The Spartan Chronicles - Volume 4

[senatus]

Personal Journal of Sister Jessica McCollough


It was the end of the year 2227, the year the Progenitors came among
us.  Humanity had come from crisis to crisis, from the last days of
Earth to the failure of the Unity; from the struggles for survival after
Landing to the bitter wars between the factions; and now we faced the terrifying
threat of an implacable alien foe.  It was the end of the year 2227,
a year of new beginnings for some, but the beginning of the end for so
many others.  The Spartan Federation was the mightiest human nation
on Planet, poised to finally assume the position of Supreme Leadership
for all that was left of our race.  Still ahead was the inevitable
confrontation, and it was as if all humanity was holding its collective
breath to await the conclusion.


It was the beginning of the year 2228, the year the Spartan Chronicles
would end.

[Argonaut]

Fort Superiority

William recovered, his head throbbing and filled with the steady humming of many people, talking hurriedly. He opened his eyes and the bright light that flooded down only worsened his headache. He turned his head to the side, to avoid the worst of the glare.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.” Roze smiled half-heartedly from the bed next to Will’s. She had a synthskin bandage on her forehead, where William vaguely remembered seeing her get hit on the head. Will looked around for signs of Zakharov.

“He’s not here Will. They took him.” William felt a lump come to his throat. He had failed. He was supposed to protect the Provost, but he had failed.

“The whole plan was a diversion to draw out Zakharov.” Will could hear the frustration in Roze’s voice, knowing she hated it when she didn’t have full control of the situation. “Sand used the last of the University resistance to get his hands on the Academician. It was him they wanted all along.”

More and more of the events that had happened came back to him. Will remembered the strange cyborg who had presided over the whole thing. He remembered the sight of the University citizens, slumped against the wall with shredder bolt hole in each of their foreheads. He recalled the strange presence in his mind and the feeling of intense turmoil. He also remembered the last thing that Sand had said.

“What was he talking about before the attack? Something about Prokhor’s granddaughter?” Will was trying to put all the pieces together in his head.

“Anastasia Zakharov,” the Datajack explained. “The word’s just been released. She was killed defending Commissioner Lal during an assassination attempt. She was the only family Zakharov had left.”

“But if the news was just released, how did this Sand guy find out about it?”

“The assassination was arranged by a man called Haraad Ashaandi, Sand’s boss. The man were going to have to take down in order to get Zakharov back.”

************************************************** *****************

Sea Hive

Chairman Yang turned towards his commlink and saw the incoming message light blinking. Yang almost did a double take when he saw that the message came from Sand. He pushed the button to receive the transmission.

“Good evening Chairman. I hope you are well.” Sand’s voice was far more controlled then usual. There was an eerily relaxed nature to him, something that was not present before. Apparently the algorithm had a greater affect on him then anticipated.

“Let us skip the pleasantries Sand.” The Chairman paused. “My apologies, Sand Zeta-Two I believe it is now. What is it that you want?”

“I want you to remove the sentence you’ve placed on my head.” Again, Yang was surprised. Sand cared very little about the approval of authority. He had no respect for power, except his own. Clearly, strategies for dealing with Sand needed to be examined. The algorithm changed things.


“And why do you think I would give you such a thing?” Yang chose to play along, attempting to figure out what motivated this change.

“Because I have something you want. A former guest of yours in fact.” Here Sand smiled with almost an air of malice. Not only did the algorithm make Sand more restrained, it apparently made him more dangerous.

“Academician Prokhor Zakharov is currently a guest of mine. We will be returning to the Circle facility shortly. If you will but remove the sentence on my head, then I shall see Zakharov is handed over to you at Sea Hive.”

“Why should I do that when I could simply order Ashaandi to return him to me. I would still gain Zakharov and you would still be a dead man if you set foot in Hive territory again.” Yang would not allow himself to be blackmailed by an underling. Most importantly, it would give the black mailer to much power. And in the case of Sand, any power was too much power.

“Quite simple, my good Chairman. Because if I have it my way, Ashaandi wont be alive much longer.” Now Sand had Yang’s attention.

The possibilities were here were a thousand fold. Ashaandi was dangerous, and could not be trusted. If he could be removed, Yang would benefit. But, Sand would likely assume control of the Circle, and Sand was not much better. However Sand was far less intelligent and could be disposed of. As well, if Sand failed and Ashaandi traced the deceit back to Yang, then Yang would find himself in more trouble then he was ready to deal with. Of course, if Ashaandi were to be warned, it would force him to eliminate Sand altogether, with no consequences placed on Yang.

“Let us talk.” Chairman Yang put on his best poker face, and discussed with the oblivious cyborg the plans for Sand’s own demise.

[Argonaut]

Sparta Command

Santiago seethed, finally having a moment to release her anger at recent events. Everywhere she looked, she saw the mess that Ashaandi had left in his wake. The assassination attempt against Pravin Lal, the abduction of Zakharov, and she couldn’t help but suspect the loss of Miriam and Domai. Morganite technology was far too reliable to simply fail like that. There hadn’t been an accidental plane crash in Chiron’s history.

Santiago felt deeply the loss of Miriam, the closest thing she had to a friend and true ally on Planet. Miriam’s Believers had been an unbelievably powerful force since their liberation, and Santiago was sure that so much of that relied on Miriam’s brilliance as a leader of her people.

Domai as well, would be missed. Although Santiago had no personal connection to the man, his charisma had cost Yang deeply through the Drone rebellion. Santiago’s advisors were currently calculating possibilities, should the rebellion now fail and the Drone bases return to the Hive.

The Peacekeepers, now, would be in an even greater state of disarray then they normally were. Santiago knew she should have forced Lal to call of the election. Too much was at stake to waste time making speeches and empty promises. Lal would be devastated by the loss and betrayal of Pria. Lal’s ability to lead was now in question, and that could mean a return of Scott Allardyce to power. Santiago had yet to decide whether that was good or bad.

So much had gone awry, all because of that damned Ashaandi. He had to be eliminated and it had to happen now.

Her commlink beeped and Santiago abandoned her reverie, turning her attention from her aquarium to her vidscreen. She had anticipated the first in a series of calls from advisors, as they all tried to put the Axis’ political scene back together. She was surprised to find the message was from Roze.

“Datajack. I assume you are up to date on what has happened.” Santiago noticed that Roze was wearing a synthskin patch on her forehead. Apparently she had been injured at the incident at Fort Superiority. Santiago couldn’t claim to be sorry. She had always disliked the woman, and now she had allowed Zakharov to be kidnapped. According to reports there was nothing Roze could have done, but she should have been more prepared for whatever Sand was planning. Zakharov was a huge assest to the Axis, as much as Santiago hated to admit it, and his loss would be a huge set-back to the war effort.

“I am Colonel. I’ve been wrapping up things here. The last of the University Resistance has turned themselves over to the authorities. Of course, Federov and the other leaders are dead. Sand did us one favour. At least we don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

“Unfortunately, Datajack, they were not our greatest threat. Ashaandi is, and I believe I told you to take care of him.” Santiago made no attempt to hide her frustration.

“I know Colonel. But unfortunately they haven’t exactly got a big sign that says ‘The Circle’s Hideout’ anywhere. But I think I’ve found him now.” Santiago raised an eyebrow. She had not expected that. She knew the Circle would be hard to find, her aggression towards being nothing more than venting. To have results so soon was a surprise.

“Where are they?”

“Here,” Santiago’s screen split as Roze displayed a topographical map of Chiron on one half. It slowly zoomed into a region to the North of the Alien encampment and the new UN Midway base. Structure wise, however, nothing could be seen.

“How can you be sure?” the Colonel asked.

“I’m sure you’ve been told that Sand has somehow joined with the Zeta-Two algorithm, the Consciousness equivalent to an escaped Serial Killer. I contact Aki Zeta-Five after the attack. The Zeta-Two algorithm still shields itself from the core Consciousness, but something is wrong with the algorithm, and it’s essentially slipping up. The Prime Function was able to track them to that location before the contact was lost.” Santiago could tell by Roze’s expression that she wanted something. At this point, the Colonel was ready to listen to requests.

“Impressive. What is it you want Roze?” Roze smiled at Santiago’s perceptiveness.

“I need the two needlejets you promised: one bomber, one interceptor. I need the Hydra and another ship, preferably a submersible, equipped with anti-aircraft artillery.”

“You anticipate a response from the Progenitor bases?” Santiago queried.

“I won’t rule out the possibility, Colonel.” Roze was serious, and justifiably concerned. If the Progenitors intervened, there could be serious trouble.

“All right Roze. You’ll get your equipment. Assemble your team. I’ll inform you of the ships ETA at Fort Superiority within the hour. Santiago out.”

[Hydro]

Garden of Paradise

"I can't believe you're here," Kirsten said as she was sitting down. The rest of the conspirators had left, including Fluffy, to give her and Marcus a little private time. Marcus took a chair next to hers.

"Now," she continued as she took his hand in hers and leaned toward him, "I want you to tell me all about yourself. I'd like to know everything, from your first memories to how you got to be a Spartan officer." There was a hint of pride in Kirsten's voice as she said this, since knew only the best became officers in the Spartan military.

"Ah, sure," Marcus started, being a little daunted by the task. He told her how he had grown up as an only child in the little farming community outside of Assassin's Redoubt. He had excelled in running events, but had been only a slightly above average student in the crèche. Like all Spartans, he entered military service at 17 as an enlisted man, and had proudly served for the last 15 years. Two years ago he had been bumped up to a junior officer due to his service in the Plex Anthill campaign, where his and Mary's actions had been pivotal in that crucial turning point in the war against the Hive.

"But four years ago, before the Hive war, I was almost killed in a mindworm attack in the Great Fungal Wall during a scouting mission, and after that I started having strange dreams and memories about the fungus. I remembered being very young, a mindworm named Fluffy, and a tall man and woman that were not Sarah and Mickael, and something about Gaians. But that was all. When I asked my parents they admitted to me that I was adopted, and that they had taken me in from some starving Gaians they had helped during one of the Morgan-Gaian wars. They didn't know your name, or even if you were still alive. You simply came from the fungus and then disappeared back into the fungus. I couldn't contact you, and knew nothing about you."

Marcus paused and looked at the woman he had met only moments ago. "Why didn't you contact me? You knew where I was. Sarah and Mickael were afraid of losing me, but they're good people and they wouldn't have stopped you."

Kirsten was quiet for a while.

"I guess I closed off that part of my life. It hurt so much that I didn't let it come to the surface. I just couldn't." Kirsten's voice trembled, "I lost almost all my friends at our colony, and then more starved to death in the fungus, and then I lost you and Jeb so quickly. I thought I was so strong, but I wasn't. So, I guess I just buried it all.

Except you. I thought about you every day, but felt like you were gone forever, like a hole in my soul. I felt so helpless, but that I had to go on. Does that make any sense?" Kirsten asked.

"Yah," Markus replied slowly. "It does. I shut down for a little while during the first part of the Plex attack. But I had Mary to hold onto, and I don't know what I would've done without her.

Did I tell you about Mary?"

"No," Kirsten said, "who is she?"

"She's my wife. She's a lot smarter than I am, and isn't afraid to grab someone by the balls if she has to, and now she's the exec sensor officer at Redoubt. I've known her since I was a kid and she's my best friend. I don't know what she sees in me but I'm happy every day that she keeps me around. She was almost killed in the final Hive assault on Plex, and after she got better she proposed to me and we got married. It was the happiest day of my life."

Markus smiled broadly, grinning like he had a secret. "We just had a little baby girl a week and a half ago. They're both doing great and are back home at Redoubt now. We named her Rose, since I couldn't get that image of the Gaian rose out of my mind even after the dreams stopped.

I guess that makes you a grandma."

Tears welled up in Kirsten's eyes again. "I'm a grandma?" she asked in a slightly disbelieving voice. "Can I see them?"

"Sure. I told Mary where I was going, so she knows we might call. I wasn't absolutely sure about the timing, though."

Marcus walked Kirsten over to the little comm center in her apartment and tapped in his authorization code. The small holo winked to life.

"Assassin's Redoubt Sensor Ops, Lieutenant Hubble speaking," a businesslike woman stated.

"This is 2nd Lieutenant Aurelius of Rolling Thunder. Can you put Mary on?"

"Sure Markie. Mary warned me you might be calling, and gave me the authorization from HQ. I'll patch you though."

The image shifted.

"Lieutenant Bellefontaine speaking," the woman stated. Then she recognized the caller, "Hi honey. How'd it go?"

"Great! I have someone that wants to talk to you," Marcus said as he stepped aside.

Kirsten stepped in front of the viewer.

"You must be Kirsten. I'm Mary, Markie's wife, and I'm really glad to see you," she said. "When Sister Jessica called out of the blue we were so surprised, and Markie could hardly contain himself. Sister Jessica must pull a lot of weight because orders came through immediately from Sparta Command that he had indefinite temporary leave, and clearance to use secure comm. I've never heard of that happening before. "

"I'm happy to see you, too," Kirsten said, being a little overwhelmed. Kirsten made a mental note to thank Jess for everything, and tell her that she is a miracle worker. Considering her line of work that might not be too much of a surprise. "You can't imagine how happy I am. I got my son back, and now I have a daughter, too, and a granddaughter! All in a couple of minutes! I…I don't know what to say."

