The Spartan Chronicles - Volume 4

[senatus]

(Continued from previous post, which was too long)

---

Sven Alfredsson's internal chronometer beeped, timing the mission progress. 
He looked about with some justifiable satisfaction at Team Matthew; they'd
made excellent time in cutting through the outer filter mesh and penetrating
the maintenance shafts, and now were barely an hour away from their final
objective.

"OK team, let's rest up a bit here," he ordered.  The camera in
this old maintenance room had been bypassed, continually replaying the
loop of an empty room, so his team could take a bit of a break for food
and water.  The genejack factory was at the very basement of The Leader's
Horde, and so they'd had a long descent.  This was as close as they
were going to get.

As the rest of the team talked quietly amongst themselves, or prayed,
Sven beckoned Ari Danko over.  Danko was a Free Drone, formerly specializing
in water and sewer maintenance.  His role had been specifically assigned
by Sven.

"So, is this it Ari?" Sven asked Danko as he brought out a holotablet.

"Yes, Brother Sven.  We can go into the regular corridors at this
point, and make our way to the nearest recycling pump processing station
here.  Then we open the water hatch and should be able to get all
the way to the genejack factory through the water pipeline."

"If everything goes according to plan, that is," Sven mused.

"If God is with us, how can it not?" Danko asked.

"Well Ari, my experience is that God helps, but he expects us to do
our part.  Sometimes that means dealing with things when they go wrong."
Sven answered, before turning to the others.

"Let's go, people.  We've got work to do."

As it turned out, Danko was right - but so was Sven.  The probe
team proceeded down the empty corridors without incident before reaching
the pump control station.  To Sven's initial surprise, there was a
high security lock on the control room hatch, but on reflection he realized
it made sense.  Every Hiverian citizen lived in deadly fear of flooding,
after all.  Not that drowning out the base was their objective, and
besides, to achieve that would've required controlling all six stations.

"Maxine - deal with the lock."

One of the two security systems experts came forward and knelt before
the door.  Although secure by Hiverian standards, the lock was nothing
compared to the Morganic technology the Believing Drones had access to. 
A small aerosol can came out, and hundreds of specialized nanites were
sprayed onto the lock.  Thirty seconds later, the door was unlocked.

Sven signalled his team to activate stealth and position themselves
on either side of the door, before he yanked it open.

"Damn," he swore.  A very surprised maintenance worker stared at
the apparently empty doorway, his mouth open in confusion.

"Sorry," Sven muttered, and shot the drone through the skull with an
X-ray laser.  The worker fell backwards without a cry.

May God have mercy on your soul, Sven thought as he entered the
room first, his laser swinging to either side quickly.

"Clear!" he messaged to his team, and they filed in and shut the door. 
Danko immediately raced to the waterworks hatch and began to undog it.

"Sir!" Maxine hissed, and pointed, temporarily forgetting that none
of them could see each other.  Sven saw it in a moment himself, though
- one of the omnipresent cameras, niched in a corner.  The old-fashioned
charge-coupled device optics wouldn't have registered the team members
themselves, but the camera would've definitely witnessed the door's opening,
and the collapse of the luckless maintenance drone.  Sven still had
enough blood in him to feel it run cold.

"Judges 1-4," he ordered his team grimly.  They still had a chance
to get out alive, but it'd take some luck, and the battle-hardened cyborg
hated
relying on luck.

---

Twelve levels up, and barely five minutes previous, Angel swore with
vile intensity, massaging her temples.  She still had a splitting
headache from Ashaandi's fiasco with the enemy empaths.  Before the
psi-link broke, she could feel a number of the Circle turning to this Catherine
Atreus.  Only her own considerable mental talents had sufficed to
keep her free. Plus, the fact that she was a self-celebrated psychopathic
deviant; ironically, that very psychosis had protected her from the massmind
the others had succumbed to.  Ashaandi was also still free of course,
plus a few of his most dedicated and capable disciples - but the Circle
was broken, and Angel felt a strange new emotion - fear.  For the
first time in her long life, Angel's confidence was shaken, and she felt
an almost desperate need to assert herself.

A light blinked on the console before her, indicating an urgent message
from one of her underlings.  Although the Circle had just suffered
a mass defection of its psi talents, Ashaandi had had the foresight to
recruit a number of non-psionic talented and ambitious individuals as well. 
Although they were considered cannon fodder by the psis, at least they
knew that they would enjoy positions of privilege over the rest of the
common herd when the Circle reigned supreme.  Most of these agents
were recruited from, indeed frequently comprised the rank-and-file of the
Hive's covert ops teams. They would be doubly valuable after the recent
events, but right now Angel was still in a foul temper.  She slapped
the commlink control.

"What!"

The caller, Lieutenant Norris, couldn't help but flinch as Angel appeared
before him, her face twisted with barely-controlled rage, looking more
like some terrible demon then the mythological creature whose name she
bore.  Rumour had it that the sisters were born of Believer parents,
and had in some strange twist of psychology sought to become the antithesis
of what they'd once been taught to be.  Whatever their history, however,
Angel terrified Norris, and he spoke quickly to deflect her ire.

"Ma'am... our link to the police headquarters just picked this up,"
he said and without prompting replied the video record.  Angel watched
with interest, laughing briefly as the maintenance drone fell backwards
with a circular hole burnt into his head.  However she didn't fail
to note the distinct absence of an attacker.  Obviously, someone was
using a stealth suit.  No doubt the Morganites.

"The police?" Angel asked, even as she began strapping on her own probe
ops equipment.

"They're on their way, but...."  Norris was intelligent enough
to know the police would find nothing; while capable of keeping the drones
in line, they certainly weren't trained for counterespionage.

