The Spartan Chronicles - Continued

[Slats]

SPARTA COMMAND
S.S.D LAUNCH PREPARATION HANGAR

Forster walked past the armoured bulkhead of the hangar doorway having submitted to half a dozen security checks already, including retinal scans, fingerprint match and DNA checks. Access into a place like this was restricted to only to a necessary few.

The vast subterrainean hangar stretched for several hundred metres yet still seemed cluttered due the tonnes of hardware packed inside. Forster walked on past satellites, probes, flight trainers, cargo aircraft, several heavily modified needlejets and there, in one clear and secluded corner, lay the object of his concern.
Whereas around the hangar technicians worked on various machines and equipment, no-one was anywhere near the sleek white shape. It was shaped like a jet liner, yet no windows marred it's side. Big delta wings swept out from a rotund cylinder-like body approximately 25 metres long. A pair of bulges under the wing roots marked the location of two huge jet turbines. Back from the rounded nose were a pair of maneovering canards for added agility. Two small tail fins stuck out at opposing 45 degree angles from atop the fuselage near the rear of the craft. The rear end of the fuselage, which was streamlined backwards was adorned with a trio of rocket thrusters. The end result was a white, double ended pencil with wings sitting on stubby tricycle landing gear.

Forster stepped forward to a hatch in the side of the vehicle forward of the wings. He punched in a binary code on a small keypad, clamps clunked as they released and the circular airlock rotated open. Forster moved inside and walked along round, padded corridors up to the command deck. It was clear this craft would never fly again without major help. Entire consoles were missing, equipment removed, cables dangling, panels gaping. With several vital organs missing, the machine lay stranded and helpless.
Some 60% of the S.S.D's budget last year was spent on the spaceplane Atlas, an experimental prototype meant to bring quick and cheap spacetravel to Sparta. The money hadn't been enough. It lay mostly finished, scavenged as a 'hangar queen', donating parts to needy services.

Yet no longer. Forster returned to the hatch just in time to see a large group of about 20 techs coming this way. Dragging equipment and tools on transport sleds, they were headed right this way. Soon the Atlas would get the destiny she deserved. Forster smiled a wry cracked grin. The mission was a go.

[Hydro]

Somewhere Near Parade Grounds

*****

I open my eyes. Something has jolted me awake.

Where am I?

It is dark and all I hear is a low pulse of sound, more of a steady throb, actually. I have a soft thermoblanket over me and am toasty warm.

This is SO comfy. I just want to close my eyes to go back to sleep.

Unbidden, thoughts start streaming through my head: Where is Miles? Is he still with me? Is Merlin still there? Where am I, and how did I get here?

I sigh heavily. Whether I like it or not, my sleep is shattered.

I sit up, and the top of the themoblanket falls to my lap. I can discern rows of seats in the very dim light.

“Lights.”

The space is instantly, and almost blindingly, illuminated, showing the interior of the fission jet. I am the only passenger.

Squinting as my eyes adjust, I stretch luxuriously and yawn.

What do I remember? Everything seems so rushed these days.

I remember finishing the scans of the new Spartan citizens of Plex Brigade. There were no significant problems after my little incident with Merlin, but by that time I was done I was dead on my feet again. Miles was a great help, but in the end he was exhausted too. I vaguely remember Rao thanking me profusely, and telling me I had another message from that nice woman Helen Tobias of Assassin’s Redoubt. He handed me a datapad and I quickly read through it. Helen’s message said something about a suspected terrorist attack at one of the old Yooper towns, and something about an old researcher. Helen said to meet ‘her people’ at Parade Grounds, where I would meet this old University guy, too.

It really didn’t make any sense, and I was too tired to care. Rao escorted me to the jet Helen’s sent and got some blankets and pillows for me. What a sweet man! Not at all like most officers I have known, who are prickly, aloof, and interested in killing. Luckily, most aren’t like that nasty Kirsten. Now wait a minute: I am an officer! Hopefully I won’t be like that one day!

Looking around, I see my small pack of belongings by my reclined seat. Stuck in one of the outside pockets is the datapad. I’d better read through the message again, since I don’t understand what is going on. Hopefully I’ll be better able to understand. I reach down to get the datapad.

Hmmmmm. I didn’t miss anything, although Andre’s story that Helen included does help a bit. Still, there’s no evidence. What is this ‘solid smoke’? How can it kill so many people, and leave no evidence or bodies? How did the Peacekeepers get a hold of the solid smoke from the UoP, and why did they wait for 25 years to use it? Killing unarmed civilians does not sound like something Commissioner Lal would do. Sounds a little fishy. I think the first thing I should do is scan the researcher Andre to see if this is just an elaborate misunderstanding, a UoP hoax, or really a Peacekeeper plot.

I wonder where Miles is? Or Merlin?

Miles? Merlin? Are you there?

Good evening, Sarah. Miles is resting, I think. You’ve been out only a couple of hours. How do you feel?

Well, a little tired. Now, Merlin, you have some explaining to do. You said that you didn’t want to interrupt or distract me from my work at Plex. Well, now I’m not working. What are you? And where are you!?

heheheh. A little irritable, are we? Still, those are valid questions, and I owe you a lot, including some answers. As to what I am, I am a human being, just like you. In fact, I am also a telepath, although I am not nearly as powerful as you are. As to where I am, well, I am actually in your head. I don’t know if you know this, but you created a ‘bridge’ between us when you blasted down my psi block. Do you know what a bridge is?

Merlin, you’re being evasive. You know what I meant when I said ‘what are you’! No, I don’t know what a bridge is. And what do you mean ‘your’ psi block?

More questions? Well, one at a time. As to the psi block, I was ordered to put it up myself. Once the block was effected, my psi powers were nullified and I would appear as a normal. Only a fairly skilled telepath could detect and then remove my block. In fact, they would have to overcome me to do so.

To answer your unasked question: a bridge is the highest level of connection and is only possible between telepaths. It is like a linking, and it is much more difficult to achieve than mere projection or reading of thoughts. It is also more subtle than altering memory in an unshielded telepath or a normal. A bridge allows the actuating telepath complete access, after study, to the linked individual’s memory. That isn’t so special, since a deep scan can do that. What is amazing about a bridge is that the actuator can actually take the linked individual, and then use his or her abilities. An actuator with enough skill can edit and prune the linked individual. A linked person with an intact persona is a Personality, whereas one that has their personality removed but abilities intact is merely a Face.

Merlin! That’s horrible! You’re talking about a telepathic slave! And empathic torture! I don’t want a slave! I’ll put you back!

You could do that, if you had physical contact with my body. My body, however, is terribly mangled, in a coma, and probably in Assassin’s Redoubt by now. So, for a while you are stuck with me. But I promise to be good.

I didn’t know telepaths could do this. I was never taught about ‘bridging’.

That isn’t surprising, since so few telepaths have the power and finesse to do it. Of those, almost none are trained to do it, or finds out how by accident, like you have. I only know one telepath who can bridge: Ashaandi.

Ashaandi! He is an evil person, even if only half of the stories about him are true!

Sarah, be careful when you use labels like ‘evil’. He is certainly amoral and ruthless, and he may be evil. Some people would consider you evil because of what you can do and have done. It depends on your frame of reference. He may consider himself to be working for the good of mankind, and the fact that he profits enormously is simply a side benefit. Personally, I don’t think he cares too much about the good of mankind, normals, or even other telepaths. They are simply tools.

Merlin, you seem to know a lot about Ashaandi. How do you know?

Haven’t you figured it out yet? I was of the Circle of Ashaandi.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 05, 1999).]
[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 05, 1999).]
[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 05, 1999).]

[korn469]

Pointa Sur

Pointa Sur was easily the most beautiful city in the Spartan Federation. Many of the most creative artistic minds of the Spartan Federation congregated on it peaceful beaches. Pointa Sur was the only city in the Spartan Federation that waived the minimum five-year military service pledge for four years of community service. Very few people from Pointa Sur ever joined the Spartan military, it was a place that inspired poets, not soldiers.

After years of clashing with Pointa Sur's original governor, Rice Aguilera, the Spartan Military finally gave up on the idea of conscripting Pointa Sur's children right out of the creche like they did in the rest of the federation. Instead, Pointa Sur became the destination of troops on leave. Unlike the nonstop debauchery of Morgan Metagenics, all you could find was the quite beauty of Chiron. Soldiers came back from leave realizing what they were fighting for.

The day was warm and sunny, autumn would set in soon and it wouldn't be this warm for a while. All the people who could be, were outdoors enjoying themselves. Looking around, Dez regretted volunteering for this. His view from the top of the recycling tanks was amazing. The city looked gorgeous. With a sigh he continued. He took out a small square black object that was just slightly thicker than security pass. He then opened the large square package he had just received from his compatriots. It was extremely light and looked like the same tinted material they made the lens to sunglasses with.

"Death to Santiago, long live Zakorhov." He whispered to himself. Then he placed the black activation card on top of the cube and hit the enter button. A LCD display on the activation card showed a green line slowly creep from left to right. Then the line disappeared and the block started sublimating like a block of dry ice would do. Hidden in the wisps of gray smoke coming off the transparent block was activated nanocytes, programmed to spread out and permeated the city then attack it's population all at once.

It the block was becoming an aerosol faster than what Dez expected, in an hour, maybe two everyone including Dez would be dead. He sat there and waited, just watching, from his excellent vantagepoint, the unsuspecting people going about their business. It took less than five minutes for the block to go from a solid state to an aerosol. The vapor rapidly mixing with the air and losing its grayish tint. He kept on waiting, his palms beginning to sweat profusely. Knowing he was going to die soon didn't seem possible.

