion of the Hive campaign.

With feelings of profoundest regard,

Teresia Giacomazzi (Admiral)

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

[Tokek Belerang]

To: Scott Allardyce
From: Eugene Levavassier

Dear friend,

Seldom have I been more relieved to receive a communication than just this moment. I attempted to reach you by comm just now, but was thwarted by one of your very competent aides.

Consider my resignation withdrawn, without reservation.

But consider this as well, Scott, and it is a word of criticism: please relay such lucid clarifications (is that a tautology? never mind) before the fact, not after. There are some who would interpret your actions as I did just now, and applaud them! For all the wrong reasons.

Yours in relief,
Eugene

------------------
Numquam turbae misceri
[This message has been edited by Tokek Belerang (edited August 12, 1999).]