"Assemble the team and meet me at the security elevator."

Angel briefly wondered what these Morganites were up to, but it didn't
really matter to her.  What mattered was that she was going to have
some toys to play with soon, to keep her mind off more disturbing matters.

---

The elevator door ahead of Sven opened, and two Hiverian police troopers
moved out in full synthemetal SWAT gear, their weapons sweeping back and
forth to cover the hallway.  Seeing nothing, they advanced forward,
and the elevator disgorged another dozen fully-armoured troopers. 
The last one in line moved forward with his fellows before suddenly crying
out and pitching forward onto his front.  Within a quarter of a second,
four more of the police were also dead, and the remaining troopers threw
themselves to the ground, looking for their assailants.  They saw
none - the high-powered X-ray laser was both silent and invisible to the
naked eye, and Sven Alfredsson smiled grimly as he depressed the trigger
of his weapon yet again.  Unlike for the drone worker previous, Sven
held no regrets; the Mental Hygiene Police were amongst the worst specimens
of humanity the Hive had ever produced - discounting the Circle, of course.

The Free Drone members of his team likely felt the same way; in any
event, they were trained and professional, and several other police died
in seconds.  The others, although still in confusion, reacted instinctively,
spraying shredder fire all around them.  Sven heard one of his team
cry out - although everyone was prone, still the ricochets could be deadly. 
There were only five troopers left, now, and Sven switched to his shredder
pistol.  The muzzle blazed; the shredder wasn't as covert as the laser,
but it also didn't require seven tenths of a second to recharge, either;
and then there were no more enemy troopers, just five dead bodies.

"Who got hit?" Sven snapped out.

"Me, sir - Ari Danko."  The answer was a tight whisper of pain,
and Danko deactivated his stealth suit so that Sven could examine him. 
It didn't take long; Sven could see the lacerations across Danko's gut,
and the blood leaking out of his light body armour.  In a proper medical
facility, those wounds would not be life-threatening.  In this situation,
the former drone was as good as dead.  Sven owed it to his team members
to give them the truth, and he shook his head grimly.

"I'm sorry, Ari."

"That's... that's all right, sir.  We knew the risks when we signed
up.  I may walk through the valley of death tonight, but the Lord
is my shepherd.  And I can still take some of the bastards with me
when they get down here, and be of use to the team."

Sven nodded as he administered painkillers.

"Go in peace, Brother Ari."

One by one, the other team members touched Ari on the shoulder, but
only briefly; time was of the essence and already the lift was descending
again.

"Here's the plan, group.  This time we let them come down the hall
- Ari will occupy their attention, and we will hit them from behind, then
go up the shaft ourselves.  Maxine - you'll override the elevator
controls.  Jeff, Glen, you'll get off at the port level; Suet, you
and Maxine will get off at sublevel one.  Akira, you and I will go
all the way to the top.  Everyone will make their best way back to
the rendezvous as originally planned."

The lift arrived, and the Believing Drones flattened to either side
of the corridor again.

"Fire on my command," Sven said, as the doors opened.

Four Hive troopers came out, and as they did, Sven knew his team was
in trouble.  Unlike the police, these were part of the base garrison,
and their fusion-assisted plasma steel armour was six times as heavy as
the police infantry had worn.  Plus they carried Hive-standard military
chaos carbines, which were far more dangerous than the simple shredder
hand weapons the police had.  And they knew their business, advancing
in a skirmish line as another four troopers emerged, then another again. 
A final group of four took up position as a rearguard at the elevator entrance.

"Change of plan," Sven sub-vocalized, and the piezoelectric sensor on
his throat translated the commands clearly to the earbugs of the probe
operatives.  "These guys are too well trained and equipped. 
Instead, we'll...."

Sven never got a chance to finish his sentence, as a burst of shredder
fire erupted from the back of the elevator, and there was a sudden explosion
of gore where Jeff had been crouching.  The stealthsuit obviously
still was working, but a spreading pool of blood marked where the body
lay.

Sven swore; but the cyborg's combat reflexes were already reacting,
throwing his body to the side as a burst of shards tore into the wall where
he'd been standing, even as his mind put together the pieces.  Enemy
probe team, he thought.  Using the troops to draw our attention
- smart.  They've obviously equipped with stealth too.  But how
did they just locate us?  No sensors here, and we weren't moving...
damn.  They've got an empath.

"Fire!"  Sven ordered.  It wouldn't help much - the troopers
were too heavily armoured for any of his team - except himself, of course
- to seriously degrade.  And they still couldn't see the Hiverian
probe members.  But that at least beat being picked off by the opposition. 
And if they could see him and not vice-versa, he had to even the odds somehow. 
He could see that the nearest trooper carried an ECM jammer; for a moment
he wondered why they hadn't been deployed, then realized that the enemy
probe team commander preferred both groups remain stealthed.  It made
sense, since they had the empath, even if their regular troopers weren't
doing much good.

Sven made a split-second decision even as he acted.  Team Mark
was still out there, and there was no way Matthew could get out of this
now.  But at least they could improve the odds for Sister Jessica. 
He reached forward, and his shredder - powered off his internal powerpack,
not batteries - flashed barely an inch in front of an unfortunate trooper's
helmet.  The man didn't even have a chance to flinch before his skull
was a grey mist.  With his other hand, Sven reached down and grabbed
the ECM jammer grenade, activating it.  A burst of EMP washed over
the corridor.  In a moment, the remaining members of Team Mark began
to flicker into existence - even Spartan combat stealthsuits couldn't resist
a burst at such close range - but so did seven other figures.

"Drop your weapons!"  Angel ordered, but even as she spoke, her
mind issued a powerful mental command to the nearest opponent to force
him to comply.