Mary smiled. "Then don't say anything. I'm hoping to meet you soon, if you can break free. I'm kind of tied her at Plex now. In the meantime I have someone you're going to like to meet."

The image panned down to show a sleeping baby in an ingenious sling around Mary's midsection.

"I'd like to introduce you to Rose, your very vocal granddaughter. She's sleeping right now, since I just finished feeding her. "

Mary paused and looked down.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Mary commented, almost to herself.

Kirsten had a distinct feeling of déjà vu. "Yes. Yes she is," Kirsten said as she leaned toward the small viewer. Then she remembered that she had said that very thing to Fluffy over 30 years ago after Markie had been born. It was one of those vivid memories that never fade or diminish with time.

Without thinking about it Kirsten reached out to touch the holo, and her fingers passed through the miniature baby.

"So beautiful," Kirsten said with a contented sigh. Kirsten felt Marcus' arm around her shoulders and they watched the sleeping baby together. It was a moment Kirsten never wanted to end.

[Googlie]

I looked down at her face, so beautiful, now, at rest, her rich auburn hair spilling to her shoulders over the synthsilk sheet drawn up to her neck. The suggestion of a wan smile on her lips, the hint of a dimple in her check.

Leaning forward, I brushed her cheek with my lips, my tears dripping silently on to her face.

“Bye, Stazi, my love. I’ll never forget you.”

I stood up, and watched, my heart heavy with grief, as the belt resumed its motion, taking her body through the aperture into the prep room for the recycling tanks.

The tiny door irised shut, and I stood for a few moments, remembering the good times we had had together. I felt an arm slip round my shoulder.

“Come on, Googlie. Come and get drunk. She’d have wanted that.”

I turned round to look fondly at my good friend, Paula Forbes.

“Just one, Paula. In her memory. Then Pravin and I have to have a heart to heart.”

She nodded, understandingly, and we silently walked out of the Recycling Center.

[senatus]

Free Drone Central


Miriam Godwinson sat beside the mass of tubes and machinery that was
all that was keeping Foreman James Domai alive, and prayed with a fervent
intensity.


A discreet clearing of the throat interrupted her meditations, and she
opened her eyes and turned to see Dr. Wilhems, waiting for her with a medical
datapad in his hands.


"I'm sorry to interrupt your meditations, Sister Miriam, but we've completed
our assessment and prognosis of Foreman Domai."


Miriam nodded.  That Domai was still alive could only have been
described as a miracle; somehow, the transport had managed to dump its
fuel before crashing.  Nevertheless, aside from Domai, none of the
crew or passengers had survived, including her own loyal bodyguard Jaon
Ian.  Certainly Miriam would not have lived, had Domai not pushed
her into the escape pod; that the Drone leader had also survived - barely
- was a testimony both to his toughness, and the grace of God.


"Foreman Domai has suffered major burns to his entire body.  There
is severe trauma to his internal organs, and his spine is shattered, rendering
him paralyzed.  He's also suffered concussion, but our scans indicate
that aside from subdermal swelling, his brain is essentially undamaged. 
Despite the sound of it, all this is good news.  With modern
MorganMedical^TM technology, our team feels confident that we
can regenerate his physical body as good as new.  Now there is always
the possibility of complications during surgery and regen, of course, but
we feel the risk is minor.  MorganMedical will require a waiver absolving
the corporation of the finite chance of mishap, of course, but this is
a standard condition."


"He will survive, because God wills it," Miriam said simply.  "He
would not have spared James so far to let him die now."


The Morganite doctor said nothing, merely maintaining the polite facade
of a non-believer.  Miriam felt a moment of irritation at the other's
demeanour, but made herself put it aside.  Whatever else he might
or might not be, Wilhems was one of the best surgeons on the planet, and
Miriam suspected that Nwabudike Morgan himself had dispatched his team
to Free Drone Central in both a sympathetic and pragmatic move.  Having
a faction leader die due to a malfunction in a Morgan transport jet would've
been a public relations disaster for the mogul, but if Domai lived, Morgan's
liability in the market's perception would be much more limited. 
Miriam, however, would not forget the lives of the others aboard Free Drone
One; each had been a creation of God, and she would have words for Nwabudike...
later.  For now, her ministry had to be concerned with the living.


"Please commence your operation, Doctor Wilhems.  The Lord's Believers
will assume the responsibility for this decision and the costs; I will
sign the waiver myself."


"Very well, Sister Miriam,"  Wilhems acknowledged, "but don't concern
yourself as to energy costs; the CEO himself has authorized that our services
will be provided gratis, under these circumstances and to retain
customer goodwill."


"We'll start the first iteration of operations in two hours.  We
will be continuing over the next few days as the QuickHeal^TM
takes hold."

---

Although the Morganite doctor seemed a businessman as much as a surgeon,
his qualifications in the latter role were well-deserved, Miriam discovered. 
Medical technology had advanced considerably, and Morgan's surgical nanites
were able to repair much that had been incurable on old Earth.  Within
a week, Domai's bandages and life-support equipment remained at his side,
but he had moved from critical to stable condition.  Regeneration
of his body would now be possible, although it would take several months,
the doctors informed Miriam.


She was still sitting at his side when Domai first came out of his coma.


"James?  It's me, Miriam.  You're safe, thanks be to God."


"Miriam??  Where are we?"


"We're at Free Drone Central, in the hospital."


"We crashed?  I remember...."


"Yes... it's good that you can remember, it means that your mind is
healing with your body," Miriam said.


"I... I can't see." Domai stated, trying to keep the panic out of his
voice.  Domai had been a physically strong man all his adult life,
and being unable to move or see frightened him more than he would've believed
possible.  His hand clamped around Miriam's, squeezing much harder
than he realized, and Miriam winced silently.


"It's all right," Miriam said soothingly, "you suffered a lot of trauma,
but the doctors said you'll regain your vision and full health after regen."


Domai's grip relaxed some, and he had to laugh sardonically.


"Regen?  What a concept.  I'm just a Drone."


"No, James.  You'll never be just a Drone... to me." 
Miriam whispered sincerely, and leaned forward to gently kiss her patient's
forehead.

---

Hours later, after Domai was peacefully sleeping, Miriam rubbed her
own eyes in fatigue.  She'd kept vigil on James for days, sleeping
only in brief moments, for she'd never left his side after the Morganite
medical team had finished their first series of operations.  Now that
she knew he was safe, it was time to see to other matters.


Corazon Santiago had already been informed of the situation, and although
Miriam hadn't had a chance to speak to her personally yet, the Spartan
leader's message had been surprisingly soliticious if one read between
the lines of the precise, crisp military text.  Her own Believers
were managing, thanks to both Sven and the Council.  Both Sven and
Jessica had wanted to join her at the Free Drone Base, but Miriam had denied
their requests, preferring them to remain in their current duties, although
she had asked both of them to pray for Domai.  There would also need
to be funeral services to be arranged for the others aboard Free Drone
One.  And, at some point, she'd have to talk to Morgan himself.


Her first priority, however, had the be James' Drones themselves. 
To her surprise, the base governers had convened and looked to Miriam herself
for guidance and instructions in Domai's absense.  In part, it was
because none of them felt qualified to step into the Foreman's role themselves
- there was very little political power-jockeying in the Drone civil government
- but it was also a testament to how high Miriam stood in the Free Drones'
eyes.  They would not have offered the role to just any outsider,
but thanks to the bridges that Miriam and Domai had been building over
the last few months, the Drones and the Believers saw themselves as practically
the same faction.  It was a vision that Miriam subscribed to, but
the Believing Drones were still fundamentally a blend of compatible but
different philosophies, and Miriam knew that she'd need help in leading
the combined faction; help which she'd always looked to James for until
now.


Miriam pondered the dilemma for a while, when suddenly a possible answer
came to her in a God-given inspiration, and she placed a priority call
to the U.N.

---

"Good evening, Sister Miriam,"  Scott Allardyce said once his
secretary had routed the call.  For the first time in a week, he'd
felt an emotion much other than grief or anger; curiosity.  Googlie
knew Godwinson, of course, but even in the early days they'd never spoken
socially, so when he'd been informed that Miriam had commed him personally,
rather than speaking to Lal, his curiosity was piqued.


Allardyce was as young as Miriam remembered him from Unity, proof
that he'd recently subscribed to regeneration treatment.  Despite
the apparent youth, however, Miriam saw in his eyes the experiences and
maturity of several lifetimes.  The eyes seemed also tired, if determined,
and Miriam could detect a hard edge of recent stress in his voice that
would've been hidden from an untrained observer.  That wasn't a surprise
to her; Jessica's intelligence brief had informed Miriam of what'd happened
last week at U.N. High Commision, and those same notes told her that he'd
genuinely loved Anastasia Zakharov.


"Good morning, Mr. Allardyce," Miriam replied as these thoughts passed
through her mind.


"Before I get into the subject of my call," Miriam continued, "I would
like to convey my condolences for Ms. Zakharov.  As you know, we believe
that death is not necessarily the end of life, and I shall pray that this
mercy be held out for Anastasia."


Googlie nodded, accepting the condolence.  Although he didn't subscribe
to the doctrine, he knew that Miriam was no hypocrite; if she offered condolences,
even within the framework of the Believer faith, those sentiments were
genuine, well-intended, and therefore appreciated.


"Sister Jessica, too, asked me to pass on her prayers of support, as
well."


This Googlie knew already; in the week following Stazi's death, sympathy
and support messages had come in from all over the planet, regardless of
faction.  Dierdre of course; Morgan, Ron, Shauna, Jessica, Sharra,
Salvadore St-James, many of his other old Spartan comrades and officers;
even a "Deeply Regret" form letter used by the Spartan military, signed
by Santiago.  Not that there was any affection there, but it
was a military courtesy that Corrie must've approved personally.


There'd been two other letters; one from Prokhor Zakharov - which Googlie
had put off reading as yet - and one, mockingly, from Haraad Ashaandi again. 
In review, Scott wasn't at all certain that Ashaandi was privately happy
with the results of the assassination attempt, but still the Circle's leader
felt it necessary to try to provoke him.


"Thank you, Sister Miriam.  I appreciate that, but forgive me if
I suspect this isn't just a social call."  That was fair; after all,
they'd never been friends.


"Very well, Mr. Allardyce, I'll come straight to the point, then. 
I'd like to invite you - or, rather, ask you - if you'd consider administering
the Free Drones - or, perhaps I should say the Believing Drones, since
we wish to integrate - in the next few months while Foreman Domai recovers,
in a capacity similar to what you've been doing for the United Nations
of Planet."


Googlie was somewhat taken aback by Miriam's request, but even so, his
mind was considering the possibilities and the tasks.


"How is the Foreman?"  he asked, while he pondered.


"He is... recovering, and, God willing, will be able to reassume his
role sooner rather than later.  Now James has spoken highly of you
in the past, which is one reason why I thought of asking you.  Sister
Jessica also thinks very well of you, and credits you with arranging the
transfer of Great Conclave to us, and therefore restoring our faction in
a way we could not have hoped to do for ourselves in such a short period
of time."


"Were you envisioning a civilian role, or a military one?"  Googlie
asked.


"Both," Miriam responded.  "The Free Drones are a young movement,
and so are we in our modern incarnation.  We simply don't have that
much experience in managing the aspects of faction government. " 
Anticipating his next question, Miriam added:


"We would give you as free a hand as possible.  Obviously, our
political agenda is to construct a moral and godly society, but our economic
and strategic values are more flexible."


"We also want to integrate our military, for obvious reasons given our
proximity to Yang and his alien... allies.  We chose to start with
an airforce, given the aerospace complex facilities here at Great Conclave,
and the dispersed position of the Free Drone and Believer bases on Planet. 
I understand from Colonel Santiago that you were the air force commander
during your time with Sparta, so even from a tactical standpoint, you have
generalship skills that we lack."


"Did..."  Scott stopped to choose his words carefully, for he'd
been about to ask 'Did Santiago put you up to this?'


"Did Colonel Santiago suggest my appointment?"  Allardyce asked,
his face carefully neutral.


"No, she did not.  I prayed for guidance, and was granted a possible
inspiration.  There's not much we can offer you, of course, other
than a chance to do something that we know you are good at, for people
who could use your help.  I'm sure the Colonel would approve."


I'm not so sure of that, Sister Miriam,  Googlie
thought as he considered his response.

[Hydro]

Somewhere over the Equatorial Sea

The simulation was perfect, but none of the three young or single old Progenitors noticed. Each was seated in their own cocoon chairs, which were suspended in mid air and spaced roughly parallel to each other. Their speed was well over Mach 6 but, even so, nary a crest dangle or battle sash was disturbed. In front of them was the cloudless blue-orange sky with thin white cirrus clouds at the horizon. Below them was the endless expanse of the equatorial sea of Manifold 6, which was laced with interlocking pinkish ribbon of xenofungus. Glinting in formation to the left and right of the Progenitor quad were silvery ovoids, each of which flew in perfect formation with the apparently gravity-defying Progenitors. The silvery ovoids appeared to be small due to their distance, but in reality they were the enormous ancient Progenitor battle gravships, the Deathspheres.