He picked up his commlink and set it to a broad-spectrum transmission. Then he calmly sent a message for the whole world to hear.

"Carpe Diem Lal!"

Exactly seventy-eight minutes later Dez, and the rest of Pointa Sur were dead.
[This message has been edited by korn469 (edited October 21, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Somewhere Near Parade Grounds

*****

Ashaandi! No one leaves the Circle of Ashaandi, except dead!

Technically, I haven't really left. You see, I was too valuable to lose and too politically damaged to keep, so Ashaandi decided to put me in storage. Think of it as a deep cover - the ultimate mole. At a time of his liking and convenience Ashaandi would return and remove my psi block. When done, he would have an instant mid-level operative.

What do you mean 'politically damaged'?

I had the misfortune of crossing the wrong person, and get caught. There was no proof, but it didn't matter. The accusation was that I gave certain interested parties in the Spartan Federation the whereabouts of a hated Circle operative. This Cirle operative has many enemies in the Circle, the Hive, and all over Chiron. The Spartan officers tried, and failed, to assassinate him, much to my loss. I was one of the casualties in the purge that followed. This aggrieved operative insisted that my family be put to death. Ashaandi himself saved me from death. In retrospect, Ashaandi probably enjoyed every minute of my pain, and savored the moment when he would release me so I could relive the pain all over again. His punishment was much worse.

I, I'm not sure I want to know all this. It all seems so cold. You seem so cold! How can you be so calm? There isn't any emotion in your thoughts!

Sarah, you did ask, remember? As to being 'cold', that is one of the first things that Ashaandi teaches his initiates after he seduces them into the Circle. I was easy to seduce, as he gave me the woman I had always wanted. He knew then, and I later learned, that this would be his ultimate bargaining chip and my weakness.

Stop it! I don't want to know!

You need to learn that a Personality, like I now am, will almost always answer questions. This is especially true when they are motivated. Sarah, I am VERY motivated. I have lost everything I hold dear and long only for two things. In return for your efforts to obtain my goals I will teach you all I know, and willingly become your tool. My old body is broken and probably useless. You have an amazing, if untempered, talent, Sarah. My goals will be much more easily achieved through you. You may not realize this, but with my training and assistance you may be as powerful as Ashaandi.

The first desire is oblivion. I wish you to turn me into a Face, and use me as you see fit. That is the only way for my pain to go away.

Merlin, I don't think I want to know the second. I think I already know.

Very perceptive, Sarah. You are learning fast if you can see that within my ensconced and linked mind. The second thing I wish is simple: REVENGE.

I want to see the instrument of my destruction's head on a pike.

I want Sand dead.

*****

…Now, Sarah, when you form a empathic shield, what symbol to you visualize?

Merlin, that is a strange question. I think of a shield, of course.

An effective symbol, to be sure. But what do you do if your attacker doesn't think in two dimensions? What if his telepathic attack is not a frontal assault? Perhaps it comes from all directions? Or from two sides? What do you do then? Remember, the SYMBOL is the key!

I'm not sure.

Think! What symbol protects from all sides? Visualize your shield.

Ok.

Now, wrap it around you. Stretch it! Meld its ends together! What do you have?

It's a sphere!

Very good, Sarah! You've mastered the Circle's Second Tier. Shall we continue?

*****

"Pilot Ingrid Halvasaal to Captain Sarah Dawson. We will be landing in 5 minutes, so please secure yourself. I have been asked to inform you that your party is waiting in Terminal 3B."

Pushing Merlin down into my subconscious, I can concentrate on the view. Parade Grounds still looks like a University city, with clusters grayish cylindrical towers capped with multicolored domes. The city itself is very impressive, and beautiful in its own way. Slowly, though, the Spartan influence has been growing. More and more buildings have the unaesthetic squat and angular dun-hued complexes common throughout Sparta. Fully half of the buildings in Parade Ground are Spartan now, though the most impressive ones remain those from the University days.

The jet comes in for final approach and makes a flawless computer-slaved landing. Looking out my window I see a delegation of at least a dozen people approaching. Even before the plane stops they are almost running toward us.

What's going on?

Finally, the plane stops and the gangway unfolds to the tarmac. Moments later a bevy of men and women from Spartan Intelligence and some other military types enter the aircraft. In tow is the obviously bewildered and distraught academic Andre. I recognize him from the holo.

The pilots exit the cockpit with a questioning look on their faces. One of the army officers turns toward them.

"Pilots Halvasaal and Grieves, this plane is being commandeered by the Spartan Military. You will turn it over to our two Air Force pilots who will be arriving shortly."

The two pilots don't hesitate. "Yes Sir! Can we be of assistance?"

"Yes. Work with the maintenance crew to see that the plane is properly provisioned and fueled. We will leave as soon as the pilots arrive."

The two civilian pilots depart in a hurry.

The Army office then approaches me.

"Captain Dawson, I am Coronal Dale Markay. You have been assigned to this investigation task force for the duration of the emergency. Here are your orders. We're glad to have you aboard."

I take the data crystal. No doubt it is in order.

"Sir, what emergency?" I ask.

He looks at me as if I had been hiding under a rock. "I guess you haven't heard the APBs. There has been a genetic attack on Pointa Sur. Initial reports indicate that Pointa Sur has been completely destroyed."

Oh, my god! Solid Smoke wasn't a bluff, or a hoax!

Miles! Merlin!

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 05, 1999).]

[Googlie]

Darlene and Valerie were playing on the beach just to the southeast of Morgan Pharmaceuticals. The park was lovely, with the trees coming down the hill almost to the water’s edge. A sandy beach had been cleared and it was their favorite spot to go to in an evening.

Up the hill to the northeast of them the forest was profuse, completely hiding the huge mineral borehole that delivered the raw materials for the manufacturing industry.

Just up the hill to the northwest could be seen the towers of the base itself, rimmed on either side by the massive solar panels and mirrors that drew the energy from Chiron’s twin suns.

Out in the bay, as far north as Morgan Metagenics, could be seen the massive tidal harnesses that, like the solar energy collectors, fueled the economy of the base.

It was from the tidal harnesses that the noise came, causing them to look up.

Rising over the bulk of the floating superstructures and roaring overhead towards the base they came, a solid wave of needlejets.

“Oh,” Darlene said. “Aren’t they pretty?”

“Yeah, pretty noisy,” agreed Valerie.

As they disappeared over the base, they heard the KABOOM…KABOOM…KABOOM of multiple explosions.

“Fireworks?” Valerie asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Darlene replied. “I’ve never heard them that loud.”

They wondered what was happening.

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

Patrice was squatting to talk to a child who was holding the hand of his mother who was asking directions from Amber, Patrice’s fellow guard.

They were at the gates to the garrison building on a very relaxed guard duty.

The child pointed to the wall of the armory adjacent to the barracks and said “Pretty,” and as Patrice turned to look he heard the sound in the distance, coming from the bay.

On the wall of the armory was a brilliant red square, about six centimeters in diameter, and as Patrice was wondering what was causing it he saw out of the corner of his eye the penetrator coming in low over the rooftops.

“****,” he said, suddenly aware of what he was looking at. He threw the child to the ground and covered him with his body.

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

“Locked on,” said Chuli.

“Steady, steady…..fire one.” Pang, the weapons officer, released one of the two laser guided missiles as Chuli opened the afterburners to take the Penetrator out of any possible enemy fire.

“Shove that up your ultimatum,” Pang muttered as the Pen cleared the base and came in for its second run.

The missile unerringly found its way to the target, and as the armory exploded, taking the entire barracks with it Patrice tried to protect as much of the child’s body with his as possible before the falling debris from the building knocked his life from him.

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

“Man the guns,” yelled Jepson as he heard the first explosions.

The crew of the Morgan cruiser ‘Voracious’ raced to their stations as the penetrators came into view.

Frantically they fired up their target acquisition radar, but with no guidance from the shore based station they were slow in tracking. Also, they were not AAA units, but with the penetrators coming in low over the ocean they might present targets to the crews.

The first salvo splattered on the docks beside them, blowing a gantry over the afterdeck and sending the rear gunnery crew scattering.

“Power up,” shouted Captain Adams. “Let’s get away from the dockside. We’re a sitting duck here and will be restricted in our defense efforts.”

The second penetrator came in over the water, low and fast, suddenly appearing above a tidal harness superstructure. One minute they were looking at the kelp farm buildings atop the harness, and the next there was a huge penetrator bearing down.

“Manual” screamed Jepson as he feverishly swung the missile launchers towards the aircraft.

Too late, he saw the flashes on the wing pylons as the high explosive air to surface missiles fired and seconds later the ‘Voracious’ erupted as its forward magazine exploded.

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

In his office on the top floor of the Energy Bank Tower, Pharma’s tallest, Base Manager Barry Foster looked out over the base in anguish and dismay.

From his vantage point he could clearly see the explosions all over the base as the Hive penetrators were unmolested as they systematically took out the base defenses.

Frantically he dialed up his commlink, on a wide band broadcast on the Morgan network.

“Pharma under attack. Massive airstrike by Hive penetrators. Garrison, barracks and armory destroyed. ‘Voracious’ destroyed in harbor. We are defenseless.”

He looked out of his panoramic window and realized that he was actually looking down on the aircraft marauding his beautiful base, wantonly destroying the efforts of thousands of his people in building over the years.