A mighty fortress is our God...

The mental statement - along with an unyielding mental resistance -
came back over her psi-link, and Angel recoiled briefly.  Not Morganites
after all.  Believers.  Angel knew from experience that mind
control of Miriam's fanatics was virtually impossible - they were brainwashed
far more effectively than even Yang's drones, and unlike the drones, had
an inherent resistance derived from their ideology.  Symbols were
the key to telepathy, and the Believers in particular were apt to frame
their symbols into hard, unyielding imagery like shields and fortresses. 
She could still scan them, of course, and....

"Sven Alfredsson."  Her sudden recognition was spoken with a rich,
languid appreciation.

"Angel."  The cyborg replied, and even though the troopers had
oriented their weapons towards him, it was as if only the two of them existed
at this moment.

The worst, save perhaps Sand or Ashaandi, Sven thought to himself.

That's right, Sven my darling, Angel laughed mentally as she
forced her way into his mind.  I wonder why you're still here with
your brain intact.  I wonder just what dear Kurt's been up to. 
I'm going to have such fun finding out.  And I will find
out.  I can read you like an open book.

Then you'd better learn to speed-read, Sven retorted, and with
electronic reflexes, his shredder aligned and his finger squeezed. 
Several things happened in quick succession, at the speed of thought.

Angel could read the cyborg's intentions even as he acted, and a sudden
lance of debilitating mental paralysis hit the cyborg.  His mind still
worked, but suddenly his synapses couldn't respond.

But his body could.  Months previous, after meeting Kurt, getting
his memory back, Sven had sworn that he'd never fall into the hands of
the Circle again.  Not alive, at any rate.  And so he'd carefully
crafted a hard-wired program into his cybernetic control system. 
One command.  A very simple one, and Angel's psi attack had no effect
on the small piece of silicon that issued it.  Even if Sven had wanted
to, he couldn't override the command.  That was the whole point. 
It wasn't under his control, so it couldn't be under hers either. 
The finger squeezed, and hyper-accelerated superdense shards of plasma
steel tore into Angel's body.

Angel screamed with a pain she'd never felt, though frequently inflicted,
as she could feel her legs - her beautiful legs - sliced up.  She
was lucky, though - the cyborg's aim had been low.

Sven smiled an extremely unpleasant smile as Angel fell.  She wasn't
dead, though - suddenly three of the Hiverian troopers and two of Angel's
probe team threw themselves into the line of fire, shock at their own actions
still on their faces.  The empath was instinctively defending herself,
even though it meant sacrificing her allies like the peons she thought
of them as.  Others dragged her back into the lift, the heavy security
doors closing.  She always was a self-centred b*tch, Sven thought,
and his reflexes came back under his control.  Chaos weaponry chewed
into his body, and almost as an afterthought, he shut down all his pain
receptors, even as he returned fire.  Oh yes, there also was one other
thing he needed to do.  He keyed in his MMI, instructing it to send
an encrypted message burst to Sister Jessica's private frequency.

Probe team compromised, but enemy probe team neutralized.  Good
luck, and God speed.

[senatus]

Ninety kilometres from Eastguard

"Well, well.  Looks like we're about to get some visitors."

Major Rao Kosarau looked up from the scope he'd been examining, and
turned to his communications officer.

"Tie us into the repeater and get me Eastguard."

Kosarau began to manipulate the controls on the high-tech "periscope"
belonging to his recon rover.  In typical Spartan fashion, high-tech
innovation had been loaned to a low-tech concept, and a whisker-thin optical
fibre moved in response to his manipulation, stretched between the roof
of the rover and a low-emission modified flyeye.  It was also typically
Spartan to have a senior officer at the sensor controls; Spartan doctrine
didn't subscribe to the antiquated theory that commanders only commanded
and soldiers only soldiered.  In the Spartan army, everybody
was expected to be able to perform multiple functions.  Besides, the
crew compartment of the recon rover was far too cramped to waste space
accommodating a "swivel-chair" commander.

"Sir, I have Eastguard HQ on-line, and...."

"Just a minute, Annie," Kosarau replied, not taking his eyes off the
scope.  Now that looked like....

"Sir...."  There was a bit of urgency in Private Annabelle De La
Croix's voice - she was still young, after all - but Kosarau held up his
hand to silence her, before making a final adjustment to the rover's sensors. 
Only then did her turn and nod at La Croix.

"On speaker, Annie."

"Major Kosarau, this is St-James.  What have you got?"  The
voice didn't identify himself more than that, but there was a touch of
impatience in it, as if the speaker was a busy man... and Kosarau stiffened.

"Sir!  We have detected enemy forces headed for Eastguard. 
I have visual analysis, Field Marshall."

Kosarau didn't bother to apologize for keeping the second most important
officer in the Spartan Federation waiting, despite his surprise. 
It would only waste even more of Salvadore St-James' time... and he had
nothing to apologize for anyway.  Spartan military protocol could
be surprisingly flexible - so long as the job got done.  And from
everything he'd heard of St-James, the Gecko was a man of few words himself. 
Still, he could feel a few prickles of sweat on his scalp as he addressed
his microphone; if the Gecko wasn't enough, for all he knew the entire
Junta might be listening to his report.  Kosarau licked his
lips and began, his brief nervousness instantly giving way to long-ingrained
military training.

"Four units, all of the type MilInt has designated as Mark II Ogres,
headed towards Eastguard.  Navigational plot is being transmitted
now on sub-channel, Sir.  They are proceeding at approximately thirteen-point-four
kilometres per hour, which appears to be near their top sustained speed. 
They are advancing in a loose skirmish formation, and are staying off the
road itself Sir, which implies that they aren't going for a top-speed frontal
assault - but they've going to pass through the minefield we buried last
week, Sir.  Should I activate the mines?"