Each of the Progenitors had trained so long in their Deathsphere that full sensory illusion of seeming to float in mid air was natural. The Deathsphere illusion afforded a complete AI assisted view in any direction and gave each operator distinct lay of the land. The interior of each Deathsphere was irrelevant since it had no windows or ports that could be discerned, and since all controls were intuitive and physically and mentally built into its users. That, and the real-time interface with each Progenitor, gave the Deathspheres a one-ness with their operators: flick a talon, and a maneuver is executed; squint in a certain direction the AI will zoom until you see what you wish; softly resonate 'Fire!' and the temporal disruption of the string disrupter would be unleashed on your intended target. Over thousands of millennia and battles on hundreds of worlds against aliens, and each other, the Progenitors had honed their warrior skills. The result was the Deathsphere. It was powered by a micro singularity, protected by the temporal uncertainty of a silvery stasis field, and armed with a string disruptor, which could manipulate the very fabric of the universe with awesome destructive ability.

M'Lan partially disengaged from his AI link. "Tactical: Movement on long range sensors; interception in 1/948 day units ," M'Lan resonated. "EM resonance bounce recorded and processed. Resolution: Invader non-military sea craft. The AI assessment: 98 percent probability that it is not Invader-ally Hive."

Zzar's pulse quickened. Marr's Plan called for complete surprise, and this unexpected encountered with the Invader sea craft could very well disrupt it. The craft, however primitive, undoubtedly had communication equipment of some sort and might report its observations to its soft, pulpy masters. Zzar and his crew knew the Plan and its thousands of permutations all too well, and they fully understood the implications of what an advanced warning to the Invaders would have on the Plan. From a practical point of view it did not matter if the Invader Spartans had advance warning of the Usurper death stroke to their infestation Manifold 6. Their technology for defense was ludicrously weak, and their offense was at best a fourth as effective as that of the Deathspheres under his command. More importantly, they had no knowledge of the Progenitor Ancients, the brilliance of which would guide the Usurpers, under Marr's wise talon, to an easy and complete victory. In short, the pitiful Invaders were doomed and did not know it, and it was likely they could not even comprehend the magnitude of their inferiority. Their fate would be that of all those that were inferior: extinction. If they fought with honor they would be given the right to be consumed by their Progenitor conquerors, and their flesh will then strengthen the bodies and fortify their minds of those that had defeated them. If they did not fight with honor, as stipulated by the Ancient Progenitors, then they would be summarily eliminated by whatever method was convenient.

Still, the Plan must be upheld, and the choice in this situation was simple.

"Weapons officer Nir, arm string disrupter and fire at maximum range. Saturate the area with ECM to prevent any chance of communication before they are vaporized."

"By your command," Nir instantly altered in response. He was enmeshed in his cocoon, as they all were, and from within his cocoon his talon moved almost imperceptibly. Within a fraction of a second Zzar could detect a distortion in the resonance field around Deathsphere 1. The string disrupter emitted no high wavelength light, or sound modulations. The singularity-augmented resonance wave departed from Deathsphere 1, and at its intended target the resonance wave blossomed into a temporal string distortion. Marr knew there would be nothing to see, since the temporal string distortion would tear matter into energy, and then energy into its quantum particles. Nothing would remain.

Nir checked his readouts. "Target destroyed. Minimal disturbance to surrounding water or atmosphere," Nir resonated. Officially this was the first kill of the war to purify Manifold 6, but Nir did not let this thought distract him from his duty. In Nir's world simulation and reality merged, and it did not matter which was which. All he had to do was follow orders even as he sparred with the AI for supremacy.

Zzar said nothing. He knew the importance of the events to come, as did his crew. Nir was simply doing what he had been commanded to do, and an observation of skill or adequacy was not needed. Indeed, Zzar understood that to cater to underlings was a sign of weakness; a Conqueror must project strength and authority, and unflagging confidence and honor. That was the true lesson of the Challenge Chamber, as Zzar now saw it, and he had learned it well.

"Deathspheres squadron reporting. Deviation from plotted course negligible. No change in the time required to reach target locations," M'Lan said, following doctrine-proscribed procedure after a hostile encounter. Zzar thought M'Lan's resonance was a little aloof, but that was to be expected. Of his crew M'Lan had the weakest force of will and had, therefore, integrated the most with the AI in training, and he could be counted on to best harvest its millennia-old wisdom. Again Zzar said nothing, but inside he felt the hormones of battle rise. He felt secure behind his singularity armor and had confidence in his singularity-inducted string disruptors of his Deathsphere and the Deathspheres of his command.

He looked around. From this position there was no land in sight, although the larger collections of sea fungus seemed to be pinkish islands at times. The sea stretched to the horizon, and to Zzar the fungus seemed to form ribbons that crossed each other and joined together at what looked like a fungal nexus. In this flat terrain of the sea the fungus was even more striking than on land, and it seemed to be more prevalent. No one had terraformed or altered it, nor was there the war fought between fungus and the human spawned forests. It was a wild and beautiful landscape to Zzar, and he mused that the entirety of Manifold 6 must have looked like this before the Invaders polluted it with their strange cities and alien plants that sought to choke and destroy this ancient Progenitor creation.

In the past, and even the recent past, Zzar thought the fungus was singing to him. In those times the song rose in the back of his mind like the ancient Progenitor Resonance art form he had experienced in the Challenge Chamber. Then he had managed to touch the venerable resonance with his own, but he couldn't seem to touch this fungus song - it always came to him. But the fungus song didn't come often anymore, and Zzar was strangely sad that the lilting resonance was gone. It spoke and its message was beyond words. Implicit meaning? An illusion? Evidence of an electrochemical imbalance?

Zzar berated himself. A Conqueror does not muse on such things, since such is the realm of philosophers and sages. Zzar knew he was a Conqueror, appointed by the great Conqueror Marr himself. This was both an honor and a talon clicking responsibility, and Zzar resolved not to be distracted. That said, Zzar wished the song would return.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TTTTHHHHwhuPPu'p

Vlad stood up thinking What the h*ll was that???! He looked off in the distance toward where the sound had come from and caught only the faintest hint of movement. The noise had been like a great intake of breath with a shallow 'pop' at the end and, even though it had not been piercing, it had clearly penetrated the steady and rhythmic sounds of the sea as it lapped against the side of his isle of the deep and the fungus that surrounded it. As he looked a flash of light on the horizon caught his eye. It was like a small mirror being flashed against the sun, which was then suddenly turned away. There were a few more flashes to the northeast and then they too disappeared.

Out here at sea Vlad was used to peace and quiet, and the comfort of the rhythms of the sea. Even when the sea was quiescent it had a certain cadence to it, and when it was enraged it was like a discordant symphony, chaotic and turbulent but with a clear and poignant melody if you listened carefully, and respectfully, enough. That sucking-popping noise was definitely unusual since it fit no pattern Vlad had heard during his almost 50 years at sea. The silvery light could have been anything, including one of the many Morgan, Spartan, or PK air transports, or even a Spartan war aircraft. However, these explanations made no sense to Vlad since the glints had been in the wrong place, and since none of the suspect factions had flight paths near this area. Very strange.

Vlad scanned the horizon again. Nothing: no glint, and no more sounds, other than those he was used to. There was only one thing to do. He activated his datapad as he got back to work to make one of his infrequent reports.

"Keeper Vlad Campfield log 8.37.2228, Gaian IoD number 19. At 1032 heard a strange sound that was like a great intake of breath followed by a soft 'pop'. The sound was to the northeast of my position, and it was followed by at least 3 glints of silvery light in the air. I would guess that the glints were aircraft traveling fast toward the north, and they were at the horizon, distance unknown. Current coordinates are 122, 76. Continuing repairs after failed attempt to subdue rogue IoD, currently at 87% of optimum. Rufus is doing fine and he is self-repairing here in the fungus, but is complaining a lot about being board. Should be up to full strength in about three weeks. There's still some fungus we haven't explored nearer to the Aliens, and we'll go there next.

Campfield out."

Vlad toggled 'Code and transmit'.

Vlad deactivated his datapad and got back to work. He looked on as a mobile tendril of worms from his isle pulsed into the sea fungus, grabbing and shaking chunks out of the sea fungus and collecting small clusters of worms and sea life. Rufus would consume all of the macro life forms as nourishment, but would single out single and small groups of the aquatic worms vectors and he would sync them to his resonance field. This allowed Rufus to repair what had been lost or destroyed, and grow. Vlad was very proud of Rufus now. In the last 20 years he had grown significantly and now had enough active worm mass to be called a great boil. He was several orders-of-magnitude larger than a land boil, but much of his mass was inert dead worms and worm chrysalis husks. He and Rufus had captured three other isles of the deep over the years and harvested hundreds of credits of planetpearls. Vlad reflected sadly that there had been many more kills than captures lately. Each isle was a unique personality and Vlad thought that killing one was almost a crime. Still, once psi combat was initiated the isles took over, and the battles were to the death. On a practical level he knew Lady Skye could use the resources in her worldly troubles. This was fine with Vlad. Let Dee keep the ignorance of the others at arms length, just as long as he could go about his business in peace.

Some back at Velv thought he was strange to be out at sea so much, but Vlad didn't mind. He had all he wanted out here - freedom, fresh air, and no other annoying humans. But best of all there was his best friend, Rufus. Whereas other humans, even other telepaths, were opaque he was transparent. Where other humans didn't even know what they wanted or needed, Rufus had clear goals. Humans pined away and searched for purpose or meaning, Rufus always knew what he was and what he wanted to do. Vlad was glad to be around for the ride, and to explore, see, and do new things.

What more could anyone want?

[Hydro]

Hero's Way Point

Mar threw herself to the side to avoid the blow, curled into the tuck position and hugged her staff to her mid section. She hit the ground in a shoulder roll, and purposefully aimed for a rather large puddle. She hoped the water would make her harder to track, and dampen some of her momentum. Dark brown muddy water splashed out and then back into the where she had rolled. On the other side she unfolding from the roll, twisted and dug the extended end of the staff into the soft ground. More mud and water flew from her compact form as she stood upright and came to a complete stop. She took a risk and quickly cleared the mud and rainwater from her eyes and face with the back of her hand. Every second counted, and every action was a calculation.

Her vision was clear and she looked warily at the imposing wall of muscle that she faced. He held his staff in a seemingly careless fashion, but Mar knew it was anything but careless: he was simply so skilled that he knew exactly where the staff was at all times. His stance was calculated to lull the unwary, and Mar had learned that particular lesson the hard way. He walked forward with a steady, relentless pace. It wasn't that he was cocky, she decided, it was that he instinctively knew what he was doing.

Bummer for me, she thought.

Mar paced left, keeping her staff in front of her in a guard position. She remembered the terrain and knew she had only 10 meters in back of her before the fungus started. That was her 'bad place', since she knew that Joel could use his superior strength to excellent effect and her superior speed would be useless in the fungus. He was slowly but surely driving her toward the fungus, herding her like so much cattle.

Bastard. Just what I would do, she thought to herself.

She locked her eyes on the puddle. It was two meters in front of him. She circled further left.

One meter. Almost there.

The Spartan Battle Manual says: When outclassed in personal combat, aim for the joints, Mar thought. Yah, right. Basic training, and even thick-headed Joel knows that. An evil thought crossed her mind, but she carefully hid her smile. Joel was hulking but he was far from stupid, and he was crafty and had excellent instincts. And he had the strength of a bear, or several bears. It simply wouldn't be appropriate to signal that she was going to do something sneaky and nasty to him.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH," she yelled as she sprinted forward. Her left foot dug in and found excellent purchase in spite of the pervasive mud, and Mar was almost surprised at her new forward momentum. She moved the staff slightly to the left so that it was 30 degrees from how Joel held his.

In a second she was on top of him. He took an aggressive guard position with his staff with his right arm extended and locked into position. Mar lashed downward with her staff, aiming for his left knee, using her inertia to increase its force.

Aim for the knees! HA! she thought, knowing how Joel would deflect this predictable blow.

As expected, Joel raised the lower end of his staff to deflect the strike, which then veered to Mar's left. The top of Mar's staff angled downward with impressive force, since Joel's deflection had actually increased its angular momentum. As it plunged downward Mar violently torqued her body and thrust her lower arm upward and over her head. What had been the bottom of the staff now sailed through the air in a wide arc.

**CRACK**

The arc was completed as it impacted on the side of Joel's head, exactly where she had aimed it. His head jerked right, and his left ear sheared off and exploded into pulpy cartilage. The impact caught Mar off guard and she had the uncomfortable feeling of losing control as the momentum carried her body counter-clockwise. In that split second she saw that she was going exactly where she didn't want to go: directly into Joel.

NOOO! she thought just before she they collided.

For a second she saw nothing but white, and then a confusion of skin.

**SPLASH**

Muddy water erupted everywhere, and Mar couldn't see a thing. She could feel parts of Joel's body, and he had cushioned the fall.

While water was still flying through the air Mar took advantage of the momentum and immediately tucked and rolled, trying to get some distance from Joel. Her staff had been knocked loose in the impact, but she knew it was useless in close combat. She had no time to worry about the staff, and she just tried to roll away. Mar felt solid ground and pivoted upward, twisting to see where Joel was. He was to the right and Mar turned to face him.