As his eyes swept seawards, his heart fell.

Appearing from behind the harnesses in the bay he could see three transports nearing the beach, and from their bows, already open to the waves, he could make out the landing craft being launched, each packed to the gunnels with Hive amphibious marines.

He picked up his commlink again, and froze in horror as he saw the muzzle flashes of a penetrator using its chaos cannon to strafe the building.

The shells arced inwards, shattering the glass of the window and spewing their destruction across the room.

The commlink dropped from Barry’s lifeless fingers as his body crumpled to the floor.

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

the landing craft were racing over the surf, their marines ready to leap into action as soon as their feet hit hard ground. One squad, with three craft and about 180 marines, was heading right for the docks. Their mission was clearly to secure the piers for the transports to berth with the remainder of the troops.

Squad two was approaching the base from the southeast, tracking for the beach. The landing craft roared over the final few meters of spray to the beach. Seng Hsui was standing ready to leap into the shallow water as soon as the command was given. Over the bow he saw two Morganites standing transfixed on the beach watching their arrival.

He raised his missile launcher to his shoulder, above the bow, and loosed a salvo.

His aim was unerring. Valerie and Darlene didn’t even know what hit them.

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

Chuli had swung the penetrator round, and was approaching the hillside above Pharma, just beyond the solar collectors. She picked out the major road to Morgan Bank and gave a thumbs up to Pang.

He selected his ordnance carefully.

“Altitude,” he said to Chuli.

This was the dangerous part.

If any Morgan aircraft had scrambled, they would be sitting ducks for a few moments, as they climbed.

But the attack had gone perfectly so far, with an element of absolute surprise.

Chuli leveled out at five thousand meters, then commenced the attack.

Pang had selected the new ‘Tunneler’ missile from his stores that morning. It penetrated into the earth’s crust before detonating, and created a cave into which everything on the surface collapsed. Perfect for road interdiction. The angle was fairly crucial, though.

But there was no resistance, and the missile performed as advertised, neatly cratering the road from Pharma to Bank.

“Secondary destroyed,” said Chuli into her commlink.

Almost simultaneously she heard the “Secondary destroyed” from her colleague some kilometers away as the road from Pharma to Metagenics was cut.

“Let’s hitail it and refuel,” she said, and rocketed over the devastated base to head for great Clustering.

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

The marines had secured the dockside and the transports were disgorging their loads of troops as the beachead fanned out.

The resistance was minimal as the bulk of the garrison troops had been taken out in the first wave of the penetrator attacks. Sporadic firing still came from buildings and chokepoints, but the marines kept relentlessly on, leaving the mopping up for the infantry to do behind them.

The second wave of pens was overhead now, supported this time by interceptors to give them air cover. They concentrated on the surrounding infrastructure to the base, ensuring that any reinforcements sent in by Morgan or his allies would either have to come by sea, run the gauntlet of his pens, or literally drop in by air.

Bravo squad reached their destination – Energy Bank Tower. The drones were milling about, unsure of what to do, and the marines just shoved them aside and stormed to the base administration level.

Barry Foster’s body was still lying on the floor amidst the shards of glass and furniture.

Captain Cyrus Peake, Bravo squad commander, went unerringly to the console at the end of the room, thankfully still intact, and reached out. With a flick of his finger he power up the general broadcast interrupt. This overrode any Morgan News broadcast that might be on the air at the moment in the base.

“Good evening. I am Captain Peake of the Hive Expiditionary Force. Your Base Manager has just surrendered Morgan Pharmaceuticals to the Hive in an effort to save further bloodshed and loss of life, and we have accepted that surrender. Co-operate with our occupying forces and no harm will come to you. Thank you for your diligence in this regard,”

He flicked the link closed.

“Well, it might save a few lives,” he said.

The whole operation had taken just 75 minutes.

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

Chairman Yang sat in his command room, completely alone, waiting for the call.

When it came, he let the commlink chirrup for a few seconds, relishing the moment.

“Yes?”

“It is ours.”

“As was to be expected. Our spies told us it was lightly defended. You have done well.”

He closed the link.

Vindicated again.

Air Marshall Lew had argued that honor had demanded he respond to the ultimatum before attacking, and he had lectured and harangued them for several minutes as to the meaning of honor.

“Was there honor in the Spartan attack on Plex Anthill? Was there honor in the destruction of the borehole at Laborer’s Throng – where even your own son, my dear Marshall, gave his life for the cause? Was there honor in the backstabbing Morgan subverting four of our bases from under our feet?

“Do not talk to me of honor.

“Is there honor in the demeaning ultimatum that the Crazy Colonel has given us – givien us knowing that we could never accept such humiliating terms?

“No, this is my answer. And will continue to be.

“So do not talk to me of honor.”

He picked up his commlink, and punched in Santiago’s secure number.

He got Scott Allardyce’s face instead. ‘Strange’, he thought.

“That is what I think of your ultimatum,” he rasped.

[Googlie]

CEO Morgan was furious.

His generals were in the boardroom at Morgan Industries, a place they rarely visited. And the CEO could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

"How could this have happened?" he stormed.

"General Peterson. Please explain."

Philip Peterson quailed before the implacable gaze of the CEO. He had faced down armed drone rioters, Gaian commandos and mindworms, and had survived. But this was different.

"We…we miscalculated," he offered.

"MISCALCULATED?" shouted the CEO, walking round the table to where the general sat, and swiveling his chair round to look him in the eye. He leaned down until his face was just inches from the other man's.

"And just how did we miscalculate pray tell me?"

"We assumed that Yang would attempt to regain one of his old bases. We denuded our mainland garrisons to staff up in Plex Anthill and the four seceded bases. I guess we assumed that the Spartans would provide a defensive umbrella for us out of Morgan Processing. I left a scout garrison at Pharma."

"You guessed? You assumed?" railed CEO Morgan. "Have you any conception of what this means?"

Peterson hated these rhetorical questions. Whatever answer he gave would infuriate Morgan even more.

"No, I have no idea," he finally said, more to break the pregnant silence as for any other reason.

"No, of course you don't," snapped the CEO. "You are too busy playing soldiers and moving your garrisons around because you guessed or assumed that you have little idea what is happening in the real world."

"Well I know it was one of our better mineral producing bases," the general offered. "That would be a loss."

"You fool," stormed Morgan. "You stupid fool. Wake up Peterson. I'm not concerned about the loss of minerals - well, of course I am, but that pales into insignificance.

"I'm concerned about the Hive gaining Fusion technology. We'd just gotten the technology from Sparta scant weeks ago and had just finished downloading it to each of our bases. Yang will have seized that.

"That's partly why I am so concerned. We're now pacted with Santiago and she'll never trust us with another scientific or military secret if we can't keep them."

"Oh, I see," said Peterson.

"No, you idiot," harangued Morgan. "You don't see. And you don't see because you go through life with your eyes closed. Do you know why I am so furious?"

'Oh, another of these rhetorical questions,' thought Peterson, getting angry at the humiliation.

"No, CEO, I'm not a mind reader," he said.

"No, general, that you are most definitely not. I'm furious because we have handed Yang the Hunter Seeker Algorithm on a platter."

"But….I thought that was being constructed at Bank?" the general stammered.

"With their puny mineral production?" sneered Morgan. "Open your eyes, man. After Industries, Metagenics and Pharma are our two most prolific mineral producers. We switched production of the Secret project to Pharma.

"And now your guessing and assumptions have given them right into Yang's hands.

"Now what are you going to do to get it back?"

General Peterson had no idea.

[Googlie]

The commlink chirped.

CEO Morgan flicked on the wall console. “Yes?” he inquired.

It was Cornell Lumumba, his garrison chief at Morgan Industries.

“Sir, we have a problem at the borehole.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Sir, it’s difficult to explain. I’ll feed the link through.”

All heads in the boardroom looked on in horror and fascination as the vidcams picked up the scene.

There appeared to be a new island just offshore in the bay by the borehole. The camera picked up the movement of hordes of mindworms swarming from the island to the hole and entering it, filling it with heir mass. About a third of them moved directly from the isle to the forested area and road leading from the base to the borehole, taking up position just at the base perimeter.

“Good God, there must be a dozen or fifteen of these suckers,” CEO Morgan said.

“Seventeen, Sir,” said Lumumba. We reran the vid in slomo and counted.”

“What are they doing now?”

“We think they are massing for attack,” he replied.

“What happened to the miners and admin staff?” Morgan asked.

“We hate to speculate, but in my estimation we think they’re gonners,” he replied.

“And there’s another thing,” he added.

“Yes?” said the CEO.

“It looks like they are organized. Watch a replay of the feed I sent, and look at how the first one out seems to marshal and direct the others pouring into the hole and into the forest. Seems to be in some sort of command.”

“Thanks, Cornell,” said Morgan. “Hold tight, we’ll get the airforce at them. And with the other stuff happening with yang we’d better ask Sparta for whatever help they can give us.”

He flicked the console off, and swiveled his chair back round to face his generals.

“You all know what this means?”

Peterson sighed. Not another of those damned rhetorical questions the CEO was so fond of throwing at them. They waited.

“If they are controlled, there is only one faction that has the capability. The Gaians.

“I need to talk to the Lady herself.”

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

Alphonse lay in the protection of the forest just outside Morgan Industries.