"Negative, Major.  Stand by."

St-James turned and looked at Mel Cassaroni and Hui Wang.

"Comments?"

General Cassaroni frowned thoughtfully and spoke first, absent-mindedly
twirling a lock of hair with a slim finger as she did so.

"Four units - enough to be a reasonable threat to our forward units,
but only about 7% of their available force aggregate, and not enough to
take Eastguard.  I'd say leave the mines off.  This would probably
be a recon in force - in which case we shouldn't tip them off..  Unless
it's a diversion of some sort?  But I can't think of for what. 
They need to take Eastguard eventually, and they can't insert orbitally
behind us... not with our interceptors in Sparta Command."

Wang spoke up.

"I agree with General Cassaroni.  This is a recon in force. 
Classic doctrine for defeating the column and minimizing our own losses
would be either to respond with a frontal assault of our own, or stand
and defend our fortified position here at Eastguard."

Salvadore St-James, known by many (but addressed by none) as "the Gecko",
nodded.  Like Santiago herself,  the Gecko was justifiably confident
of his abilities - but not so arrogant to believe himself infallible in
his judgement.  The Junta had gone to considerable effort to incorporate
the boldest warriors and the brightest minds into its membership, and that
sort of talent should always be consulted.  He agreed with Cassaroni
and Wang both - but shook his head.

"Prepare to engage forward hostiles with on-point units only. 
Mobilize Rolling Thunder."  St-James ordered, and General O'Brien's
forward units began to fall into position.

"I'm not disagreeing with your analysis, Mel, Hui.  But if the
enemy's true objective is not to cause casualties, but is indeed
reconnaissance, then we should deny that objective.  Letting them
see our full mobile force in frontal assault, or probe our defences here
at Eastguard, needs to be avoided for as long as possible.  If they
want to see everything we've got, I'm not going to oblige them without
at least forcing them to commit a bigger force."

St-James wasn't apologizing for his decision - it was the right one,
and both Wang and Cassaroni nodded.  But it was important to communicate
his intentions to his subordinates.  War, by its nature, was unpredictable
- and no one soldier or officer could be considered irreplaceable. 
Including Salvadore St-James.  If he died, the war would have to continue,
and command would have to be passed to one of the others.  So it was
important for the grand strategy to survive - and be understood by all
of the Junta.

The Gecko turned back to the communications consoles and addressed the
waiting Major Kosarau.

"Major Kosarau.  Maintain your observer's position and relay tactical
data.  The rest of Rolling Thunder will be moving into attack position
in about... two-point three hours.  St-James, out."

Unlike Cassaroni and Wang, Rao Kosarau wasn't privy to St-James' thinking,
but he didn't need to be.  He knew his duty and his orders.

---

"What have you got for me, Rao?"  General O'Brien's voice was
calm over the speaker, almost two hours later.  The four alien mechs
had continued to stilt-walk towards Eastguard, and Kosarau's recon rover
had shadowed them.  He didn't think it likely that the aliens could
be unaware of his presence, but they seemed intent on their original objective. 
Besides, there was no way they'd have been able to chase the nimble rover
down, even if they'd been so inclined.

"Positions are outlined on your plot, Sir.  Take a look at some
of this imagery, though."  At Kosarau's words, close-in zooms appeared
on the Ogres.  Ancient battle damage was evident on at least two of
them.  Of more interest was a battery of smaller guns mounted around
the hull of the alien walkers.

"See those, Sir?  We hadn't spotted those before.  They're
much smaller calibre than the main turret gun; maybe anti-personnel? 
Probably not of much consequence as an offensive weapon - but they'll provide
close-in defence.  Coupled with that heavy armour, I think it means
we're going to take casualties in our attack passes.  We'll need to
concentrate our fire to penetrate that armour, and while we're doing that,
those things are going to be able to target us with the big slow gun. 
Not as bad as if it were attacking and we were defending, though."

"Good work, Major."  O'Brien acknowledged, and punched in his final
refinements to the attack computers.

Hundreds of kilometres away, Corazon Santiago watched as Rao Kosarau's
data was relayed to her.  There was a kind of surrealistic beauty
to it, Santiago thought, as dozens of green dots - each representing one
of Rolling Thunder's rovers - swarmed around the four angry red dots representing
the enemy.  There appeared to be no formation in Rolling Thunder's
forces; O'Brien was clearly intent on denying his opponent any measure
of predictable movement.  Nevertheless, to Santiago's practised eye,
there was a pattern discernible in the chaos, like a shoal of Old
Earth's fish darting about, individually free to manoeuvre, yet part of
a greater, unified movement.  Mobility was a key advantage here in
the open terrain; Santiago estimated that O'Brien was making excellent
use of that advantage, giving him about a 25% force bonus.  She didn't
smile, though.  In the first of Rolling Thunder's attack runs, one
of the enemy units was ringed with the flashing band signifying critical
battle damage.  None of Rolling Thunder's units had those designations
- but not because they were invulnerable, far from it.  When one of
O'Brien's rovers was hit, it simply disappeared off the plot.  But
each pass improved the odds even more; each loss to the alien force reduced
its combined combat power by a quarter, then a third, then a half, while
the loss of one of the rovers diminished Rolling Thunder's strength by
only five percent.

And then it was over.  Rolling Thunder, bloodied but victorious,
came streaming back towards Eastguard, detaching only a few scout units
to search for any of their survivors.  Rolling Thunder's divisions
were still at 70% effectiveness, and the alien mechs were burning wrecks. 
It was both a strategic and tactical victory, Santiago knew - even as she
also knew that General Timothy O'Brien would never come home again.