He was on his hands and knees in the quarter-meter deep puddle, and he was slowly getting up. He had lost his staff, too, and their staves lay on either side of the puddle.

Mar saw her chance. Darting forward she picked up Joel's staff, which was closest. It was heavier and not balanced right for her but now that didn't matter.

"AAAAHHHHHH," she yelled. She over-handed the staff, taking its base over her head and arcing it to toward the ground, and directly at Joel's head. At the last moment he heard her, or saw movement, and tried to move aside.

**THUCK**

The end of staff missed his head, but nailed the front of his throat. The soft tissue briefly resisted, and then tore. Joel involuntarily grabbed at his neck as the force and the pain spun him around, face down into the puddle.

Mar felt the end of the staff as it continued downward, and then as it splashed through the water and stuck firmly into the mud at the base of the puddle. Taking advantage of this, she levered the upper end down. With the base anchored in the mud, the middle of the staff landed on Joel's neck, and all of Mar's mass was behind it. Joel disappeared beneath the surface of the puddle as it pressed down, and Mar was perched on top of the staff, using every gram of her mass and strength to keep him down.

One of Joel's hands broke the turbulent surface of the puddle, and then splashed back in. A moment later it came up again, much weaker this time. Mar bore on, her neck muscles straining as she tried to force Joel's face deeper and deeper into the mud.

A figure in Spartan gray walked forward. He was wet from head to toe from the rain, like everyone else.

"END," Sergeant Vincent boomed.

Mar stood up and released all force on the staff. Then she reached down and pulled Joel out of the water, working hard to get his bulk up, since he had at least twice as much mass as she did. Joel had a dazed look on his face, which was covered with gray-red mud. The skin on much of his throat was gone and muscles and tendons flexed in the open air, and red blood oozed down his shirt. He gasped for breath, and burps of water and mud erupted from his mouth as he tried to breathe.

"Medics, forward," Sergeant Vincent ordered. Two men came ran into the puddle, and they took hold of Joel and pulled him out. Seconds later they had laid him on the ground, cleared his airway, applied a breather, and had started dressing his wound.

After being relieved of her comrade, Mar turned to face the Sergeant and snapped to attention. The Sergeant walked forward and stopped at the edge of the puddle.

"At ease, Private. Put on your breather. Your technique was acceptable, but the carry-through was sloppy. Our friend Private Watkins was stunned by the impact of your unorthodox feign and strike. If he hadn't have been then YOU would have been sucking mud. Got it?"

Private Margorie Harper threw out her chest, "SIR! YES, SIR!"

"And another thing. Forget all the vids and lose the yell. All it does is let your enemy know you're coming. One more thing. Good use of terrain. Now, see if you can help the medics, and get Private Watkins out of the rain when they're done. Dismissed."

Mar saluted as the Sergeant turned to the other sparing areas where pairs of Spartan privates were squaring off. Over the field there were dozens of such matches, all of which ended in either victory or defeat. No one submitted, and no one gave ground or quarter unless so ordered.

Slogging out of the mud, Mar walked over to Joel and knelt down beside her friend and the medics. There was a blood pooled underneath Joel's neck, which was now bound with translucent synthskin. Mar could see that the medics were almost done, and his bleeding was contained. As the medics got up to leave Joel turned his head toward her. He winced in pain as he did.

"N…nice shot," Joel croaked. A bubble of blood formed and broke on his lips as he spoke. His eyes were a little glassy, maybe from shock or pain. He briefly shut his eyes as he labored to swallow.

Mar used a semi-clean part of her sleeve to clean up some of the blood and mud the busy medics had ignored. While she cleaned him up she tried not to look at his destroyed ear. At the moment, though, that was the least of his concerns. "Thanks. Sarge told me to help you to the infirmary. Can you stand?"

Joel thought about it for a moment. "Yah."

He slowly worked his way onto his elbows, then half rolled over to his side. Mar helped him up. She put her arm around his waist to guide him along, and he draped his arm over her shoulder. Her head barely reached his shoulder, and his upper arm was as thick around as her leg. He wasn't called The Wall for nothing.

"Never seen a staff that fast. Never even saw it," he said. Every word hurt, but he said them anyway.

"That's the idea. That's the only way I could take you out."

"Yah," he stated. It was a simple truth. There was no dishonor in being beaten, only in allowing yourself to be beaten. Maybe next time he would see it coming.

Mar could see that Joel was about to say something else. Mar looked up and saw a bubble forming in the synthskin, which was starting to rupture. Bad news.

"Joel, shut up. The synthskin is going to pop soon and we have to get to the infirmary. Pick up the pace."

Joel nodded once and started walking faster.

"When they fix you up I'll get you out of those wet clothes. If you're up to it," Mar asked. Her hand that had been supporting him was now caressing his side and lower chest in long, easy strokes.

Joel's eyebrows shot up a little. Even distracted by pain he recognized an invite when he heard one. He gurgled in response.

"No talking!" Mar ordered.

Joel dutifully obeyed. Right now she was boss.

[Googlie]

Midway

Pfc Rodney Bartlett slung his kitbag over his shoulder as he walked up the ramp from the troopship. He wasn’t sorry to see the back of it. He had just spent an extremely uncomfortable four days in transit from Great Refuge.

Although he had been raised in Amnesty Town, a coastal base on the shores of the Great Continent, he was apprenticed to a lumberjack, having had no great affinity for the ocean as a child. The choices for a youth brought up in AT were two – tend the kelp farms or work the forest, and he’d chosen the latter.

So he had elected to specialize in forestry – and was doing well until his call up a few weeks ago. Now after basic training they’d put him in a troopship and sent him to Midway. He’d made friends with the others in his platoon, but especially with Khalid, another who’d made Private, First Class at camp. Khalid walked up alongside him.

As they took in their surroundings, they couldn’t help but be struck by two incongruities – the enormity of the place – some five divisions were now assembled here at Midway, with three supporting air wings – and the impermanence of it – everything seemed to be prefabricated and temporary in nature.

The dockside was perhaps the most solid structure there – well, barring the Rec. Commons, of course. But around the piers where the transports were disgorging their troops and the supply ships were unloading the materiel and food necessary to equip such an army, there had sprung up a veritable town overnight. Bars, cafes, drug havens, small general stores, all were represented in profusion. And of course, there were the girls.

A particular one caught Rod’s attention. Looked to be late teens, lounging against a wall, one foot against the wall behind her which had the effect of hitching her dress up to show off her legs and flash of a thigh. Nicely proportioned. She looked over at the troopers, and then started towards them.

Rod nudged Khalid in the ribs.

“She’s mine,” he said. “I saw her first.”

“Like hell you did, she’s smiling at both of us.”

And indeed she was.

They could feel their excitement growing as she got nearer. All thoughts of Leila, Rod’s next door forester’s daughter, vanished from his mind. Not that they were betrothed, or anything – nor even going steady – but they had a sort of understanding that one day they would. Now that was forgotten when the girl spoke.

“Hi, guys. I’m Angelica. Welcome to Midway.”

She flashed a wonderful smile at them, as she held out two event tickets.

“Tonight at the Rec. Commons – 6 o’clock. I’ll be there and will sit with you, then we might have a drink and some fun afterwards, no?”

Both youths nodded mutely.

Angelica tossed her head and left them, sashaying her hips as she moved down the street.

“Cor,” Rod breathed. “I’ll bet she’s a handful.”

The girl turned, and blew him a kiss, as though she’d heard his comment, but she couldn’t have, she was too far distant to have overheard.

************************************************** **********************

The argument at the bar was growing louder, as the two groups took sides. The navy types were holding their drinks better than the newer troopers, but neither was giving an inch.

“It’ll be a cinch, you’ll see,” said a trooper. “The Aliens won’t be a match against out numbers or the Spartan Elites – I give them a week.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said one of the seamen. “I’ve heard stories about some of their weapons – these Ogres, for instance – that strike fear into even the strongest Spartan.”

One of the bystanders nodded.

“I’ve seen one,” he said. “Very impressive.”

They turned to him.

He was dressed in nondescript garb – not quite military issue, but not obviously a civilian either, as he had insignia on his shoulders. He looked like he knew a thing or two, with eyes that had seen it all – tired, yet still alert and questioning.

“And you are…?” asked one of the troopers.

“Kurt. Kurt Weiss,” he replied, sticking out his hand.

“Unit?” asked the Petty officer in charge of the naval group.

“Covert Ops – Spartan,” he said. “Saw one taken out deep in Hive territory. But not a pretty sight – they are awesome fighting machines.”

That drew some more discussion, and when it looked like it might culminate in fisticuffs, Kurt said:

“Listen, why don’t you all come over to the Rec. Commons this evening at six for the rally – you can ask your questions there and get the answers from the brass. It’s officially invitation only, but I got a few tickets” – he chuckled – “and don’t ask me how - but you’re welcome to come.”

He thrust a handful of invites at the troops and seamen who took them hesitantly. One examined it.

"Gorblimey. It's General Eriksson himself who's speaking tonight."

A colleague politely raised his eyebrows "And should we be excited about that?"

"Of course. He's the leader of the National Party. I was a big supporter of his before they drafted me. Some say he might win the next election. We gotta go to this."

They all nodded thoughtfully.

Kurt just smiled. "See you there then fellas."

************************************************** **************************

The airmen at the temporary airbase looked up as they felt the draught even through the double tent flaps of the airlock to the mess tent.

One whistled softly as he saw the shapely officer walking towards the bar, tossing her long hair as she pulled off her cap and breather. He leapt up.

"Can I buy you a drink ..... Colonel?" he asked, noticing the insignia on her epaulettes.

"Why thank you .. Captain," she replied, taking in his rank. "I'd be flattered."

He grinned, and stuck out a hand.

"Potter. Mike Potter. Callsign 'Sweep'. I command the third Pen flight of B wing. That's them here" - he indicated the dozen or so officers that were drinking around the table with him. "And you? Are you flight or ops command? I haven't seen you around before."

She shook his hand, taking a firm grip and looking him in the eye, almost as tall as he was.

"Used to fly - Tacs. Astrid Nillson, callsign 'Angel'. Attached now as ALO - Air Liaison Officer to General Eriksson. That's why I'm here - he's addressing the officers and some key troops at the Rec. Commons tonight at 6. I'm here to invite you all personally to come as my guests. After that we can get to know each other better - after all, I'll be assigning you your targets and close support objectives"

Her gaze encompassed them all, yet each one felt that he had been personally invited.

They nodded in unison. "Great. We will."

She flashed a dazzling smile at them, making them feel like kings.

"See you then," she said and turned to leave.

As the fan swirled lazily to circulate the oxygen enriched air in the mess tent, it's shadow flickered the lights as if strobing, highlighting and reflecting from the tiny diamond shards that studded the gloves that she pulled on before braving the elements outside.

************************************************** ***************************

The Rec. Commons was crowded, standing room only. Angelica had found Rod and Khalid, and was sitting with them, as she had promised. Across the room the sailors had found seats and were waiting expectantly. They could see Kurt to one side, earnestly chatting to a few others who had the same Covert Ops insignia as he did. Angel spotted Mike with his flight, considerably augmented by what seemed to be the entire officer corps of the PK 'B' wing, who had gate-crashed the event.

At the front of the room the conversation fizzled, then hushed, as the audience became aware that their featured speaker had arrived.

The General emerged from one of the side rooms within the Commons and bounced up the small flight of stairs to the stage and strode over to the podium.

He was a tallish officer, over six feet, trim, with greying hair and the most penetrating gaze that Mike had encountered for some time. The charisma was palpable as he rested his hands on the sides of the small podium, and took a few seconds to look over his audience. He nodded to one or two of them, and waited till the conversation had ceased completely.

"Fellow Officers. Fellow Peacekeepers. Let me ask you all a question.

"Why are you here? Not here, as in this recreation commons tonight. But here, as in Midway."

He looked around them, seeming to look into each pair of eyes personally. Some of the audience shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Others leaned forward expectantly, waiting for the answer.

"Some of you are thinking ' What a stupid question I was drafted, pulled from my job as a forester, trained to kill and shipped here.'"

He was looking right at Rod when he said that, and Rod shifted uneasily in his chair. That was exactly what he'd been thinking.

Eriksson continued: "And others of you are thinking 'It's my job. I'm here to support the army. Where they go, I go, I'm their air cover.'"

The General's eyes bored into Mike's.

He stifled a start. Of course the General would see from their uniforms that they were Airforce. But his shrewd observation had struck home.

"But you'd be wrong," he continued.

"You are here because this is one of the most colossal screw-ups in a faction that is known for its colossal screw-ups."

That had their attention.

"And that's why I am running in this election. For too long we have suffered under a leader who is renowned for being pusillanimous. Who jumps when the paranoid Spartan Colonel says 'jump'. Who meekly follows the commands of the tree hugger, declaring a vendetta here and lifting one there every time she commlinks him.

"And why are you here?

"You are here because in her strategic wisdom, the paranoid Colonel has decided that the heat needs to be taken off her beloved Sparta. She knows the Aliens are lining up to take target practice at her Elites. So she needs diversionary cannon fodder. That's why you are here, my friends. That's why I resigned my commission and took to the hustings.