He sensed the satisfaction of his squad as they feasted on the engineers and miners at the borehole, laying their larvae and re-establishing Planet’s dominance over the alien species that was so despoiling it. He held back, having no need to, as he already was a demon boil.

He also sensed Planet’s approbation. Washing over his espersense like a soothing tide lapping up on a sandy beach.

You have done well the voice said. But this is only the beginning. There is still much to do

The “call” from Planet had come just after he had left Sarah and turned himself “free”. He had sensed the pull of Planet, that insidious presence in his fledgling consciousness, that there had to be a fightback against the alien’s depredations of planet.

Accordingly he had traveled to the bay to the west of Sparta Command, and under cover of darkness had summoned an Isle of the Deep.

They had crossed the ocean to the Ruins, by the Great Northern desert, and there he had commenced his recruiting campaign. He had subdued the first two or three mindworms, then taught them to subdue others.

They had boarded the Isle again and traversed to the west coast of the Emerald Isle, where his budding brigade had enlisted more recruits. He was aiming for twenty.

Then Planet had summoned.

Alphonse. It is time. Events are unfolding. You must act now.

The Isle had taken them past Morgan Hydro, weaving through the lines of tidal harnessers, until it deposited them at their destination.

He had been intrigued by the Isle. A sentient being, like himself, strong psi powers, it was a collection of nautical mindworms that had adapted to load carrying. In the center of its mass were a number of hollowed out tendrils that moved the Isle on an impellor system. Drawing in water at the front, and through a series of coordinated muscle contractions and pulses, moved the flow of water through a set of ever constricting organic pipes to the rear where it was ejected with enough force to propel the Isle at a respectable speed. It could outrun most surface vessels, and with its strong psi-power was a match for most in combat, unless empathically enhanced.

Having deposited them, the Isle had moved back into the ocean awaiting Alphonse’s further instructions.

He himself waited, letting his troops advance through a life cycle as they savored the one-sided combat with the poorly armed engineers and miners and administrative personnel.

He waited for Planet’s signal to proceed.

[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited October 06, 1999).]

[Googlie]

They came in from the southwest with their Spartan escort, the four Gaian needlejets resplendent in their mottled green and russet camouflage. The two Thrashers had each taken up position slightly above and behind the larger Penetrators on the starboard side. The sleek silvered Fusion Indigo that Slats had sent up to welcome them when they entered Spartan airspace led the way to the base, then waggled his wings in salutation and veered off for the front.

Julia let Stephen in his Penetrator lead Justin Fairbanks in the accompanying Thrasher in to the landing strip on which they touched down almost simultaneously, the smaller interceptor just behind and to the right of the pen.

"Let's go and have a perfect synchronized touchdown," she said to Sharon Fox who was piloting the other penetrator as they commenced their final approach.

"Well that's up to you," Sharon replied. I lead the orchestra in this, you just follow along."

She held position right to wheels on, which they did achieve within milliseconds of each other.

"Wow, it's like simultaneous orgasm," said Stephen as he and Justin watched the two needlejets touch down and roll on to the taxiway. "Great when it happens and frustrating when it doesn't."

"Just means that you need more practice," grunted Cathy, his W.O.

The four needlejets parked neatly to one side of the plascrete apron, and the crews descended.

Slats had sent Jill as the official welcoming committee representing the SAC and Googlie himself had come down to the reception hall to represent the Spartan government.

Jill and Julia hugged each other.

"Welcome back," said Jill. "We've missed you."

"And I've missed you guys," she replied.

She turned to Googlie, having no idea who he was. The last time she had seen him he had been pushing sixty, with a mane of silver hair. Now she was being greeted by this dashing young officer representing the government.

She stuck out her hand:

"I don't believe we have had the pleasure…."

Googlie took her hand in both his:

"Julia, am I so much different?"

She looked at him closely, and asked:

"Have we met before?"

"Look," he replied, releasing her hand, and reaching into his pocket. "I still have the batteries. I didn't need to shatter the beacon."

She looked at him, then her face lit up as if the dawning suns had illuminated it.

"Googlie," she said, "You've been in the rejuv tanks."

She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, and whispered "Hi, Dad"

To his manifest confusion, Googlie blushed.

Jill was amused although she hadn't heard the exchange between them. All of Googlie's former subordinates had gone through the same disbelief. Was this young officer - in some cases younger than they themselves were - really the same head on young shoulders? Was this the man whom they had revered when they joined the SAC?

Defusing the moment Googlie said:

"I think Slats wants to have you report as soon as you've freshened up, so, officially, Wing Commander Santiago, welcome to the Spartan Federation. The contribution of the Stepdaughters of Gaia is valued, the more so as earlier today the Hive launched a blitzkreig attack on Morgan Pharmaceutical, and rapidly overran the base. So our work is cut out for us.

"So off you and your colleagues go, and I'll look forward to spending some time with you in the days ahead."

She saluted them smartly, and then she and her fellow crew members went with Jill into the building.

Googlie looked at her retreating figure. 'Mmmm,' he thought. 'In other times in different circumstances I'd make a pass at her.' Then he pulled himself up. 'Good grief, man. She's your own daughter.'

[Velociryx]

“They were so beautiful in their agony.” He whispered that phrase over and over again in his sleep, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “So beautiful…..”

Dark visions danced before his eyes. Shadow-laden corridors, bodies chained and writhing in pain as his Black Squadrons brought the unfaithful to heel. Torture was such an exquisite, delicious process….

And then some primitive sense grabbed him. Something animal and dangerous inside him snapped to attention, which caused his jaw to harden in his sleep.

He was being watched.

He forced his eyes open, one hand reaching for the monofilament whip he kept at his belt. It could decapitate a man in the hands of someone who knew how to wield it.

Ashaandi knew how to wield it very well indeed.

Burge’s office was empty, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Someone had been watching him.

“And you say you’re less paranoid than Yang.” A deep, rich voice said contemptuously.

Ashaandi sneered. “More toys, Mister Stone? And where are you this time? You know, I have killed much greater men for much lesser things than the stunt you just pulled….you play a dangerous game.”

A faint laughter. “Frankly, Commander, I’m not intimidated.”

It was an old game.

Ron Stone. Keeper of the children.

Ashaandi shook his head as the HHD (Hovering Holodisc….actually more a child’s toy than anything) appeared at the window and Ron’s face appeared floating, projected just inside the office. It was, as usual, faintly pinched, a troubled look on the big man’s brow. No doubt about it, Ron Stone did not enjoy talking to Harrand Ashaandi, even though, over the years, the two men had developed what might even be called a guarded and grudging….friendship? No. Certainly not that….but something. Definitely something.

Maybe that was part of what kept him alive.

Ron Stone was a walking enigma.

He had no powers whatsoever. No morphing or empathing. No training as a soldier, terrorist, or assassin….in fact, he was a school teacher. The Creche Master at the Great Clustering, and former Gaian citizen.

He had no important friends to protect him.

He had no political aspirations.

And yet…..

The assassin had never been able to place it, exactly. There was something solid and good and right about the man. Yes, it was true, he was annoying, sometimes self-righteous, often arrogant in classic Gaian form, and it was clear that he knew all sorts of sordid details about Ashaandi’s past. He was a threat, and he should be eliminated, but he could never quite bring himself to do it.

Sentimental? Perhaps. But, the fact was, he had two things in common with the man. First, like him, Ron was the very best at what he did, and the children needed someone to care for them. And second was the children themselves. So innocent. Pure. Too young to fully appreciate the broad range of sensory indulgence that awaited them in adulthood. Pleasure….Pain….two sides of the same coin…..and either, when induced with sufficient intensity, produced screaming.

He smiled again at that thought, and Ron scowled at him as though reading his thoughts.

“’They were so beautiful in their agony.’” He snorted. “That’s what you said while you were sleeping…..you’re a twisted bastard, you know that?”

“And you are on thin ice…..I have known you for many years, Mister Stone….and you have known me….take care not to push too far.”

“An old debate....you know where I stand, and you always know where you can find me. If you want me dead, send your little black-clad minions if you don’t mind a few of them getting hurt before they get lucky and get me….or have the courage to come here and do it yourself…..if you’re just gonna talk about it….well, you know what I think of talk.”

Ashaandi couldn’t help but smile. Ron was so good for him sometimes. “Why have you sought me out, and who told you where to find me?”

“I badgered all the right people until I got an answer….I think your lackeys just don’t like dealing with me….” He smiled. “But don’t worry……I scanned the room to make sure you were alone before I activated the holo….didn’t want to disrupt your plans or your ‘mission,’ whatever it might be……but the fact is, The Creche is badly in need of more funding….”

The assassin blinked. He could hardly believe it. He was deep in enemy territory and everybody seemed to know that he was an imposter…..worse, he was attempting to carve out an entire empire for himself, redefine the course of world history, change the global landscape…..and in comes Ron Stone, hand out, looking for a few measley energy credits for his Creche. Incredible.

Ashaandi kept his face impassive and nodded. “What do you need?”

“About 80 energy credits should do the trick…..we’ve only had limited access to the base's emergency power-grid since the explosion of the reactor core, and I’ve been hand carrying water here for the children. I’ve called in about all the favors I could to raise some money for repairs, but it’s not enough….and of course, the government is foot-dragging and not willing to part with a damned thing….what do you say?”

“I think you’re skimming off the top.”

Ron Stone looked genuinely hurt. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I can send you the written estimate if you need proof….besides….why would I do that…..steal from the ‘great’ assassin.”