---

Honor: Progenitor

Conqueror Zzar clicked his mandibles more in thought than in irritation. 
He was disappointed, but not surprised.  He'd hoped that the Invader
Spartans would've exposed the majority of their forces outside their outer
line of defence, so that he could overwhelm them with a follow-up strike
while cutting off their retreat with the Deathspheres.  Or at least
hunkered down like an obstinate Caretaker, where he could pin them for
a crushing blow.  That they had done neither did not surprise Zzar;
unlike the majority of his fellow warriors, Zzar had realized even in the
Challenge Pit that these Invader Spartans were as adept and canny at attack
as they were as defence.  Capable of a measured response, and Zzar
granted his enemies a moment of grudging admiration.

But just as Zzar gave orders, so also he had to obey them.  His
own concerns and cautions were no longer of relevance.  It was time
for full-scale assault.

Supreme Conqueror Marr had demanded.  Zzar would provide.

It was the Progenitor way.

[Hydro]

Velvetgrass Point

Jay staggered against a pile of uprooted masonry, catching himself before he fell onto the more jagged shards. He ended up almost prone, and had to concentrate to help himself to an almost standing position. As he stood back up he automatically adjusted his breather, which had partially dislodged a little while ago, Jay did not know when. All he knew is that it wasn't filtering out the burning stink and the wretched sweet smell of corruption that seemed to overwhelm this portion of Velvetgrass Point. There must be thousands of dead alien troops all around him. Some were intact, and looked like they might be sleeping. Others were horribly burned, apparently being caught in the explosion of their siege guns or as they flamed each other in the panic of the mindworm attacks. A few were partially to completely dismembered, resembling little more than greenish-black puddles of goo. Horribly, others showed signs of mindworm infestation, and the terrible mark of fear that Jay could see even on their alien features. It was a little surreal to Jay - the alien corpses amid the ruins of his home. The combination of the smells, sights, and especially the memories made it a waking nightmare.

As usual, Fluffy wasn't helping. Ever since the counterattrack he had been projecting, or forcing, his strong reactions and Jay knew he was a convenient receptor. Jay had picked up snatches during the waves of mindworm attacks, but the images and emotions had been fragmentary, and they came in flashes. They didn't seem real even though Jay knew they were all too real. As if the waking nightmares weren't enough, he was making it much worse by adding by giving him real nightmares.

Jay moaned. He could feel that Fluffy was nearby.

It was happening again.

!!!!!

!!!!!

Fluffy felt the pulse, and it resonated through every one of his wormlets. For a moment it was so overwhelming that he felt strangely motionless, almost paralyzed. The mature wormlets flexed instinctively, throwing off the extra energy as a more powerful resonance field. His embryonic wormlets also drank in the energy, growing and maturing at an unnatural rate. Even the torpid wormlets were re-invigorated as they were buoyed by the stronger fields and energized by the pulse.

The wonderful pulse! He could go!

GO…GO…GO…GO…GO…GO…GO

In a split second Fluffy had recovered, and he bolted, disappearing into the fungal mat, flowing between the fibrous and interlinked fungal stalks and tubules. Far from being dark it glowed with energy, which Fluffy perceived as light. And here in the fungal mat was alive with more pulsating, throbbing energy then Fluffy had ever seen! Even as he watched the fungus responded, grew, and added its own spark to the mix.

There was little time for much admiration, and certainly none for contemplation. His target was ahead, at the edge of and beyond the fungus, and in moments he was there. He exploded outward from the fungal fringe, moving so fast he barely kept his own coherence. That wasn't too important, either, since any stray wormlets would be picked up by another mindworm, and right now there were mindworms all around him. Fluffy could feel their presence, or aura, and their wrathful determination. Some were huge daemon boils that were ancient in experience, and by no means at the end of their life cycle. Many were like him, modest in size but equally set and determined.

The daemons led, and he could feel them ahead of him as he crossed the human plants and buildings at the edge of the human dwelling place. He could also feel the enemies, those that had hurt him and his friends, those that destroy. They despoiled Planet, even though Fluffy could see that in some way they were part of it. That, however, only made Fluffy more furious. How could they who know Planet fight against it? Why did they make war against those that understood it best?

Fluffy knew no answer to those questions, but he did have a solution.

Ahead he could feel the buzzing, and the sound modulations of conflict. Lights filled the air. Above him the air churned, and he could feel the spoors falling and dying. Eddies formed, swirled, died, and merged. The ground shook, adding to the maelstrom. He could feel the death, and the destruction of the enemy, and Fluffy reveled in it. He also felt the death and sloughing away of some of the ancient daemon boils. For them he felt nothing for they had fulfilled their purpose - to defend Planet.

The tumbled hard forms the humans used for dwellings were all around him now as he raced for the city. He knew some of this, but much was new and even more was missing. Parts of the tall hard shapes that were used by the humans were gone, and in their place were new piles of hard, chaotic mounds. Although he sensed nothing for the forms he knew his human friends attached great importance to them, and knew that it caused them pain that they had been destroyed. When his friends Jay and Kirsten felt pain he felt it with them, and it became his pain. It was so much like the pain he felt when there was a wrongness with Planet, when something was not right. He knew his purpose was to eliminate the wrongness, and that he must do so. What was happening here was such a wrongness. He felt it. His fellow mindworm boils felt it. The humans felt it. It was so.

There were more enormous sound modulations, and more human structures were destroyed. Fluffy could feel, could sense, that more enemies had died, and that their non-living tools that gave death had died with them. There was no sense of joy in the extinguishing of their spark, only a sense that there remained still such sparks to extinguish. More buildings and mounds passed by as he raced, and Fluffy could feel the enemy, and it was close. Violent air modulations continued, and there were raw energy discharges.