"The truth must be told.

"The Hive is not our enemy. In fact, many of us envy their society of collective responsibility and their industry. They were our most loyal ally and trading partner until the paranoid Colonel snapped her fingers and Lal her lapdog ran to fetch.

"So my platform is --- end this madness now. For each one of you, I ask you. As you unsling your weapon, train your missiles, point your needlejet at the Hive citizens and soldiers and airmen, --- why? Will your wife - your sweetheart, your parents, your kids sleep better if you kill that one in your targets? Will your life be enriched?

"Will you be better off under the dictatorship of the paranoid Colonel when she gets herself elected as Supreme Planetary Ruler?"

He paused.

His eyes swept the room, meeting theirs, holding them in his gaze. Each one individually, yet collectively.

Rod found himself nodding in agreement.
Mike was on his feet, face flushed:

"NO!" he yelled. "What's the alternative?"

The General waited, still looking at the audience.

Then he spoke.

"You know what the alternative is."

"Tell us," the clamour grew.

He looked over at the group of sailors.

"Tell them," he commanded.

"The Northern Fleet," one shouted.

He nodded.

"You are giving me a vision," the General cried.

"We need to deliver the strongest message to our fellows. We need to align ourselves with the wronged Chairman, and we need to put this paranoid Colonel in her true place.

"I am calling you here to help me secede this base from the puppet Lal's control, and declare for Yang. As the first step in a restructuring of our society where law and order, and care and compassion for our fellow citizens are paramount values.

"Are you with me?"

Rod found himself on his feet, shouting "Yes! Yes! We are with you."

Mike was on his feet too, with his ops officer, linked arms with Angel, and was shouting:

"Lead on."

The General continued:

"Some of you have met my trusted aides. Liaise with them. And let's proclaim to the watching world.

"Midway is now a Hive Base. Henceforth we are honorary Hive Citizens."

Kurt and his companions had discretely moved in among the officers and enlisted men.

Mike looked at Angel:

"You're our liaison?"

She nodded. "Yes"

He grinned ear to ear.

"Bloody great, then."

************************************************** **************************

The General stood down from the podium as the small groups of soldiers, airmen and sailors huddled with their liaisons and planned their strategy.

He walked over to the small room to one side, and with a last glance over the cream of the Peacekeeper officer corps, he went inside and closed the door.

His aide came over and handed him a glass of juice.

Sitting down on the chair, he let himself relax.

He shuddered, as if cold.

"Are you all right, Sir?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Kyella," he replied. "It's just the strain of dealing with so many at once, even with the help that was out there."

She looked at him with adoration.

"You were magnificent, Haraand," she breathed.

Ashaandi shrugged.

It was his due, after all.

But engaging in Total Mind Control was taxing.

But then, he had no equal as a chameleon empath.



[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited January 21, 2001).]

[Googlie]

U.N. Headquarters

I closed the door gently behind me and looked over at Pravin.

He was sitting behind his faux-mahogany desk, head in his hands, muttering to himself. He looked up when he heard me enter.

“Come in, Scott, have a seat,” he said, indicating a couch over by the coffee table in a corner of his office.

I went over to the couch and sat down.

Wearily Lal got up from behind his desk, bringing a sheaf of printed sheets with him as well as his holo remote.

He sat down in an armchair beside the couch and coffee table, and pushed the papers across the table to me.

“Have a look at these,” he said. “The latest opinion results from MorganPolls. I’m running third, Scott.

"Third.

"I half expected to be trailing Anwar, but to be behind Eriksson and his right wing fanatics as well - that’s humiliating.”

I looked at the charts. Indeed, he was running third right now.

“It all stems from the debate carried across the Territories,” he said. “Sanjit made me seem like a vacillating old fool, asking ‘How high?’ every time the Colonel wanted me to jump. Am I that weak, Scott?”

‘Was this a rhetorical question?’ I wondered. ‘Or did he really expect an answer? And if so how to be diplomatic in my reply?’

“But no matter,” he continued. “After the fiasco at Midway I’ve approached Anwar with the suggestion of a coalition, and he has agreed. We will be joint Commissioners – I will remain the nominal head of Government, but will devote myself full time to external affairs and to dealing with the other faction heads. Anwar will take full responsibility for running the Peacekeepers internally.

“But there is a price. I am going to ask the Chairman and his Alien friends for a truce – perhaps even a Treaty. I will, of course, continue to support the Axis diplomatically – and perhaps more tangibly in a clandestine fashion, but after the loss of Midway I’m afraid the populace has no stomach for war.

"Scott ......... we go back a long ways. Have I failed my people? Have I betrayed Humanity? Did I warrant what Sanjit was saying?"

I muttered that I had been rather preoccupied with my own grieving to have paid much attention to the election. He took this as his cue, and raised the remote and flicked on some buttons.

Instantly one wall lit up and the rich cadences of Anwar Sanjit filled the room. The leadership debate was in full swing. Anwar sanjit seemed to step freom the wall to a podium that materialized in the room just in front of us:

"And I put it to you, Commissioner, that you have betrayed the hopes of Humanity.

"We shared your ideals, your commitment to uphold the Charter. We all bought in to your continued insistence that never again could we afford to repeat the mistakes of Old Earth.

"You hammered home to us that this was mankind's last chance. We had the opportunity to put our mistakes behind us - to learn from them, and we were proud to follow you, Commissioner.

"We held our heads high when you took the high line.

"We nodded our emphatic agreement every time you told the bickering faction leaders to remember the Charter, to honor the memories of the billions killed on Earth in the interminable wars and the nuclear holocaust that followed. They might have called you an ideological nuisance - we called you our principled leader.

"But, Commissioner, you have changed, and in the changing you have put distance between yourself and your people.

"The Charter has been repealed, and now we see you toadying to the Spartan Colonel.

"She commands "Jump"

"And you meekly ask: 'How high?'

"You have turned on our erstwhile ally, Chairman Yang, at the Colonel's insistence, and you are parroting her xenophobic paranoia without ever having met, spoken to or even tried to contact one of the Progenitors.

"You are asking our people for another five year mandate to lead them. And we are asking you:

"Why should we follow you? For five more years of vacillation and abrupt changes of course?

"For five more years of being slaves and cannon fodder for the Spartans?

"For five more years of being the laughing stock of civilized humanity?

"I think not, Commissioner.

"I too have a vision to bring to our people. A vision that will let us walk our streets with our heads held proudly high. A vision that will see us reflecting the ideals that we - that you - once espoused, of civility, equality of opportunity, of commonality with our fellow man - and indeed, with the aliens now moving among us.

"And if these aliens were indeed the ancient builders of this planet and its artifacts; if these aliens represent a civilization that millennia ago was more advanced then than we have ever been, then I want to join hands - or claws - with those aliens and say 'We have much to learn from you. Let us live in peace, and teach us.'

"The vision I have is one of oneness with Planet. Oh, not the starry eyed idealism of some of the Gaians, but a mature assessment of our place in ecology. And if this means closer ties with Lady Deirdre Skye and her Gaian faction, so be it.

"And if my vision has a place for our Hive cousins, and if it pushes some of the Spartans outside our tent, then that too will be my legacy.

"For rest assured, Commissioner, we Peacekeepers do not want to go to war. We want no part of General Eriksson's agenda. Nor do we want to be the sacrificial lambs prodded to the slaughter so that the Colonel's Spartan Elites can meet a tired enemy, sated with our blood.

"For that, Commissioner, is the vision that you are giving us, and I say No, No, and No again.

"And guess what? So are the people."

Sanjit shimmered as the holo powered down, then disappeared. His voice seemed, however, to linger in the air.

Lal wearily turned to me and asked again:

"Well, Scott. Have I indeed betrayed the people's trust?"

I looked at him. Although fresh from the rejuv tanks, when he emerged as a reconstituted forty year old, he had aged in these few weeks. His sad, worldly eyes looked at me from a tired face.

"Pravin," I said softly, "that's impossible.

"If you have been steadfast in one thing, it has been in your unyielding, unflinching championing of the Charter. It has guided your every action, and while there are some who might disagree where that principle leads, there is no-one who can doubt your commitment to it."

He nodded.

"Indeed. It was burned into me as a youth.

"Scott, you know my background. I was thirteen when my village was destroyed. I lay behind the rocks on a hillside and watched the jets screaming low and reducing our small town to rubble. I cried when the library was destroyed - I had spent so many hours there, absorbing knowledge. When our temple crashed, I wept. Strangely, when our apartment building was reduced to rubble, I didn't think of the loss, but rather of the waste.

"And when our interceptors took to the skies and chase the enemy away, and our bombers followed them across the valley to the Muslim village, and laid it to waste in retribution, I felt no joy. There was no vindication in my heart. All I could think of was 'I played cricket and field hockey against some of their youths. They are not the enemy.'

"And I resolved then to make a career in working for peace. Oh, I could have joined the fervent militia, and probably progressed to officer rank, but I studied medicine instead, always with the thought that life was meant to be saved, not destroyed.

"But I do believe that the Colonel is right. Chairman Yang has put himself outside the pale. The aliens did fire first, and have not yet asked the questions. Should they be exterminated? Do we even have the means to accomplish that? I truly don't know. But when the Colonel talks of the threat to humanity here on Chiron - this is humanity's last chance, you know, I listen, and I do find myself nodding in agreement. As does Deirdre. And Nwabudike. Does that make us weak?

"But above all, Scott, I believe fervently in democracy. I held my nose when negotiating with Yang, for Ifind his police methods repulsive. And I did not and never will condone your declaration of martial law when you and Gavin Burge were jointly leading Sparta in Santiago's absence.

"And if I indeed believe in democracy, then I believe in its underlying premise ........ the people are always right.

"And if they are saying that they want no part of this coming conflict, then I must listen. Some - the naval bases to the north, have voted with their feet already, and joined with Yang, as has Midway, with Eriksson's prompting. Others are speaking through these opinion polls.

"So I have offered the compromise to Anwar, and he has accepted. I will be President - largely ceremonial - and External Affairs Commissioner. Sanjit will be Prime Minister, and Internal Affairs Commissioner.

"And I am sorry, Scott, but there is no place in this coming administration for you - you are too tainted with the Spartan brush. So I would like your formal resignation in my hands within the hour."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Pravin, I understand the steps you are taking, even if I do not agree with them. And of course you will have my resignation. This is not an administration that I would feel comfortable in serving under in any event."

I swiveled towards the wall.

"Secretary - Allardyce here"

The holo of my mechanized secretary appeared:

"Yes, deputy Commissioner?" the voice asked sweetly.

I dictated my resignation, then ordered it to copy to Lal's government files.

The holo winked out.

I turned back to Lal.

He looked at me.

"I don't know the details of your estrangement from the Colonel, but you are very welcome to stay here as our guest as a private citizen."

I shook my head.

"Thanks Pravin, but I have a need to serve. And Sister Miriam has asked me to assist in the preparations the Believing Drones are making for the coming conflagration. I will accept that and work with her while Foreman Domai is recovering. Particularly in building an effective air corps. I'll leave tomorrow.:

He nodded.

"Well, if there is anything we can do - equipment, training facilities, instructors ..........." he let his voice trail off.

I stood up and extended my hand.

"After the election," I replied. Let's not do anything to tarnish your or Anwar's reputations in the interim. Afterwards, in your capacity as Exterior Affairs Commissioner, we can talk again."

He nodded his agreement.

We shook hands, and I turned and left.

[Hydro]

Hero's Waypoint

There were only a few voices in the half-filled field infirmary. Most were serious voices, and some were voices giving orders. A very few were groans of pain or severe discomfort, or an effort to get attention. The med techs were clustered around the worst cases, since infantry with life threatening injuries were triaged first, while those with relatively mild injuries, like Joel's throat wound, had to wait. It was simply the order of things.

Finally, a med tech walked up to Joel, who was lying on an examination table.

"A?" he asked, holding up an anesthetic applicator.

Joel shook his head. He knew how badly he hurt and that what would come would hurt even more. Even so, it couldn't hurt more than when he had taken a pike through his lower intestine, or when all the skin on his left arm had been seared off during a plasma rifle exercise last year. Now that had hurt. Joel always kept in mind the reality of combat conditions, and being treated in the first-rate infirmary was a luxury that was not available on the battleground and. There you only had what was in your back, or what your buddies could spare, and taking anesthetic when it wasn't absolutely necessary meant that someone else would not have it.

The tech noted the expected negative response and he leaned forward and lifted the tattered corner of the synthskin that held the flesh on his throat together. In a slow, steady motion he pulled it off. Joel didn't move, but his muscles did tense. Every pain receptor in his throat was screaming, adding to the chorus of agony from his sheared off skin and outer musculature of his throat. Blood welled into droplets and then rivulets as the coagulated blood was torn away with the synthskin and blood was once again free to flow. The tech dropped the bloody synthskin in an isolation bag, and waved his regeneration applicator across the wound. A light mist covered the gash. Blood stopped flowing as it was formed into a protective layer by antiseptics and coagulants. Hormones and RNA-assisted compounds in the mist penetrated into Joel's flesh.