Ashaandi let the barb go, vaguely realizing that had anybody else made such a dig, he would have killed them almost reflexively. Instead, he found himself saying: “I’ll wire the money into the Creche account.”

Ron nodded curtly. “Thank you.” He was about to go, Ashaandi knew, as the disc became fainter and harder to see, but then it surged back to full radiance, and Ron’s face actually softened slightly. “Oh, and by the way, Kira asked about you again.”

“She did?” His voice lilted higher, and suddenly he sounded like a young, excited father. He wasn’t, of course, but the sound was certainly there. And something else, too. Something that lurched and fluttered inside his stomach. A feeling he was unaccustomed to.

Ron nodded. “I told her you would be back to see her and the others again as soon as you were back from ‘vacation.’”

Suddenly, Ashaandi found it difficult to speak. His throat felt thick and constricted. A jumble of thoughts scrambling about in his head….a thousand words he wanted to say, but suddenly, he couldn’t put them into any kind of order that made sense. Finally, he settled on a simple, “Thank you…..and if you think….I mean….if….”

Ron’s features seemed to soften further, and he actually smiled. It was a good smile. Genuine. Honest. “Don’t see why not….and it’s not like I could stop you.”

Silence for a moment.

“Anyway, I thought you might want to know.”

Before Ashaandi could respond, the disc faded away to nothingness, leaving him with his thoughts.

Only a handful of the people closest to him knew of his strange…..interest? Hobby? He wasn’t quite sure what to call it. And many people would consider it strange, that a heartless, cold-blooded assassin would have a soft spot in his heart for children, and Ashaandi himself could not really explain it, but it was there nonetheless.

Many small-minded people would worry that it was some kind of perversion. That he lusted after the children or something similar. Nothing could be further from the truth. He protected them. Quietly looked after them. Secretly funded Ron Stone’s efforts to ensure that the children had the little extras which were so important.

He cared for all of them, but Kira Tolliver was his favorite.

It had never been his intention for any of the children to ever see him. He had been content to watch them from the shadows. But Fate, or Destiny, or perhaps just happenstance brought him to the Crèche one afternoon to help deal with a minor emergency. A fire had broken out in the warrens, and Ron had to evacuate the children. There were some minor injuries, and, rather than have to file the paperwork and deal with the bureaucrats, Ashaandi had appeared like some dark guardian angel and greased the wheels for them. He had been worried about the children seeing him, but could not really put a name on exactly why, and in any caes, that anxiety had passed quickly enough when he immersed himself in the situation.

Kira had only been five then. She had dark, slightly curled hair which ran about a third of the way down her back. Eyes wide and curious, and a lovely shade of deep brown.

She had soot on her cheeks from the fire when he first saw her, and there were tears shining in her eyes. Not from fear, but from the stinging smoke.

That was the most remarkable thing about the little girl. No fear. Not of the fire, and not of the assassin (not that she knew who he was, of course). He remembered that first meeting with her like it was yesterday.

“Are you the fireman?” She asked him, wiping away the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“In a manner of speaking, yes I am, young lady, but not….”

“You don’t look like a fireman to me.” She told him. “You don’t even have a hat.”

Ah, the beautiful directness of children. And what to say in response to that? He couldn’t think of a thing. So, he caressed her cheek, patted her head, and picked her up, then followed Ron Stone as he led the children to the medical facility. A brief wait, and they were all seen privately, cleaned up, and given the green light to go home.

Many of their parents would be working for hours yet (no time off in the Hive for trivial things such as fires), and Ron’s Hab-Cell was too small and cramped to hold them all, so Ashaandi paid for a room in one of the few hotels in the Clustering, and they stayed there for the rest of the day. Ice cream was a rare and expensive luxury on Chiron in general, and especially rare in HiveLands, but he scared some up from someplace, and gave the children a special treat indeed.

Two days later, he received a card, mailed to him at his government office (Officially, he was listed as the Assistant to the Minister of Finance). It had been drawn by the hand of the little five year old girl and depicted he and Ron Stone leading the children away from a burning building. The picture was much more dramatic than the actual event had been, but perhaps not from a child’s perspective.

It was the first time he could remember anyone ever giving anything to him, and it affected him in a strange and deeply profound way. He tried not to think about it much, for fear of what he might discover about himself. For fear that it might unravel him in some way, but it was there, and every time Ron told him that the little girl mentioned him or asked about him, it put a lump in his throat.

She would be turning eight soon.

He smiled at that. Eight years old, with Chiron as the only world she had ever known. Innocent and pure….a clean slate.

Much to his surprise, he found himself wondering what he might get her for her birthday. Maybe he would ask Ron's advice. That would be a good thing for two reasons. First, it would show Ron that he really did value his opinion, and second, it would all but guanantee a delightful gift for the little girl....Ron had excellent taste, and a great sense for what kids liked.

For a brief time at least, his grand plans and subtle schemes were put on hold, and in their place was the thought of making a little girl smile on her birthday.

[This message has been edited by Velociryx (edited October 06, 1999).]

[Velociryx]

He looked at himself in the mirror appraisingly, and frowned. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he decided that he looked uncannily like a giant, barrel chested raccoon. On top of that, he really needed to shave. He flexed the muscles in his arms and chest, noting the pleasant ache in them. That had been a small price indeed, considering what had been gained. Mr. And Mrs. Lee, three doors down, now had a brand new water purifier built and installed, and not a moment too soon, either. The pH levels in their drinking water had gotten dangerously high, and of course, the government had been unwilling to do anything about it. Cheaper to let them drink unsafe water and simply die….and besides, then a Hab-cell would be free. But the Lees were good neighbors, and Ron thought he knew enough to cobble something together for them.

It had been a heavy, ungainly piece of equipment, and he and Mr. Lee had been working on it over at the machine shop after hours for three months, but they finally had it finished, lugged it to their hab-cell, then ripped up the flooring in the tiny kitchen to install it. They’d had to stay up two hours past curfew to finish, but they finally got it done….still, tomorrow stood to be a busy day, he’d finally gotten approval to take the children on a tour of the People’s Science Labs to show them the “Fungal Garden” that had been constructed to study it in a controlled environment. He was getting too old to stay up half the night working and then have enough energy to keep up with the little ones.

He smiled sleepily. Definitely needed to get more sleep, but it had all been worth it, so he drew in a deep breath, sighed heavily and shrugged it off as best he could, then shambled into what he jokingly referred to as his “living room,” which amounted to a three or four foot square area at the foot of his bed with two folding chairs for any company he might have, a barstool between them to serve as a table, and a wall-mounted shelf which held his vid-unit, which he had long ago learned to ignore.

It ran 24 hours a day, as it did every Hive Hab-Cell. In fact, there was no way to turn it off. Sensors inside the unit detected the powerflow, and if it failed for any reason, a service technician showed up in short order to repair or replace the unit. It was a key element in the good Chairman’s endless propaganda machine.

He glanced up long enough to take in the current story. Apparently, the Hive had found yet another reason to go to war….and today, it seemed the enemy of choice was the Morganites. Ron grimaced as the body count began scrolling across the screen. He knew it was inflated, but still….the Hive was reporting the Morganic death toll to be over 30,000…..he fought off a shiver. Even if it was only half that number….or a third, it would still be too many.

His mind wandered back to when he was younger….watching the swarms of Hivean soldiers approach Gaia’s Landing. The administrator frantically calling for volunteers to help the regular militia units stand against them….someone thrusting an Impact Rifle into his hands…..He closed his eyes, and remembered.

The main battle had been short and decisive. The Gaian defenders were hopelessly outgunned, outnumbered, and outclassed. The attack had come out of nowhere, and there had been little time to prepare. Still, there were pockets of resistance which managed to hold out for more than three days.

Ronald H. Stone had fallen somewhere in between those two extremes.

He hadn’t had the slightest idea what to do with the rifle that had been forced into his unwilling hands, but he gripped it tightly and followed the man in front of him, who seemed to know where he was headed. Then there was an explosion somewhere, and he felt a wave of pressure wash over him and lift him completely off the ground.

When he could convince his legs to work again, he stood, and wiped a liberal amount of blood from his face. He wasn’t sure how much was his and how much was not.

The man he had been following was nowhere to be seen.

Someone shouted at him then, and all the blood seemed to drain out of his upper body. It was the Hive. The enemy. They were all around him and getting closer.

That’s when his body had simply started acting on its own. Some primitive survival instinct had taken over, and his finger began massaging the trigger of the Impact Rifle with a smooth, steady rhythm. Formal training or not, his body seemed to know what to do.

He could almost imagine the look on his face as he ran from one burned out building to another, slinking through the debris and cutting down anything wearing burnished blue battle armor that moved. A ‘whirlwind of destruction’, they had dubbed him later.

To this day, he could not explain it. Didn’t want to. Didn’t even want to think about it.

He had no idea how many men he killed that day. In truth, he had tried a good many times to block it out of his mind, and more than once had considered submitting himself for a mindwipe to get rid of the grisly images he still held with him. The children were the only thing that stopped him from going through with it.

Yes….the children. And people like Mr. And Mrs. Lee. They needed him. They were proof positive that he was making a difference. Painfully slowly as his progress might be, he was making a difference, one person at a time.

For a moment, that thought brought a smile to his face, but then the memories of the fall of Gaia’s Landing came flooding back into the forefront of his mind.

Eventually, he was captured, and the original plan had been to lobotomize him and use him as a shock trooper. He certainly had the right build for it.