!!!!!!!!

Fluffy felt the energy sear, and then pass through him. Part of his self, the wormlets, was instantly crisped and they fell away, useless. Fluffy gave them no more thought than a human would a scraped knee. It gave him no pain, and he simply adjusted his electromagnetic field to compensate for the loss of mass. His velocity remained, as did his target.

The enemy was now so close. He could feel each one of their essences, their sparks. He could see that they were damaged from the death of their enemy comrades that had succumbed to the daemons. There was more energy discharge, and more lances shot through Fluffy. In truth it did him little damage, and it did not slow him. He was so close!

Fluffy formed a tight, pointed cone to reduce his surface area. The world seemed to tumble as he reached out and struck at the nearest enemy, tearing at them, driving his will into their spark - trying to kill their spark.

The enemy crouched, and Fluffy felt resistance. Even though he wasn't touching it, he knew this, and had been taught it. The enemy was trying to ward off his probes so that it could retain its spark. Fluffy felt his will rising, and he let an unrestrained blast of pure, human style hatred blast into the enemy. For a split moment the thoughts were deflected, but then a chink appeared. He saw it at once, and concentrated on it, driving a wedge deeper, deeper into the enemy. Now he could feel its thoughts, and he felt them, understood them. Then he changed them, destroyed them.

Discipline. RIP!

Loyalty. RIP!

The outer layers fell, one by one.

Honor. RIP!

Duty. RIP!

Each layer of defense the enemy put up, Fluffy pierced it, engulfed it, and consumed it. He replace it with raw, unbridled FEAR!

Resistance lessened, but Fluffy did not.

Family. RIP!

Self. RIP!

Life. RIIIIPPPPP!

The spark was gone. Fluffy flowed to engulf the next enemy, and then the next. He instinctively placed his seed in the living, but mindless, host. It was an ancient defense, to use that which would destroy you as the food for the next defender.

The world seemed to ring, with the resonance fields pulsing around him. He was consumed with his task, the task of defense of Planet, and that there were enemies that had to have their spark removed. He leapt from one to the next, engulfing each first in a mental blast and then with his body of wormlets. Their resonance armor was an annoyance, and he could feel it fraying at his own resonance field. He knew they were trained to resist his attack, but it did them no good. Even if they were untried Fluffy knew he would have destroyed them, and these were wounded and their spark was damaged. Few were now left, and these huddled near their unliving machines of death. He felt more energy discharges, but these were unfocused and he avoided them easily as he flowed toward and then over the last few. Their sparks were weak, and he thrust into their minds, blasted past their defenses, and consumed the part of their minds that gave them their spark. Even as they lay dying he partitioned part of himself and ate into the war machine, gnawing into its body, tearing into its hard but unresisting flesh. This was a dead thing, but still it must be destroyed. It was alien, and it would hurt Planet. Even though it was dead Fluffy could feel its energy, and the energy it could unleash on him or on those that would defend Planet. He flowed into it, and felt the energy within it become discordant as he ate more and more. He knew he was done, and the great death machine erupted in a ball of fire that smote the ground, churned the air, and dispersed Fluffy and his essence.

With that there was quiet. Fluffy could feel nothing, not even the wormlets that comprised his being. He shivered, feeling cut off, alone.

He thought, So this is human blackness? Interesting.

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

Jay started, and immediately let out a yelp of pain. He had collapsed on part of the old holo theatre, and a shard of ferrocrete was digging into his side. Moving to one side, his hand found a little blood but no real damage, as opposed to the last time Fluffy had done this to him. That time he had fallen and cracked his head on some debris and had come very close to being impaled on some metal conduit. His head throbbed and he quickly shut his eyes, trying to shut out the sights, sounds, and, most of all, the feelings - the total immersion, and the loss of self, if only for a little while.

Carefully and deliberately Jay started to get up. He put a hand on a secure piece of wall, and he leaned heavily and slowly until he was generally upright. Testing his footing, he started forward, using the wall to help steady him as he went. He concentrated on the immediate, which was getting to the Gaian base camp, and away from Fluffy. He looked up, and the base camp was still two blocks away in the hopefully stable remains of a hab tower. If he got there he would probably be all right, or at least in a place where he wasn't likely to hurt himself when Fluffy absorbed him.

Jay could feel him out there, waiting. Jay was sure he had more stories to tell, and more gruesome first hand accounts of the death of his enemies, and how he had helped save Planet. It was strange, and Jay had never known Fluffy to be so focused, and he desperately hoped this would pass, and pass soon.

Jay preferred the irritating and playful Fluffy to the vengeful Fluffy any day.

[senatus]

The Leader's Horde

Sister Jessica McCollough woke with a start, and narrowly avoided bashing
her forehead against the low ceiling of her sleeping box. Her MMI mentally
chimed for her attention again, its algorithms flagging an event of high
enough priority to justify waking her. Jessica called up her menus, and
paled in the darkness of the coffin-like enclosure as Sven Alfredsson's
message replayed itself to her. The cyborg's tone was somehow calm, yet
there was also a subcontext of determined finality that was evident to
the empath-psychologist.

Jessica forced herself to relax, calming both her mind and her body
with a deliberate act of will as she considered her next course of action.
Certainly there was nothing that she could do now. The drone rest
hall would not collectively awaken for another three hours and twenty-six
minutes, and leaving the rest area at this time would certainly draw the
attention of the operatives and AIs behind the cameras that monitored every
room and passage in Yang's communal "utopia". Nor was there any way that
she could help Sven or his team, assuming any of them were still alive.
Certainly none of their MMIs were responding to her own MMI's ping requests.
There could be several explanations for that, but the most likely one was
that their owners were dead, or perhaps in a security cell. Either way,
Team Mark's objectives would not change; it was even possible that they
might be able to rescue any survivors from Team Matthew as part of the
plan to sabotage the Punishment Complex.