Now Joel gritted his teeth as new waves of pain washed over him. Some of the lances were so sharp that they took his breath away and he had to force himself to breathe. The hormones were tailored to his physiology and body chemistry, and he knew that they would speed his healing rate by a factor of at least 10. The downside is that it felt like his neck was being crispy fried with a flame thrower, and he knew that it would continue to feel like that for at least a half hour.

The med tech straightened and left the examination table. Joel was ridged. The only movement around him was few beads of sweat formed on his brow and trickled down across his temples and through the stubble on his head.

Somewhere in the back of the room Joel heard a muffled screamed. Joel didn't even realize that it was his scream.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mar walked up to the recovery station.

"Still 40?" she asked. Joel opened his eyes, saw her, and graced her with a shallow smile.

"Yah. Still 40. Doc says I'll be 40 for 9 to 18 more hours. Says I'm doing good, though," Joel said. He was physically tired, both from the after effects of the sparing and from having every muscle in his body tense during the pain of his recovery. Even his voice sounded tentative.

As he talked Mar looked him over. He had been cleaned up and was no longer covered with the filth of the sparing field. The gash in his neck had gone from an ugly, rough, and wet red to a smooth ugly red, but his face finally had some color. He had on a standard issue t-shirt with a thermal blanket pulled up to his chest. Mar liked the way the t-shirt fit him. It was a little too small and almost all of the musculature of his upper chest was oh, so apparent. Too bad the blanket covered what was below that. Mar smiled to herself. If he wasn't so beat up she'd reach under the blanket to find out.

Mar sat down on the edge of the cot.

"How'd every'n else do?" he asked. He was a little sleepy but was glad for the company.

"Well, Karen finally got a round. Against David, too! It was kind of a technical, though. Karen upped him, caught his staff, which flew up and clipped his chin. Then she whacked the point into his sternum. Not really an out, but Sarge called it. In field 3 Sahrin used a reverse flip heave on Jarod. The throw didn't hurt him much, but when Sahrin stomped on his dislocated shoulder Jarod passed out. Over at 8 Marlin got whacked so hard that a power pack in one of his servo assist implants burst. The shock numbed his left shoulder, and that's all she wrote. Dala in 15 did good, too. She actually used her cy-arm to impale Watcher. He charged anyway and was choking the life out of her when Sarge called it for Dala. Watcher's intestines were squeezing out. Pretty messy. He'll take a while to recover, and he's still under meds. While he's out they'll up his cy-enhancements. Turns out it's easier than reparing his guts. He might not even have to eat anymore!"

"Don't know if I'd like that," Joel said, thinking of marmalade on toast with eggs.

Mar snorted. "In the field?" She shoved his shoulder gently. "Think about it! He won't have to carry rations! Think of all the extra ammo!"

Joel thought. "Yah," he said after a pause.

"Hey, gotta' get back. Sarge sent me to check on you, and looks like you're doing OK. Need anything?" Mar asked.

"Check up on Watcher, will ya?" Joel said. "He kinda took me in when I 'upped. Didn't treat me like a ton a meat."

Mar stood up. "Sure," she said, smiling at him. Joel watched as she pivoted and walked away.

G_d, she's a piece, he thought. Hope she don't chew me up like everyone else.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Joel stood at attention in front of the med tech. His chin was lifted into the air so he could get a good reading on tissue growth, and get a good diagnostic.

"Hold still," he said. He stepped to the side of Joel, pulled aside the open-backed hospital smock he wore and plugged into the dataport at the base of his spine. Joel felt a pulsing tingle spread from his back through his limbs as the microservers responded to the queries, and as his powerpacks took the chance to jack up to full power.

The tech stepped back in front of Joel, not taking his eyes off his datapad. He tapped it a couple of times and gave a few terse voice commands.

"No connective damage. Ports OK. Powerpacks at 98.3%. Servos at 105%," the tech said. As the last reading registered he looked up at Joel. "105%?"

"Yes, Sir. They got jacked in my latest upgrade. Bone density at 34% above standard. I could go to 115%," Joel said.

That explained it. The tech nodded and went back to the readout. "Bio-integration optimal. No malfunctions. You're clean," he said.

Joel wasn't surprised. Cyborg enhancements rarely failed. It was flesh that failed.

"Now, chin up," the tech ordered. Joel's chin went up in the air again and the tech started scanning the new tissue on his partially regenerated throat.

Joel's ears perked up. Someone was approaching from behind. Then he felt a strong, warm hand up against the small of his back. The hand stayed there for a moment, then worked its way down until it cupped part of his left buttock in its hand.

"Hey Joel, almost ready for duty?" Mar stated. She was standing immediately beside him. As she asked she gave his buttock a playful squeeze.

"No moving," the tech ordered in a distracted way, since Joel had flinched a little as Mar continued to explore.

Joel had a real hard time concentrating.

The med tech pulled away his scanner and tapped a few times into his datapad. Then he stated to Joel and the datapad, "Private Joel Watkins, report for duty tomorrow at 0600 hours. You are cleared for light duty for one standard day, which may be extended at the discretion of your commanding officer. Dismissed."

The tech walked away without taking further notice of either Joel or Mar.

Joel half turned to face Mar. "Eight hours?" Mar commented. "Should be about right. Get your pants on. Let's go."

Joel felt a little bewildered as he was led away by a Spartan half his size. All the things he had heard about Mar darted through his head, and he wasn't sure if he was afraid or not. Then he grinned. What was there to be afraid of?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Joel stood at attention as Mar approached him. She had a funny smile on her face and she was carrying a small brown clay pitcher with a stopper. She set the pitcher on a small table by the bed, picked up a sponge, unstopped the pitcher, and then poured a little amber fluid on the sponge.

Mar saw the look on his face and explained. "Ancient warriors had a cleansing tradition," she said as she smeared the sweet smelling oil from the sponge over Joel's chest in gentle swirling motions. "To be a true warrior you have to sanctify yourself, and remove the impurity of the world that has soiled you. The sweat of you body must also be removed, and with its removal you give up distracting memories of the past. You give them up to the oil, and the oil takes them away. It helps the body and mind focus on what is to come." Mar looked up at him. He was beginning to get it.

"First the oil, which heals the skin and removes dirt of the world from you body. Then, the oil is removed, and with its removal you are pure. Once again a warrior, with his mind, spirit, and body renewed."

Joel heard a knife being drawn. Still looking into his eyes, Mar brought a curved dagger into his field of view.

"Do you trust me?" Mar asked.

"Yah," Joel said. His eyes were now locked on the dagger.

"Good," she said. Slowly she brought the dagger up and laid the curved edge on his chest. She turned it to 20 degrees and applied an even pressure. Joel could feel the razor edge of its blade almost bite, but was surprised that it didn't break his skin. Then Mar slowly drew the dagger down his chest, and its edge removed the oil, which sheeted in front of the dagger and down to his abdomen. Joel held his breath. At any second he expected the dagger to slice open his chest and every instinct in his body and mind told him to back away. But he stayed, and he didn't know why. The pressure of the blade, the slickness and smell of the oil, the sensation of the blade as it scraped his skin completely clean, and the imminent danger gave him a rush. He let out his breath and drew it back in with each stroke of the knife. In a half dozen strokes Joel's chest was clean of all but the faintest residue of oil, and his skin tingled. His heart was racing.

Mar took a step back and held up the knife. A droplet of oil dripped from the base of the curved blade.

"Shall we continue?" she asked.

Joel felt his will crumble. His fear changed into a strange anticipation, and he heard himself say, "Yah."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun was bright, and the platoon stood at attention.

Sarge stood front and center. "20 k run this morning. 20 kilo packs. Private Harper, you lead. Medicals, your request to rejoin the platoon is denied. Come with me. Platoon, GO!"

In a heartbeat the platoon had turned and was running behind Mar. As they ran Mar barked commands and the formation morphed into a wedge, then a column, and then three lines. It all happened seamlessly and effortlessly.

Wall and Watcher followed Sarge. "You missed some fun during you 3 day vacation, boys. Since you're on medical you get to download the latest from HQ. Lots of alien stuff. I'm sure you'll love it. Now, jack in." He pointed to their field command tent.

Wall and Watcher cycled the airlock and went in. Without even pausing, Watcher plugged in and began the download and the digestion process. Wall followed suit, but with absolutely no enthusiasm. All the gibberish about 'resonance fields' and babble about history made his eyes glaze over. Now give him an impact rifle and that was a different story.

The data poured in and, as usual, only some of it made sense. Wall looked over at Watcher. He had a thoughtful look on his face, as he always did. Not for the first time Joel wondered what Watcher was thinking.

A string of alien holos popped up. Joel recoiled, "They're bugs!"

"Yes, they are," Watcher said. "Nasty bugs with big guns. You'll be coming up on bug physiology soon. It's pretty interesting."

Watcher had turned up his feed rate so he was way ahead of Joel. The alien physiology section started and, yes, Joel had to say it was interesting. This datastream was showing the interesting ways to kill bugs. Joel lost the glassy look in his eyes and paid very close attention.

After the third bug dismemberment Joel decided he liked this download.

[This message has been edited by Hydro (edited January 27, 2001).]

[Argonaut]

Morgan Industries

Sharra lay back on her bed in absolute frustration. She had been almost entirely isolated from the outside world since Prokhor had gone missing. CEO Morgan was refusing to take any risks and as a result Sharra had been confined to her quarters unless a suitable escort could be provided, and security could be guaranteed. She had almost as large an entourage as the CEO himself.

Sharra had not even be able to speak to Will after the incident at the borehole, and it had taken her forever to find out that he was, in fact, all right. She had heard, as had almost everyone on Planet by now, about the death of Anastasia Zakharov. Privately she grieved for the woman, not so much out of personal loss, but for the understanding that Prokhor had lost the one thing he had strived so long to find: his family.

Sharra understood how Prokhor must be feeling right now, isolated from the world not knowing if your loved ones were all right. Since Prokhor was kidnapped, even Kirstie, Brad and Mr. Andreas had disappeared, apparently headed the same place Will was headed. Of course, Sharra had no idea where that was.

On the few occasions she did go out, she was normally treated to dinner with CEO Morgan or his son, Morgan Junior, although neither seemed to know what to make of the escaped Hive drone who had won Prokhor Zakharov’s guardianship. They did realise, however, how valuable she was to ensure that Zakharov returned to his work at Morgan Industries if he could be liberated. Zakharov’s research ability was considered to be essential to the Morganites survival in the upcoming war.


Sharra knelt beside her bed, as she now did every night, and prayed for the safety of Prokhor and Will and everyone who was trying to stop the Aliens from crushing humanity. She even prayed for the souls of those trapped within the Hive, forced to go along with the Chairman’s insane plan to aid the Aliens. Then, refusing to mull on such thoughts any longer, knowing she would just be more miserable, Sharra climbed into bed, turned out the light, and went to sleep.

Secret Hive Covert Ops Centre

Haraad Ashaandi stepped off the lift with the sisters just a few steps behind. It had been a busy time recently, filled with triumphs and defeats. Ashaandi liked most to relish the triumphs. The look on Allardyce’s face as Anastasia died, while not his ultimate plan, certainly served as a personal triumph of sorts.

Ashaandi rounded a corner and was not surprised to see Sand reclining there with his feet up on the table. The cybernetic components that housed the Zeta-Two algorithm shined eerily in the light. An unfortunate side-effect to the merging as it made Sand far too recognizable. Axis security would be much quicker to pick him up now.

“Your late. You should have called.” Ashaandi knew this was Sand’s attempt at humour, however the emotionless voice gave it an oddly threatening tone. Still, Ashaandi did not consider himself particularly concerned. Sand was a nuisance and would soon be eliminated. The Chairman had assured him of that.

“I’ve been busy Sand. Some of us had work to do.” The sisters moved on, despite their desire to see Sand put back in line by Ashaandi, they knew that this was not their place.

“So I’ve heard,” Sand replied in that same calculating voice. “You seem to have been raising hell all over this Planet. I’m sure the Chairman is pleased.”

“He is. I could care less what Yang thinks, but yes he is pleased.” There was something different about Sand that was puzzling Ashaandi. The healthy level of fear that used to exist, was no longer there. Ashaandi assumed it was a result of the algorithm but it still made Sand-Zeta Two more dangerous than the original was. Ashaandi would definitely have to speed up plans to arrange his elimination.

“I’m sure you’ve probably heard by now that we have a new visitor, of course.” Sand continued. “Our good friend Provost Zakharov is cooling his heels nicely in a cell right now.”

“Excellent. Has Yang been informed?”

“Yes. I spoke to him personally.”

“That was quite bold of you, wasn’t it?” Ashaandi had to almost laugh at the thought of Yang and Sand talking over a commlink. The expression ‘if looks could kill’ flashed in Ashaandi’s thoughts.

“Yes. It was.” Sand proceeded to get up and push past Ashaandi quite defiantly. Ashaandi made a mental note to speak to the sisters about seeing to Sand’s demise.

[Googlie]

Avishnu Testing Range

I glanced again at my commlink screen on my wrist and tapped it for messages. The one from Pravin appeared again, as it had the last five times or so that I had checked it.

“Depart from the Avishnu Range – I’ll meet you there.”

That was all. I had queried it, and his response was equally unenlightening:

“You’ll have company – and we don’t want a public farewell.”

That was it.