But, as it stood, the troopers took to looting, and did quite a lot of damage, both to the infrastructure of the base, and to the outlying farmland, and his skills as a botanist were needed to help salvage at least something of the harvest.

After that, they kept him moving around a good bit, settling on Sea Outpost as his home for a while, working on a mining platform. It had been back breaking work and endless hours, but he’d endured it in his own, quiet way.

At some point (and truthfully, he didn’t really remember when), someone discovered that he had a natural gift when it came to dealing with children, and his position as Crèche Master had been cemented. He was moved to the Great Clustering, given a small budget, and turned more or less loose. Closely monitored, to be sure, but still given slightly more freedoms than the average Hivean, which was, as he found out later, done intentionally to drive a wedge of resentment between him and anyone who might be inclined to befriend him. Despite popular opinion to the contrary, Mind Control, Hive-Style could be a very subtle, dangerous thing.

It had been slow going, but he had finally overcome much of that resentment and actually started making some friends, and the kids were great, as always. They really were the thing that kept him going. Well, them and his secret ‘crusade.’

He looked at the clock. Almost midnight (and now dangerously past curfew). Nearly time to begin again.

He shuffled tiredly over to the tiny nightstand beside his narrow bed and almost reverently lifted his pair of Celtic ‘Wisdom Bracelets,’ sliding them on carefully. He had seen pictures of them in the datalink files, and been quite taken with their design. It had been painstaking work, because he was by no means an artist, but after more than two months of trying, he finally managed to make a worthy replica. In the process, he wound up learning a great deal about the Celts of ancient Earth. An amazing people, but despite their wisdom and many advances, one thing they never got around to designing was the clasp. Somehow, the thought made him smile as he tightened the imitation leather straps (actually thin strips of cured Fungal Vine) and secured the bracelets to his wrists.

The symbolism was important to him, and the moment he put them on, he felt some of the weariness draining away from him. He shut his eyes for a long moment, drew in a deep breath, and let that feeling swell and grow.

Finally, he was ready.

Gone was Ronald H. Stone, and in his place was Silvermane, his on-air name.

The transmitting equipment was outdated, and had been cobbled together from various black market sources over the years. It had good range though, and a top-quality security routine, which basically boosted the signal strength and bounced it off of signal towers in a random pattern all over the Hive until it became impossible to trace the point of origin….and a good thing too. If he was ever discovered, it would mean his death, and likely by a most unpleasant means.

He put that thought out of his mind and picked the microphone up.

He began his “show” the same way every evening: “It’s the witching hour once again, and this is Silvermane, broadcasting live from somewhere deep inside the Belly of the Beast…..welcome to Pirate Radio….flying in the face of the Hive’s oppression….”

As he spoke the words that had become so familiar to him over the last few years, he wondered if anybody out there was listening, or if he was taking the risk for nothing.

[This message has been edited by Velociryx (edited October 07, 1999).]
[This message has been edited by Velociryx (edited October 07, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Near Pointa Sur

After the jet took off I reviewed my orders. As I suspected, everything was in order. I have been assigned to this Investigation Commission, and the orders had been issued a whole 2 hours ago. Someone was working fast. I suspect that Helen is better connected that I thought. She does have a military bearing to her. That isn’t saying much, since all Spartans are required to serve a period of at least 4-years in the military. Many of the best and the brightest elect to stay in the military. Though retired, Helen is obviously was one of these.

No one seems to be paying any particular attention to me. That’s generally fine, but I need to know what is going on. I approach Coronal Markay.

“Coronal, can you give me a rundown of what we know?”

He turns from his fellow officers, but doesn’t seem to be annoyed at my question.

“Captain, we really don’t know much more than I have told you. Besides a few survivors, we will be the first team on the scene. We will be expected to find out, and issue a confidential report ASAP. Obviously, the area is under a strict quarantine. You could assist us, though. I know you are an empath. We have questioned Dr. Zahrenov, but a follow up questioning by you would be very useful. Do you understand?”

I certainly do. You want me to deep scan him, I thought to myself.

“Yes, Sir. I understand.”

Coronal Markay nods once, and I recognize it for a dismissal.

The jet, though small, is surprisingly quiet and steady. Must be of Morgan manufacture. I make my way back to the rear of the plane where Andre is surrounded by a pair of gruff-looking infantry types. They aren’t talking to him, and Andre looks miserable and pathetic. His face is ashen grey, and looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Considering events, he probably hasn’t.

His guards eye me suspiciously as I approach, and look like they would eagerly beat me senseless if I so much as breath wrong. Andre is just staring at the back of the seat in front of him.

“Privates, Coronal Markay has asked that I question Andre.”

The guard nearest the isle subvocalizes into what I assume is a microcom, then vacates his seat. He moves over to the seat across the isle and continues to eye me appraisingly.

Moving slowly and deliberately I sit down next to Andre and look over at him.

“Andre, my name is Sarah Dawson. I’ve been asked to ask you some questions.”

He looks over to me. There is a look of profound sadness in his eyes. “I’ve already told everything I know. It was supposed to be a tool for healing. It could have ushered in an age of virtual immortality for everyone, not just the elite few. Instead, it was used for killing. I don’t understand. I am somehow responsible.”

“Andre, pretend you haven’t told anyone anything. I am an empath, and am going to scan you. You should know that. Please, start from the beginning. We have time.”

“Scan as deep as you like, young lady. I’m not lying.”

He launched into his tale of idealistic researchers 30 years ago, grand hopes, and the steady loss in the UoP’s war with the barbaric and backward Spartans. Concurrent with the war effort came Solid Smoke, whose nanocytes can either repair or rip your cells apart. Then there was the destruction of all data on Solid Smoke and the subsequent death of the lead researcher Dr. Konstantin, who committed suicide to prevent its secrets from falling into Spartan hands. He recalled the chaos after the UoP’s defeat by the Spartans. And then of his surprise receipt of the crystal from a UoP resistance leader 25 long years later from someone named Kali.

One thing was clear. He was not lying, or at least he implicitly believes what he was telling me. The second is that his guilt driving him to the verge to suicide.

He is a good man. I will have to help him through this, if I can.

*****

Coronal Markay startes passing out full bio suits. The frenzied and panicked transmissions from the few survivors indicates the danger may have passed, but with this virulent an agent it was not worth taking chances. Andre indicates that the nanocytes have a very limited ‘life’, typically ranging from nanoseconds to days. It was unclear how these were programmed, but after almost 8 hours it was unlikely the nanocytes were still active.

However, ‘unlikely’ isn’t good enough.

The Coronal orderes that the plane take a few side sweeps over the city of Pointa Sur. It is strangely quiet, with no moving vehicles and no one on the streets. As Andre predicted, there are also no bodies we could discern at this height, even when we flew 30 meters above street level. Everyone is glued to the plastiwindows, with the horror of the quiet city permeating the entire cabin.

Finally, the Coronal orderes our Army MDs to prepare their equipment, and that we are going to land. He also orderes our pilots to contact the few survivors on a secure band, and order them to meet us at the ferrocrete tarmac and small terminal that passed for an aerospace center.

We make our approach.

*****

Eyes wide with shock - that is what I will remember about the survivors. I will also remember the piles clothes and greyish-white dust in the vague forms of bodies, which was all that remained after the nanocytes completed their cellular destruction. Less than 2 kilos of elemental components remained of each human, primarily carbon and calcium. Our MDs report that water and gasses were volatilized and quickly dissipated into the atmosphere. With that, the nanocytes ‘died’.

The small piles of dust are quickly blowing away, too, from the steady winds from sea. In a short time it would be as if they never existed.

There are more survivors than expected. Fully 300 frightened individuals rush to tell their story. Inevitably, none had been in the city during the attack. Most had at some other locale and had returned into the silent horror of Pointa Sur. Moreover, many of the mechfarms had farm families and small satellite communities that were still intact, but those people made it clear that they would not go into the city under any circumstances. I don’t blame them one bit. By plotting the kill zone it was clear the nanocytes were airborne and had been blown inland in a roughly 10-kilometer diameter teardrop shape, and away from small outlying communities. It looks like the strong sea breezes of Pointa Sur had saved some of its population. In total, a little more than a thousand survivors were identified. Pointa Sur would continue as a city, but would be a shadow of its former self.

Instead of a city of poets and beauty it would be a city marked with the curse of invisible and horrible death.

*****

“Marlo, Harrison, stay here and interview the survivors on holo. The rest of us, to the Police Station. We have to download and review their surveillance recordings,” Coronal Markay ordered.

Dutifully, we followed him two blocks down the street to the police complex. Like all Spartan cities, it was integrated into the Command Centers and was a vital part of the security establishment. Police constantly monitored all vital portions of the city’s operations, especially now that the Junta has declared martial law.

Like the rest of the city, the Police and Command Centers were quiet. Still in our biosuits, we entered and found a series of uniforms and the ubiquitous grey ash - not that we expected any different.

The coronal’s techs quickly entered the overrides into the Pointa Sur police datalinks. After finishing they looked up at the Coronal.

“Call up the vids for the station approximately 8 hours ago. Do a queue search to ID any anomalous activities,”

The techs immediately got to work.

It didn’t find them long to find the files.

*****

“We have a A-23 down at Markies again. We should shut them down. This is the third time this week that fights have broken out there, even after our warnings. I think we could make a case for disturbing the peace.”

“Sarel, give it a rest. All that is going on is a couple of tourists, or Spartan solders on leave, are letting off some steam. We don’t have to shut them down. All we have to do is threaten to revoke their fungalgin and liquor license and suggest they water the firewater down a little. They’ll get the message.”