It was still frustrating to know little and be able to do nothing,
though. Just like the attack on Velvetgrass Point; Jessica had no idea
as to whether Jay and the other Gaians were alive or not. Just as her own
faction simply was too weak to assist as the rest of the Axis was reeling
under massive assaults from the aliens. Heck, even Morgan was contributing
more to the war effort; at least the mogul's mercenaries were equipped
with modern fusion shard weapons, while the motley militias of the Drone
Believers still had fission impact weapons in some of their active
arsenal.

Still, that was why they were here, Jessica reminded herself. The greater
arena was in the hands of God, but she and her team would still do their
part and execute Operation Raging Mouse. Which would require that she be
well-rested, not fretting pointlessly.  Jessica closed her eyes, entered
a trance, and went back to sleep.

When Jessica awoke three hours later, she felt no fatigue thanks to
her trance training; and she felt no lingering doubts, either. Along with
hundreds of other awakening drones - scattered amongst whom were the other
members of Team Mark - she climbed out of the sleeping box to dress in
her utilitarian drone overalls and shuffle towards the communal feeding
bay. Already long lines of drones had formed in front of the nutrient dispensers,
but with Hive-like efficiency, the lines moved quickly.

After all, every moment waiting in line for food is one less moment
to be working for the Hive, Jessica thought to herself as she carried
the warm bowl of healthy glop to one of the many long tables. The other
seats at the table filled quickly with the other drones, but it was a simple
exercise for Jessica to gently compel the drones away from the seats nearest
to her, so that the rest of her probe team could join her. Likewise it
was easy for her to mentally enjoin the drones to simply ignore the conversation.
While empathic tricks wouldn't fool the monitors, Jessica kept her voice
low enough to be lost in the background noise of the many other drones
who were taking their sole opportunity to relax and socialize as they watched
the morning broadcast from the Ministry of Education.

In quick, low tones she filled the others in on the fate of Team Matthew.
She could see in their faces that they were shaken and upset, but equally
undaunted.  What other factions would've dismissively derided as fanaticism,
Jessica only saw as confidence and faith.  It wasn't so much that
they thought God would not allow them to fail; they were simply content
to trust their outcome into His hands, and either failure or success would
be in accordance to His will.

When Jessica had been a doctoral student at the U.N. Education Agency,
her social psychology professor - a devout atheist who was aware of her
background and held that there was no room for the Believers' social credo
in the 23rd century - had challenged her to prove that there was any difference
between unflinching faith and fanaticism.  To the professor's irritation,
Jessica had responded with a form of vocal Judo, accepting the comparison
but challenging the negative connotation of the terminology, choosing the
example of the U.N.'s Universal Declaration of Human Rights.  If people
were willing to fight and die for an ideal, what did it matter if
the ideal was secular or divine?  Neither ideal could be justified
by anything other than the unswerving beliefs of those who held them; nor
could social convention be used as a meterstick of validity, for would
the Declaration hold any less truth if it were whispered in the bowels
of the Human Hive rather than shouted proudly in the U.N. General Assembly? 
Therefore, if God existed - which, Jessica contended, there was considerably
more historical evidence of than that He did not - then He existed; regardless
of what everyone or anyone on Planet believed.

This was what Jessica was - a Believer.  So it was with all of
her team, irregardless of whether they had been born into the faith like
the old Lord's Believers, or accepted it later like the Free Drones. 
Each and every one of them believed in what they were doing with a zealot's
dedication; and each would see the mission through to the end.  Moreover,
the loss of Team Matthew was one of the scenarios that Sven himself had
planned for as a contingency, and Jessica's Team Mark was ready to implement
it.

---

Four Hours Later, Hiverian Ministry of Education

Had the Human Hive built its bases above-ground like all the other factions,
undoubtedly its largest and most impressive building would've been the
one housing the Ministry of Education; for this ministry dwarfed all others
in order of social importance to the Hive, and Sheng-Ji Yang lavished it
with the resources it required.  Even the military and public works
portfolios paled in comparison, for the modestly-named Ministry of Education
was charged with all aspects of developing Yang's social utopia, and motivating
its members.  So the Ministry controlled the schools, the laboratories,
the daily broadcasts and subliminals; it also controlled the feared Bureau
of Mental Hygiene, the police, and the Punishment Complex.  For each
was an instrument of motivation, and of education.  There were many
other Ministries, but whenever a Hiverian citizen referred to simply "The
Ministry", it was universally understood to mean the most important one.

Since the Hive instead chose to live underground, the Ministry occupied
an entire level at the very middle of the base, a nexus of communication
and social order from which all other facilities extended.  Despite
its importance, however, Team Mark was able to penetrate the outer layers
of its security easily, for the very nature of the Ministry required citizens
from all walks of life to enter and interact with it on a regular basis. 
Each layer of security was colour-coded; from the universally-accessible
infrared, through the higher functions of yellow, green, and blue, to the
highest classification of violet which was strictly the domain of the Bureau
of Mental Hygiene.  Jessica knew that there was even a higher classification
of ultraviolet, completely unknown to the general public.  This was
where Yang's advisors circulated , along with whatever remnants of the
shattered Circle of Ashaandi still survived.  Fortunately, the Punishment
Complex was only in the Blue sector; for it to be effective as a means
of public education, it had to be at least somewhat visible to the general
populace.