I glanced out of the copter window as the pilot banked it to commence the descent to the military aerospace center at Avishnu.

I looked away. It held too many painful memories – Stazi and I on our ‘honeymoon’ – the climb to the center – the chameleon suits – the episode with the Consciousness about which I remembered very little.

We touched down gently, and I was surprised to see Pravin himself come out of the administration building to greet me.

We shook hands, and I asked:

“So what’s this all about – why the cryptic messages and the secrecy?”

He smiled.

“Patience, Scott, patience. Your turnaround time is just long enough to meet everyone, so come on and let’s get the introductions done.”

He led me across the apron to a camouflaged hangar, which we entered.

It was crowded.

There must have been upwards of 100 uniformed personnel there, in uniforms I didn’t recognize.

I turned to Lal.

“What’s this all about?” I asked.

“Your companions for the journey”, he replied.

I looked at him quizzically.

“I’ll let their CO explain,” he went on, as an officer detached herself from the ranks and came forward.

Lal made the introductions:

“Scott Allardyce – I’d like you to meet Wing Commander Patricia Potter.”

She saluted, and then stuck out her hand “But my friends call me ‘Trixie’ – and my call sign’s ‘Pixie’, which figures, I guess.”

She had an infectious smile, which I returned.

“Then you must call me ‘Googlie’ when we’re not standing on formality,” I replied. “You must be a special unit – I don’t recognize the uniforms.”

“We are,” she replied. “We’re the Third Wing of the Believing Drones, and going with you to Great Conclave.”

I raised an eyebrow, and looked over at Lal.

He chuckled. “Not my doing – well, not all of it. They’re all volunteers. I spoke earlier with Sister Miriam, and we have agreed on a sort of ‘lend-lease’ program. I have turned over control of three flights of needlejets to the Believing Drones. They are all fresh from the production line – Fusion Shards – and the Wing has two flights of six penetrators each and one of six interceptors. The crews are all Veterans, with the odd Elite among them. They represent most of the cream of the Peacekeeping aviation corps. I say most, as we lost several to the Hive when we lost the Midway Base.”

Trixie coughed discretely. “Including my brother – he was a squad leader in the force we sent there – it’s so unlike him to defect. I just don’t know what happened there. But you should be aware, Sir, that we will run before we fire on our own kin.”

“Mind Control,” I muttered.

“Pardon?” asked Trixie.

“Mind Control,” I repeated. “The Hive has a very aggressive covert ops brigade, led by probably Planet’s strongest empath. I imagine he turned them – they probably didn’t even know what they were doing – and might still not know. And that’s OK, Trixie. I wouldn’t expect you to shoot down relatives – or even erstwhile friends and neighbors.”

“I’d do anything to get them back,” she said, her eyes misting over as she spoke.

“I have an idea,” I replied. “It’s a long shot, but it might just work.”

Lal slapped us both on the back:

“If anything can be done, ‘Mr. Fixit’ Googlie here will arrange it,” he said. “I’ll swear he’s Machiavelli incarnate.”

“Huh?” commented Trixie.

“Never mind,” I replied. “You need to be a Lander – or an ancient history buff – to get the nuance there.”

The commotion behind us had been growing, and we turned to see what was causing it.

The mechanics had wheeled the eighteen aircraft from their hangars, and had stowed the belongings of the crews and support teams aboard, as well as all the spares and materiel that could be stashed into the enclosed spaces.

One or two were firing up their engines in readiness for departure.

Lal turned to me, and hugged me.

“You’d best be going,” he said. “Your route has been cleared to Bank, and from there to Conclave.”

“Where do I sit,” I asked.

“Oh, you’re my Weapons Officer for the flight,” Trixie replied. We’re about 15 field mechanics and maybe 5 WO’s short, so we’ll need to recruit from the Drones. Not all the crews volunteered 100% - and that’s OK too – it wasn’t compulsory.”

I donned the air suit supplied to me, and followed Trixie to the waiting needlejet.

She introduced me to her crew.

She piloted a Penetrator, so the crew was four. I of course was her WO. Dan Perkins was the Flight Engineer and Katy Fedoruk the Navigation Officer. Both looked to be in their late teens, although I knew that they must be at least five to ten years older to have attained Veterans’ rank, or possibly Elite. The two mechanics who were also squeezing into our needlejet also looked like teenagers, but more legitimately so.

“Air Marshall Scott Allardyce,” she said. “He’s accompanying us to Great Conclave.”

We gravely shook hands. The mechanics especially looked in awe.

“So what does a WO do on a shakedown flight?” I asked.

Perkins laughed.

“Brews the coffee and passes it around,” he said. “Specially in a Pen. We’re not loaded for bear anyway – strictly transportation. The Interceptors, though – they’re armed and ready – we’re transporting their spares and mechanics so as not to slow them down.”

“OK, let’s board and get this show on the road,” Trixie commanded, climbing to her command nacelle. We meekly followed suit.

################################################## #######################

We landed on the restricted military runway at Morgan Bank. I was appalled at the destruction evident from the air as we made our final approach. It was my first visit since the Hive occupation and withdrawal, and I was saddened to see the crumbling buildings where once had been the evidence of a thriving metropolis. Now the construction cranes were evident everywhere, as Morgan rebuilt his energy flagship base.

A nattily attired young man met us as we climbed down to stretch our legs while the ground crews fussed around the needlejets refueling them for the next leg to Great Conclave.

“Hi, I’m Tad Prescott. I work for Paul Andreas, who sends his regrets that he couldn’t meet you in person. He was surprised to get your commlink to say you were on your way. And, Sir, let me say how sorry we all were to learn of Anastasia’s death. Our heartfelt condolences go out to you – and her Grandfather too.”

I nodded, and shook his hand.

“Tad, have you somewhere private where we can talk?”

He took me by the arm. “Of course, this way.”

The Covert Ops debriefing room was windowless, and airless, deep in the bowels beneath the aerospace center’s military adjunct.

I got right to the point.

“Tad. I’d like you to find a Miles Cavanaugh. A Spartan empath. It was his doppelganger – or clone – that was responsible for the nuking of the Command Center at Sparta Command over a year ago. He went independent, but last I heard he had captured one of those Alien Ogres and turned the crew and was heading for a Spartan Base. I lost contact after that, and whether Anastasia was keeping tabs on him I don’t know.

“It’s imperative I talk with him – meeting him would be even better.

“You might need exit papers and the like for him – you can trust Basil Hargreaves to deliver. Ask him if he likes Cricket. He’ll reply by saying yes, and that his favorite old-timer was Cowdrey, but he can’t remember his highest score. Your reply is: 337. He’ll then know you are my emissary.”

He nodded. “I’ll find and deliver Cavanaugh to you, Sir.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I know you will.”

################################################## #####################

Naomi heard the sound in the distance and looked out to the northwest. She saw the specks in the sky, and her breath caught in her throat.

This was it.

All the preparation and training and dry runs were worth it now, she thought.

She moved her breather to one side, and shouted:

“Come kids, gather round and let’s take cover.”

She was sixteen, a senior, and a warden at the Crèche at Great Conclave. This meant that she had the responsibility for rounding up ten children in the event of danger. They had diligently practiced running for the bomb shelter bunkered beneath the Crèche – every day there was a drill, as they lived in the expectation of an imminent Hive attack.

And this was it.

“But Naomi,” one kid whined, “we’ve had our drill today. This was just getting interesting.”

A group had been dissecting fungal stalks, looking for any sign of small mindworm larvae that could be either killed or hatched in captivity.

With ruthless efficiency the Hive had discovered that young children were largely immune to the psi-attacks of the infant mindworms – likely because they had none of the adults’ horrors to imagine – so Yang’s crèche masters had exploited this by using the children as foragers for larvae to turn over to the brood pits.

It made so much sense that the practice continued even after the liberation of Great Conclave.

“I don’t care,” Naomi shouted. “This isn’t a drill, it’s for real. Look.”

She pointed into the distance where the specks were now much bigger, and more numerous, than had first appeared.

Just then Sister Penelope, the Crèche Mistress, came out of the building.

“It’s all right, children. I’ve just been informed by Sister Miriam’s office that these are ours, so we can stand and wave instead of taking cover.”

This got the kids’ attention.

They dropped what they were doing, all dissections forgotten, as they strained to see the incoming needlejets.

The Crèche was right on the flight path to the military runway, and as was customary with approaching an unfamiliar base, one of the aircraft acted as pathfinder on a slow flyby.

Naomi gazed in fascination.

It came in slightly nose-high, engines throttled back, and undercarriaqge down, but even then she was conscious of the leashed power. Every wing pylon had a weapon of some kind or another hanging from it.

As it flew slowly overhead, she could make out the insignia on its wings and tail. Her heart bursting with pride she recognized the Believers’ logo – the orange Omega symbol with the cross inside that some called a sword (‘The Sword of Righteousness’, they said) – and Naomi decided then that she wanted to be a pilot.

The needlejet had completed its flyby, and one by one they came in to land, twelve of the big ones first, followed by six smaller ones that appeared to Naomi’s eye to be more agile, with fewer wing pylons and less appendages.

The noise lingered in her ears long after the last of the needlejets had sunk below her vision to land on the runway.

As she looked round the other children who had been gazing raptly at the sight, she knew that she was not alone. At least half were watching with awe, and with a promise to themselves that they would train to join these knights of the sky.

################################################## ####################

I had taken advantage of the brief two-hour stopover at Bank to get a very rudimentary uniform hustled together, and had flown the last leg changed into it.

As Trixie taxied to a halt at the command building, the unmistakable figure of Sister Miriam could be seen making its way towards us leading a small entourage.

“You go first, Sir,” Trixie said. “It’s you she’s here to greet.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “I’m just a bit player in this opera. She’s here to welcome her new air force. And besides, you’re captaining this craft – it’s your honor.”

She nodded, and climbed down, saluting smartly when she reached the ground:

“Third Wing reporting for duty, Ma’am,” she said.

Miriam held out her hand:

“Welcome. And thank you for volunteering to join us in our struggle. Your people’s gift and the commitment and dedication of young people like you and your fellow officers and crew will go a long way to ensuring that civilization as we know it will continue to flourish on Chiron.”

She looked up to see me hovering in the background, and nodded in recognition.

I stepped forward, and saluted:

“Scott Allardyce reporting for duty, as requested, Sister.”

She came forward, eyes twinkling:

“Now that’s no way to greet an old friend, is it, Googlie?”

With that she caught me by surprise by clasping me in a warm embrace.

She whispered “And I have a nice surprise for you, too.”

Breaking apart, she turned to her entourage, singling out a tall young man.

“And this is the Spartan military liaison officer to the Believers”, she said, as the man stepped forward, a grin on his face.

“Hello, Dad,” he said.

I chuckled.

“Hello, Ian,” I replied

‘This,’ I thought, ‘is going to be fun.’


[This message has been edited by Googlie (edited February 05, 2001).]

[Hydro]

Hero's Waypoint

Coronal Khilling was standing and examining a datapad as her subordinate entered the field tent. Second Lieutenant Trav Mathesison stopped smartly about two meters from the Coronal and stood at attention as he waited to be recognized. After about five minutes the Coronal finished and turned to face the lieutenant. Mathesison snapped a crisp salute, and the Coronal snapped one back.

"At ease, Lieutenant," she said. "I've just reviewed Hero Garrison Two's performance results from the last series of field exercises. Alpha Company was at 156% of human standard, Beta at 146%, and Gamma at 143%. The injury rate was 4%, with another 17% requiring field aid."

Khilling's dark brown eyes transfixed the young Lieutenant. "In a word, Lieutenant, this performance is sh*t. Where do you get off allowing Spartans with Command training, and full cyborg enhancements, to degenerate to the almost below Elite levels? Our citizens believe in their soldiery, and have invested their energy and their blood in maintaining our ideals, and this is the best you can give them? I won't even mention the pathetic injury rate. I even heard that there was a power pack rupture during a pole arm spar. A power pack rupture!. The only way that can happen without an energy discharge into the biomechanical infrastructure of the soldier is poor maintenance, which, Lieutenant, is your responsibility. That smacks of sloppy training, and lack of focus in your leadership skills. Just because we aren't in the Hive theatre doesn't mean we can get soft, like the limp-wristed Peacekeepers, or starry-eyed Gaians. You and your garrison could be shipped off to the Hive front tomorrow. Would you be ready?"

Mathesison simply stood at attention since he knew better than to answer a rhetorical question from his commanding officer. He had made that mistake once, and it still burned in his memory.

"However," Khilling continued, looking down at her datapad, "there were a couple of bright spots. Our psych officers did a quick investigation and found that your companies have an above average morale, and, for some reason, they seem to hold you in high regard. They are also cohesive and work well together. In fact, they work abnormally well together, and seem to feed off each other's abilities and strengths. That, my young Lieutenant, is the only reason they remain at Elite levels, since their physical performance is not up to Spartan standard. "

Khilling looked up from her datapad and at Mathesison again, and to him it felt like she was looking and assessing his soul. He resisted the urge to squirm.