“Sarg, you have to take this seriously! Have you ever been to Ft. Superiority? Now THERE is order! When I was there for training last month I saw the police stop three disorderlies and stun them to the ground! On the spot! Ft. Soup is nice and neat, clean as you please. And it was an old Yooper town, with lots of dissident types. And we can’t even control a bar!”

“Officer Sarel, you may not realize this, but martial law will not last for ever. After it is gone we have to live here! We are a small town, and everyone is our neighbor. Believe me, son, when I say don’t get carried away. People have long memories, and you don’t want to get a reputation for brutality. That sort of thing can get you fired. Got it?”

“But how will we ever make a name for ourselves? We have to show we aren’t just a little backwater!”

“Sarel, do you know how many request I have for transfers to here from big cities like Ft. Superiority? Hundreds! Son, this is probably the most coveted police job there is. We have low crime and a beautiful town. Do you want to be like Ft. Superiority? I don’t think so. Just count your blessings.”

“I suppose so. Still, we should keep an eye on Markies.”

“Sarel, that is a good idea. You do that, and if they get farther out of line, report it to me.”

“Yes Sir! I’ll tell them about the…Sarg – I feel kind of dizzy. Sarg? SARGE!”

Sarel ran over to his sergeant, who abruptly leaned against his desk. The left side of his body started to become indistinct and he emitted a low gurgling moan of pain.

Sarel watched as the left side of his sergeant’s face melted and sloughed away. His blue-green uniform ballooned out from his abdomen and popped, emitting a wet and red fan-like spray as he crumpled to the floor.

The spray caught the stunned Sarel, and he watched his sergeant melt and outgas. After several minutes Sarel started to look around nervously and he backed away. Abruptly, he put his hand to his right thigh.

“No! Noooooo!”

Saral collapsed to the floor as his leg dissolved. He cries of agony and dismay became wet, and after a moment he arched his back and a small gyser of red gas and water vapor erupted from his chest.

His now glassy eyes stared directly into the surveillance camera until they, too, dissolved into liquid, then to dust.

*****

“Sarah, please come with me,” Coronal Markay ordered.

I joined him in a commandeered vehicle. There were many of these lying about. Many had crashed as their owners were torn apart and dissolved. Still, there were plenty to go around. He took me out to the beach, one of the most beautiful I have seen. It was expansive and white, made up of pure fine quartz sand. Just inland were the green flora of Earth, who prospered in the agreeable warm climate and abundant moisture. In any other instance this would be paradise.

We got out of the car, and we started walking out onto the beach. The sand was warm and soft, and the stiff sea breeze was refreshing. It was eerie that there was no one here, with all the blankets and picnic baskets, and personal datapads, that littered the beach.

“We recorded a broadcast on all bands from this beach: “Carpe Diem Lal”. Using GPS and satellite telemetry, we narrowed it down to a 10-meter square area. Normally we could get it to millimeters or centimeters, but the signal was too short. We found a small transmitter, of Peacekeeper manufacture,” Coronal Markay explained as we walked across the beach.

As we reached a huddled group of techs he drew in front of me. He asked for the transmitter, and the tech gave it to him. It was preserved in a synthcover, sealing it as evidence from all contamination.

“Can you read this?” he asked.

I took the transmitter. “Coronal, sometimes an empath can get a reading from inanimate objects. It is like an imprint, and it is very subjective and only conveys strong emotion of the former user, if it conveys anything. I can try, but there is no guarantee of success, and I would have to touch the object.”

Clearly, Markay was not too interested in me contaminating his primary piece of evidence, besides a nondescript pile of human carbon and clothes.

But, he made a quick decision.

“Captain, do your best. But try the cloths first. If you need to, examine the transmitter. You may be the only hope we have of solving this.”

With that he walked away and ordered his investigators to continue holodocumenting the entire beach, radiating out from this area. He also ordered them to identify all the datapads found, since some may have been used to record family outings. They may have inadvertently recorded the event.

Even I recognized it for a long shot.

*****

Merlin? Miles? I need your help.

Well, Sarah. You know, you don’t have to push me down like that. Just ask me to leave. My feelings aren’t hurt, of course, but it is a little disconcerting to be unceremoniously cast down like that.

Sarah, this is Miles. I’ve been kind of spying on you. Hope you don’t mind.

Miles, not at all. I don’t mind. And Merlin, I’m sorry. I won’t do that again. I’m kind of new at this ‘Personality’ thing.

Sarah, what are you talking about? ‘Personality’?

Miles, here is a squirt that will fill you in. I’ve erected an empathic scrambler to keep it secure.

Forgive me for being stupid, Sarah, but what the hell is an ‘empathic scrambler’?

It’s a little trick Merlin taught me. It prevents most eavesdropping telepaths from figuring out what we are telling each other. Here, this is how you do it.

Extraordinary! Merlin, I’m impressed. That’ll take some practice, though.

Why, thank you Miles! Most kind! Now Sarah, have you ever read an object before?

No. I’ve only heard about it. Have you?

Yes, but my readings were more immediate. You many not get much from these things, since they have been out for so long. You have to have a strategy before you start. What visualization will you use?

Is this another lesson, Merlin? A test? Well, I don’t want to superimpose my emotions onto the device, so it will have to be something neutral. I will visualize the beach and the crashing surf. Will that do?

Your reasoning is fine. That’s what I was checking. However, beyond that but your guess is as good as mine. Miles?

Don’t look at me!! I’m just an interested observer here.

OK. Here we go. I’ll try the light jacket first.

*****

####################dfd#########fackth############ ###########

##################glacktht dria##ckny iconti##yerate cu##rrytityh#######################

####################do you wa#nt any pamthe##iu fritz with that#############

########What do# youn meann#k myth cr#rrate will co$st extra!!!#############

########that little girl loo#ks like my cousin## she is a Spartan and de#serves to die########

###########what a beautiful beach!################

##############HATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATEHATE#### ###

#########Death To Santiago! Long Live Zakharov!######################

################Green! Activated!#############

##############SO SOON? THE PAIN!############

*****

I walk up to the group of four huddled investigators. The rest are fanned out over the beach, and are making fast progress with their holorecording.

Seeing my approach, Coronal Markay stops his conversation with Dr. Lingstron and turns toward me. I hand him the clothing and transmitter.

“Captain? Aren’t you going to try? You’ve only been gone 10 minutes.”

“Coronal, I’ve already read the items. The earlier empathic impressions are pretty garbled, but the later ones were surprisingly clear. Whoever set off this device had a deep and profound hatred of Sparta, and that was almost burned into his possessions, even after almost 10 hours. I can’t tell you where he came from or who he was, and it was a ‘he’ by the way, but I can tell you some of his thoughts in the last 10 minutes or so of his life. Most significant was the following: ‘Death to Santiago! Long Live Zakharov!'.

Coronal Markays eyes narrowed dangerously.

“The University Liberation Front! Those bastards! We’ll hunt them down, every one!”

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 08, 1999).]

[Hydro]

Double Post Deleted By URF! Long Live Zakharov!!! Death To Santiago!


[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited October 08, 1999).]

[Slats]

AIRBORNE ABOARD PINWHEEL 4
VICINITY OF MORGAN PHARMACEUTICALS

Dusty swore for the umpteenth time that day and smashed his fist into a side panel. The entire situation was unbelievable!!! Morgan Pharmaceuticals snatched from under their noses! His flight was supposed to be providing protection for the Morgan bases!

The Morgan Processing flight had scrambled just after Pharma had fallen, far too late to provide support or supress the invaders. Now that the Hive troops were in amongst the buildings any air strikes would be impossible without heavy civilian casualties.

The Hive aircraft had come from nowhere. Or so said the Morgan radar operators. More likely they had used their knowledge of the local area to fly nap of the earth all the way in, right below the radar net. And the strike had been in between satellite footprint tracking sweeps. Dusty had to admit the whole show had been a smooth operation.

Yet the Hive flyers hadn't got away unscathed. Two of the rearmost Hive penetrators had been a little slow in leaving their area of operations. The Spartans had caught them from abeam, hitting both penetrators with some thirty chaos cannon rounds each. All the shots had been targeted to the cockpit. Dusty's flight were in mood to leave prisoners and none of the Hive crews had gotten clear of their shattered craft. A trio of Hive interceptors had swung to engauge them but fled when they saw that the attackers were NOT fleeing and were actually rushing forth to battle.

Prowling like wounded wolves all four Spartan aircraft trawled the area around Pharma hoping to catch stragglers, eager for their missing blood. No such luck. The comm panel beside Pete Morris, Pinwheel 4's operations officer, pinged the arrival of a priority message. Pete gave a groan and then forwarded the message to Dusty up front.

Dusty just shook his head. He hated mindworms.........

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

According to Dusty's Book Of Tactics and General Guide To The World mindworms must be dealt with using the utmost care. The first rule when attacking worms from the air is to make only one pass. Make this pass low and fast. Therefore the wrigglys cannot gain a psi lock on your mind because you are quite literally, in and out.

The second rule was to use every weapon at your disposal. The theory being that even mindworms are affected by high explosive, energy and chemical fire in copious amounts.

So it was that above Morgan Industries the two Interceptors and then the two Penetrators wheeled into attack. The interceptors would make strafing runs with their chaos cannon and then following them, the two penetrators with the heavy ordanance.