"I am entering an Acceptable rating in your file," she said, "and will make no mention of the deficiencies I have mentioned. You have until the next review cycle to shape up, mister. Being a Spartan officer is the highest honor we can bestow on a citizen, and only the best are even considered for the position. This is not a gift, and you have to continually prove, and re-prove, yourself every single day. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Mathesison straightened further, if that was possible. "Yes, Sir!"

"Dismissed," she stated as she toggled the next status report on her datapad for review.

Mathesison turned on his heal, walked to the airlock and waited for it to cycle. He entered, sealed it, put on his breather, and walked outside. It was damp and overcast, but Trav didn't care. To him it was bright and sunny and he had the beginnings of a smile.

Got off easy, he thought to himself, "she must like me!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Zzar looked out on the rich, undeveloped land below him. It was unspoiled by the Invaders, who teemed nearby, and was as pristine as could be expected. A network of fungus crisscrossed the rising mountainous landmass, and he could see low assemblages of native plants were nestled between the interlocking fungal ribbons as they hugged the ground surface. By now he was used to the feeling of floating above the ground as his Deathsphere flew toward its target. The other five Deathspheres in his squadron were in a loose formation around him, and his Deathsphere 1 was roughly in the center.

M'Lan interrupted the silence. "Conqueror, there is a metallic anomaly ahead. It was not on the terrain maps provided by the Invader Yang. Initiating scan."

Zzar turned his full attention toward his navigator, and waited for a download.

"Resolution complete," M'Lan resonated. "The structure is an Invader Spartan sensor net."

Now he had Zzar's attention and interest and he mentally ordered the Deathsphere to contact the others in his squadron. "Conqueror to Deathspheres: Observe Invader observational structure. Maneuver: avoid Invader sensor and then resume course and formation."

The Deathpheres instantly banked to the northeast.

"Did they detect us?" Zzar resonated.

M'Lan submerged himself in the Ancient that was Deathsphere 1 and came out a moment later. "Estimated probability 4% based on the specification download from the Invader Yang. Invader observation structures cannot detect as far or as efficiently as Progenitor equipment. This is a truth."

Zzar was not surprised by this bit of data and turned back to the landscape. The attack simulations and permutations had been reviewed hundreds of times and there was no need to repeat them. Everything was accounted for. All was ready

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Sir, just got a blip on sensor net 15," Private Markin Hughs stated, still tied into his VR rig at the Command Center of Hero's Waypoint.

Captain McCreery looked up. "15? It's in the middle of nowhere, between us and the Peacekeepers. Are you sure?"

"Yes, Sir. No mistake. Six airborne blips on a northwest vector. The sensor just clipped 'em, and data reliability is 72%. Speed index is….18!" he said.

McCreery snorted. "18? That's 50% faster than anything on Planet. Probably a data phantom."

"Rechecking," the technician stated. "No indications of a phantom. Objects out of range, and there is no ID on the blips. Did get some strange energy emissions, though. No matches with any reliability from the database."

McCreery thought about it for a minute. Blips or no, this was unusual and should be reported. It was probably a blip.

"Hughs, quirt to Sparta Command. Continue observation sweep," Captain McCreery ordered.

"Yes, sir," Private Hughs said, already immersed in VR again.

McCreery pulled up an important supply report, which had to be finished by next week. In moments the phantom blip was forgotten.

[senatus]

Velvetgrass Point


Jay waited for Jessica to finish her good-byes to the small congregation
of Gaian Christians who had come to her Sunday sermon.


"I'm glad you found some other Believers here, Jess," Jay said. 
"You must've been feeling a little lonely."


"I do miss the services sometimes.  But lonely?" Jessica shook
her head.  "No, not really - after all, there's Kirsten, and yourself,
and even (ugh) Fluffy.  I really have to thank you, Jay - you've really
gone out of your way to make me feel...."


Jessica paused for a moment, suddenly a little embarrassed.  Just
how did Jay make her feel?  Well, OK, but she couldn't really
say that.  She wasn't even sure of her feelings there; not
sure if it was very proper for a Believer minister under the circumstances,
and she certainly didn't want to embarrass Jay or screw up their friendship. 
She quickly realized that she had to say something.


"... welcome, here."


Jessica was aware that she was blushing slightly, and hoped that Jay
hadn't noticed.


"Oh... oh well, of  course you're welcome here," Jay said,
feeling suddenly a little awkward.  Did Jess hesitate a moment? 
Was she thinking something else?  Of course not, it was just his wishful
thinking.


"And you've really taught me a lot, too." Jess forced herself to change
the subject to something safer.


"You've really improved in your empath skills, Jess.  You have
a pretty decent  potential.  Were your parents empaths too?"


"I don't actually know," Jessica said.  "My parents were lost in
the Diaspora when I was still a baby, and I was raised by Believer missionaries."


"I'm sorry about your parents," Jay said. sincerely.  One of the
things about Jay that Jessica found herself liking was his sincerity. 
It was just a little embarrassing to admit to herself that she was becoming
more aware of Jay not just as a person, but a man.


It's not like I've got a lot of... well, any, experience about
that.  Jessica had been raised with the strict morals of a Believer,
and combined with her academic drive, she just hadn't found the time to
get to really know any guys when she was a teenager and then a university
student.  Jay was pretty much the first man she'd gotten a chance
to really get anywhere close to.  It was simple biology, her psychology
training told her.  But simple or no, she had to admit that she was
seriously attracted to Jay.  The fact that she'd dreamed that they
were kissing the other night was proof enough of that.  Kissing
and other stuff.


Stop it!  Jessica told herself firmly.  Jay was a friend
and a tutor and that was all.  He probably would have a Gaian girlfriend
closer in age, interests, and background than Jessica could be.  Not
that he'd ever mentioned one.  Not that she'd ever ask.  All
I can say is that I'm glad for Jay's instruction; without it I'd be "leaking"
thoughts
all over the place.


Unaware of the thoughts chasing through Jessica's head, Jay changed
the subject to more trivial stuff.  She's probably a bit uncomfortable
about talking about her parents.  Like Marcus.  I  hope
I didn't hurt her feelings there.  Good 'ol Jay, foot in mouth like
always.


Another man was walking down the path towards them.  Jessica didn't
recognize him, but he looked maybe a year older than her companion, and
Jay's face lighted in recognition.


"Steve!  Long time no see!"


Jay beckoned his former classmate over.  His friend had changed
a bit; gotten more muscular and a shorter haircut while in the Gaian Self-Defence
Force.  It shouldn't be surprising to Jay; it had been a long
time since he'd seen Steve, before he'd left the Gaian territory on Rider's
mission.  And met Jessica, of course.


Jay shook Steve's hand, and suddenly felt a little jealous of Steve's
appraising look as the older empath looked askance at Jessica.


"Jess, this is my friend and classmate Steve; Steve, this is Sister
Jessica, the Believer envoy."


Steve hesitated briefly before shaking Jessica's hand.


"I hope you're enjoying your visit here, Sister Jessica."  To Jay,
Steve sounded uncharacteristically restrained, if polite.  Jessica
noted the slight stiffness in the other's body language, but smiled nonetheless.


"I am.  Jay's a wonderful guide, all the people are friendly, and
Lady Dierdre is a gracious hostess.  And I've learned a lot here,
thanks to mostly to Jay."


"Learned a lot?"  Steve raised an eyebrow and looked at Jay.


"Sister Jessica is an empath, and was sent here partly to learn how
to use her talents," Jay said.


"Well... that's great," Steve said diffidently.  "Was it hard to
find empath training back home?  I imagine the Believers don't have
a mindworm bonding program."


"No, that's true -  we haven't really had a chance to examine the
possibilities.  But I don't think any of the other factions other
than your people have seen what the mindworms are capable of,"  Jessica
said politely, although Jay had given Steve a sudden hard look, sensing
a strange undertone in the other's question.


"Militarily?"  Steve asked.


"Well, that too, but mostly I meant as... well, people."


"Yes, that's certainly true.  Well, it's nice to meet you, Sister
Jessica.  And good to see you again, Jay.  I've got some duties
I have to attend to, but maybe I can drop by this evening?" Steve turned
to Jay and asked.


"Sure," Jay responded, wondering what was bothering his friend. 
Steve certainly seemed a lot more reserved than before.

---

Chiron's suns had dropped below the horizon, and the streets of Velvetgrass
Point were softly lit by energy-efficient flourescents when Steve knocked
on Jay's door.


"Hey, come on in," Jay invited and Steve came in.  "I've just finished
dinner, but if you'd like some reheats or a drink?"


"I've eaten, but sure I'll have some fruit juice, thanks."  Steve
said.  "So how have you been?"


The two exchanged some small talk for a while before Jay decided to
bring up a question.


"Steve, what was eating you this afternoon?"


"Eating me?  Nothing."


"That's not what it sounded  like when you met Jessica." 
Jay said.


"Is that what she said afterwards?"  Steve asked.


"No, she didn't say anything.  But I know you, and you seemed..."
hostile, Jay thought behind his empathic shields, and chose a different
word instead.


"... diffident."


Steve sighed and put down his drink.


"I didn't want to bring it up, since Sister Jessica is a guest and you're
her guide here.  But since you asked....  I'm sure she seems
pleasant, heck, maybe she even is, but I don't like the Believers."


"Don't like?  Why?" Jay demanded.


"Jay, they're a cult.  I don't think we should be getting
too friendly with them."


"A cult?!"  Jay said disbelievingly.


"Sure.  Look, they've got this religion thing that was created
by a bunch of superstitious nomads thousands of years ago on old Earth. 
They believe in this invisible, supernatural 'God'.  That's fine I
guess, but a pretty poor excuse to form a society in the twenty-third century. 
And, they think everyone should worship this god of theirs and do what
they think this god wants.  They're willing to sacrifice themselves
for what they think their god wants, and they're willing to kill other
people - all in the name of this ancient religion.  That's not rational;
it's dangerous.  They're fanatics, Jay."


"Lady Dierdre doesn't think so." Jay said evenly, but inside he felt
an angry need to defend Jessica.  "She's offered help and accepted
a treaty of friendship with the Believers."


"Lady Dierdre has to be pragmatic... and besides, you know how she feels
about fighting.  But watch the history vids from last century and
read between the lines.  The Believers never liked us; they used to
call us 'pagans' and probably they would've eventually gone to war with
us, if Yang hadn't come after them first.  In my opinion, none of
the other factions can be trusted - you know our history with the Hive
and Morgan - but the Believers are the most likely to act irrationally. 
And they've already gotten to the Free Drones."


"I didn't know you were into politics," Jay said quietly.


"A lot of us feel that we should've stayed hidden, rather than revealing
ourselves to the world.  Still, we're in it now.  All I'm saying,
Jay, is be careful.  Don't get sucked into their ideology."

---

The next day, Jay showed up at Jessica's doorway, and chimed for entry. 
When he came in, he saw that Jess had switched from the casual Gaian clothes
to a traveller's jumpsuit, and was busy packing a bag.


"Hi, Jess, I came as soon as I got your call... hey, what's up?"


Jessica glumly showed Jay a transcript, which instructed her to return
to Great Conclave.


"You're going back to Great Conclave?"  Jay asked, while feeling
a sudden pang of disappointment.


"Yes... I catch the flight this evening."  Jessica said.


"You don't seem too happy about it," Jay observed.


"I go where the Lord wills," Jessica said simply, "but... yes, I'd rather
stay here.  I'm going to miss Velvetgrass Point, and Kirsten, and
you, and even Fluffy."


Jessica sat down on the edge of the bed suddenly.


"And, truth be told, I don't feel comfortable in Great Conclave." 
To her surprise, Jessica found herself telling Jay about her experiences
in the Believer capital; the misunderstandings and sometimes hostility
that the other Believers felt towards her, and even the terrible experience
with David Weaver.


"Jess... don't feel badly.  Prejudiced people exist everywhere. 
You've just got to ignore what they say, and do for yourself what you know
to be right.  And, you know you'll always be welcome here," Jay said
sincerely.  He already had his arm around Jessica's shoulders, and
before he realized what he was doing, he leaned over and kissed her.


It was hard to say which of the two were startled more, but after a
moment, it was Jay who found himself breaking the kiss, his eyes wide..


"Jess!  I'm sorry."  Jay found himself reddening.  What
had come over him?


"Jay." Jessica said quickly, then blushed herself.  "Don't be sorry. 
I'm... not."  She found herself staring at Jay's face.


"In that case," Jay said, and with the sudden knowledge that the time
was right, leaned forward and kissed Jessica again.


Jessica found herself hungrily responding to Jay's kissing, her hands
moving eagerly up to pull him towards her, even as Jay's hands tentatively
wandered over the curves of her body.  After a few minutes of the
inexperienced petting, Jessica knew they had to stop... or else, they might
not.  It was hard.


"Jay, wait." Jess whispered breathlessly.  She felt both suddenly
embarrassed and apologetic as Jay looked curiously at her.


"I'm sorry... it's just... I'd rather go slow and not go any further,
and uhm, I've never done this sort of thing before...."


"Oh, " said Jay, but he didn't sound disappointed or angry.  "That's
OK, Jess; neither have I really."  He looked shy, but earnest.


"And, I don't mind waiting.  For you to come back, either."


"I will come back," Jessica promised.


When they left to go to the airstrip, they walked arm-in-arm like any
young couple; and neither of them cared what anybody else might think of
it.