"Rolling in to engauge", crackled Dexter Patterson's voice from ahead.

Indigos 6 and 7 screamed around the side of several of Morgan Industries skyscrapers, high over the central business district. They levelled off and then acclerated towards the infested borehole. Ignoring the worms in the forest the aircraft opened fire with hideous accuracy on the swarms occupying the upper terraces of the borehole. They must have somehow sensed the danger as they began to propel themselves towards cover. Energy mixed with flesh and tore apart. Flying metal debris sliced horrific wounds over the glistening sides of the worms. Most of the borehole workings lay tattered under the intense bombardment. The Indigos stood on their tails and roared for the clouds.

Exactly seventeen seconds later Pinwheels 1 and 4 lumbered into sight and coasted down the road towards the borehole. Each aircraft released a flurry of missiles at the remaining worms now just emerging from the borehole perimeter. They held their fire until they were directly above the worms in the forest then each dropped a half dozen containers from wing racks. A moment of silence then the whole plantation tore apart as hundreds of fist sized explosives detonated in the forest canopy. Wood splinters and fragments caused an impossible number of decapitations and lacerations.

For good measure Dusty gave the wormies The Finger as Pinwheel 4 banked away.

[Hydro]

Morgan Industries

The exodus from Morgan Industries had begun.

The crown jewel of the Morgan Empire, festooned with gaudy and glittering lights and towers that arrogantly stretch to grasp the sky, was in panic.

Competing waves coursed through the streets. One wave was human, as all tried to flee by land or air. No one considered escaping by sea, not with the terror that waited there. The other wave was the empathic assault from the borehole mindworms, and it raked the city's inhabitants with alternating pulses of despair, hatred, and death.

Then needlejets bore down on the city from the east, and hope was lost. All said that Yang was going to take Morgan Industries like he took Pharma, but this time with Planet's evil minions at his side. Some gave up and started weeping, others charged forward, heedless of who was crushed under their feet or tires.

But then, a miracle! The needlejets turned to attack the mindworms! They had the markings of the Spartans! The Spartans will save us!

Chaos flame burst through the air and smote the mindworms! Part of the empathic attack was tattered, and then it weakened and failed. Sympathetic explosions rippled through the borehole as the attack struck home.

Cheers broke out throughout Morgan Industries. We're Saved!

The needlejets, now expended, banked away.

Then the empathic assault began again, and although it was somewhat lessened it was no less horrible.

There was no escape. The people of Morgan Industries awaited death.

*****

Ehm! Ehm! Come! Shannon Lindly thought frantically from the edge of the hybrid forest. It would take hours, at least, to hike back to Ehm's Cathedral, and there was no time. Already the worms were invading the city, and curls of greasy black smoke had started to envelope Delta Sector. The psychic waves spreading from the mindworm borehole caused so much pain they were almost visible.

Her cab had long since deserted the 'crazy lady' and was fleeting. She was alone.

Earthlindly. I am here.

Ehm! We have to go to the borehole! The humans are under attack by feral mindworms! We may be able to help!

How we help?

We…we may have to attack the mindworms! We have to save all these people!

Why, Earthlindly? Natural life cycle.

Ehm, this is NOT natural! I have never heard of this many mindworms congregating! Feel the empathic waves, Ehm. What do you feel?

Hatred. Not feeding. Earthlindly, you are right.

Ehm, you can't just go in. Crawl into my jacket!

Shannon stooped down and Ehm morphed up her arm and crawled into the spaces and pockets inside her jacket and shirt. Shannon was acutely uncomfortable with all of the small, dry tickles under he blouse, but she pushed that aside as she turned to run back toward the city.

Earthlindly? Who is Alphonse?

He was a mindworm I trained a long time ago. Why? Do you know him? But, how could you?

I hear this Alphonse. Don't you hear him, Earthlindly?

Shannon stopped running and paused. She was slightly winded, and tried to take deep, slow breaths. And she opened her mind. With her deliberate awareness the attacks struck deeper, and Shannon flinched in pain

There it was, amid the chorus. This voice was more than raw emotion: it spoke, and directed. It was clear, with signature clarity. It WAS Alphonse!

Shannon steeled herself. She could feel both the terror inflicted by the mindworms, and those of the hapless humans of Morgan Industries. She tried to find Alphonse's voice again and opened her mind.

Everything poured in. Her thoughts lost clarity and started to dissolve into white as she was overwhelmed. Reflexively, her hands covered her ears and she let out low sob. Her sob degenerated into a whimper and she sank to her knees.

Grief and hopelessness overwhelmed Shannon. Tears ran down her cheeks and her breathing came in gasps. Slowly she sank to the ground and started to curl into the fetal position

The individual worms that made up Ehm crawled out from Shannon's prostrate form. They morphed together and formed a 'head' and 'looked' at Shannon, who was now almost unconscious. Her eyes fluttered open and closed. Ehm put out a tentative tendril of thought and touched Shannon's mind.

He tasted pain, true agony. Visceral despair. It was filling her open mind, and she had no hope of shutting it out.

Ehm's form wavered back and forth in indecision. He knew how humans reacted to pain like this. The Lab Men had shown him.

Ehm reached out another tendril and tried to stop the pain. But it swirled like a voracious whirlpool, clutching at him and threatening to draw him in. Ehm withdrew his tendril in calm frustration.

What to do?

He 'looked' at Shannon again. Then he looked north toward where the borehole was.

Stop the source.

Alphonse. You are hurting Earthlindly. Stop hurting Earthlindly. Earthlindly needs help.

….

….

Earthlindly? Earthlindly is here?

Gradually the psychic attack lessened. The rigid terror on Shannon's face eased as the attack waned, then almost completely abated.

Ehm stood guard on top of Shannon. He 'looked' down at her and she was breathing much easier now. He turned his tendrils toward Shannon to ease her remaining pain and to ensure her well being.

After several minutes Ehm notices something was different. There was a tension in the air. He withdrew a tendril from Shannon to 'look' around.

Coming over the hybrid forest field from the north were three enormous mindworms. Or at least Ehm assumed they were mindworms, never having seen one before. They were at least 10 meters across and were pink, just like him. They moved with marvelous speed through the forest. In moments they surrounded him. He turned to 'look' at the biggest one.

Are you Alphonse?

Yes, little one. You must be Ehm. Thank you for guarding Earthlindly.

No more pain for Earthlindly?

No more pain.

Ehm turned his 'head' toward the other two hulking mindworms.

Who are these?

Ehm, these are ferals and they heed Planet's call.

They are not friends of Earthlindly?

No. But they will be.

[Slats]

SPARTA COMMAND
S.S.D LAUNCH PREPARATION HANGAR

The rock-covered doors which shielded the hangar were usually kept shut as much as possible, opening only when something passed in or out. Not today. The giant hatchways lay open, the apron outside bustling with activity.

Three large whale-like transports sat silently, loading ramps lowered. A cargo crawler would roll up and would immediatly be unloaded by antlike workers and forklift trucks. The equipments and material would be hauled into the waiting aircraft were loadmasters took charge and packed the gear away in a method to their own satisfaction. Beside the transports, a jetliner also took on the some 100-odd personnel that would be needed to commence operations at Communal Nexus. This did not include the extra fifty crack Spartan Internal Security Force troops that would provide protection for the staff at the launch site.

Yet Micheal Forster saw none of this even though he planned most of it. Instead he was deep inside the facility being sealed into a pressure suit by finicky techs who insisted on checking every catch and system six or seven times. The suit was one of the pinnacles of the S.S.D's engineering. Not only installed with some of the world's finest hardened military electronics but interwoven with silksteel fibres. Made to withstand massive impacts the suit should have moved like a suit of armor but in fact felt feather light due to the engrained high powered servo motors. Coloured a dull white with the black Spartan hexagon and arrow emblem stamped on the chest and helmet it was an impressive sight indeed.

After a final check Micheal was allowed to stand and looked around the sterile room trying to locate his pilot. Chris Kelso rose from his own seat and gave a thumbs up and then keyed his chin mike.

"Ready to go boss??" he chirped cheerfully.

"Ready as I'll ever be...." said Forster with a grin and with that turned to the crew hatchway.

The two stomped to the door and once outside in a sealed tunnel were joined by a quartet of Spartan armed troopers. The group moved down to the hangar and once there moved quickly over to the spaceplane Atlas. The Atlas's ground crew stood and watched with unhidden admiration. Once inside the two men turned and waved farewell as the heavy airlock cycled shut. Turning and looking at each other they each gave a nervous grin and made their way to the command deck.

The craft was already preflighted but like any good pilot, Kelso gave the cockpit his own check before announcing to hangar control that they were good to go. Forster, now strapped into the commanders seat, began checking onboard automation as well as their flightpath through the datalink patched through from the operations center at S.S.D HQ.

Outside a push tug attached itself to the nose undercarriage and begin pulling the plane up the ramp. All activity stopped on the apron as everyone turned to look at the white behemoth emerging from the darkness. The tug hauled the Atlas onto the runway and positioned it, before unhooking and racing back onto the apron were it stopped and it's crew scrambled onto the tug's roof to watch.

The Atlas sat for nearly a minute before it's turbines wound up and the craft began to roll. And roll. And roll. The Atlas's groundspeed was rising but the the plane still didn't leave the runway. On the command deck Forster watched the end marker lights rushing towards them. With less than twenty metres to spare Kelso coaxed the Atlas off the ground. Airborne.


[This message has been edited by Slats (edited October 10, 1999).]