It was somewhere in the Orange sector that a maintenance hatch unsealed
in response to the  prompting of an access program developed by some
of Morgan Industries' best software coders. Four men and three women entered
the chamber, and the door resealed.  Embossed on the door were the
words "Air Purity Monitoring - No Unauthorized Access."

Ling-Wai Zhang surveyed the equipment consoles with satisfaction. 
Each panel was identical to the ones he knew from his days as a drone before
the Revolution.  From here, the functioning of the complex fungal
spore filtration and air circulation was monitored and reported to the
Ministry of Public Works via remote computer link.  It would've been
impossible to actually tamper with the controls - that would've
been far too easy, like in the Morgan Entertainment thriller "From Hiveria
With Love" where the hero had managed to gas the minions of State Security
- but they didn't need to.  Instead, Sister Jessica's plan
hinged on the very social habits that the Ministry of Education indoctrinated
its citizens with, and the fact that its exploitation would also be the
means with which it would be confounded struck the Believing Drone as delicious
irony.

"No problem here, Sister Jessica," Zhang reported after one of the others
had disabled the room's security monitors.  Had anyone in the Mental
Hygiene Police been watching cameras, all they would've seen was a group
of maintenance workers inspecting the room's systems; and not merely a
loop, but continuous and non-repetitive set of actions.  The latter
innovation Jessica herself had coded, although the functions had all come
from the libraries Datajack Roze had given to her.

"Good work, Brother Zhang.  Captain Michaels?"  Jessica turned
her attention to her second-in-command, a veteran of the Spartan Inquisition
Affair.

Benjamin Michaels had been busily unloading the equipment cart - ostentatiously
labelled as property of the Ministry of Ample Supply - and had been setting
up the sophisticated communications console that the team had dropped with.

"I've got access to the Mental Hygiene Police's main channels. 
We can insert messages into and monitor their communications net. 
We can even alter messages and block them as soon as the AI cracks their
encryption.  Looks like we're converging on the polymorphic algorithm...
got the keys.  You were right, Sister.  This Morgan Polysoft
is much better software than we had in Sparta.   Cut through
the Hive firewalls like a fusion laser through butter."

"It should be," Jessica smiled wryly.  "Given what they charged
us for it, even with our 'favoured customer' status.  That just leaves
the physical aspects now.  Jacqueline?"

The oldest member of the probe team had already laid out the uniforms
and was checking the shredder pistols that they had brought with them as
part of the disguise.  Both the clothing and the weaponry were genuine
MHP issue, although some of the clothing had required considerable repair
and cleaning after they were taken from their original owners when Free
Drone Central had rebelled.

"Ready as soon as you are, Ma'am," the grey-haired woman said with habitual
terseness as she handed Jessica her outfit, and Jessica was once again
reminded painfully of her friend Kirsten.

Jessica, Benjamin, Andrejs and Mina - the four most combat-trained of
Probe Team Mark - pulled on the police uniforms, while Jacqueline and Lars
retained their maintenance coveralls.  As Jessica holstered her shredder,
she grimaced slightly, remembering that the last time she'd shot at a real
target, it had been a fellow Believer.  Not that she was going to
recriminate herself further over that; David Weaver had in fanatic
bigotry been determined to kill Sharra and Zakharov, as well as Jessica
herself.

"O.K., my friends, this is it.  Lars, Jacqueline, you've got seventeen
minutes to get the laundry hampers into the position; we'll set out in
eight minutes, and we'll arrive in twelve.  That gives us five minutes
to clear the Punishment Complex.  God be with you both."

"And with you as well, Sister."

Jessica looked at her chronometer until six minutes had passed.

"Zhang, you're on."

Ling-Wai Zhang hit the button he'd been hovering over for the past six
minutes, and four levels down, an alarm sounded in the Ministry of Public
Works.  Ten seconds later, another alarm began to sound within the
Ministry of Education, and throughout the whole complex, workers looked
up in concern.  Zhang waited an additional fifteen seconds, then spoke
calmly but with authority into the microphone Michaels had given him.

"Attention.  Attention, all citizens in level seven.  Malfunction
detected in air quality control.  All non-essential workers are to
evacuate the Ministry immediately.  Proceed in an orderly fashion
to the nearest lifts; do not panic.  All essential personnel: don
your filtration masks.  I repeat, malfunction detected in...."

Zhang's instructions were instinctually obeyed by the Ministry's staff;
not only did his warning sound credible, it appeared credible,
thanks to the clever adjustments Zhang had performed upon the air quality
monitoring system.  Throughout the level, thousands of Hive citizens
hurried to the exits, creating a surprisingly calm but nevertheless chaotic
confusion.  One in which Sister Jessica's team could move freely in. 
Jessica nodded to Michaels, who selected the police channel.

"Punishment Complex detail, report your status."

Deeper within the Blue Sector, Lieutenant Alexander Keith stepped over
to his console to see a face rendered indistinct thanks to the filter mask
he wore, but nonetheless the uniform of a Captain in the Mental Hygiene
Police was visible.  He saluted the computer-generated image, which
looked not at all like the real Benjamin Michaels.

"Complex is secure, Sir.  I've just cleared the medical research
staff out, and all the spheres are locked down."

"Good work, Lieutenant... Keith," Michaels replied as he read the subtitle
that appeared on his data screen.  "Nevertheless, I'm sending down
another squad, just in case.  They should be there in about... four
minutes."

"Yes, Sir." Keith saluted again, and then relayed the message to the
other eight guards under his command.  He surveyed the five dozen
punishment spheres ranged in three sublevels of concentric circles around
him.  Although he'd dampened the sound pickups after the last visitor
groups had left (with pale faces, he was pleased to note - another batch
of Motivated Citizens), he could still see the nearest prisoner, an elderly
naked woman, quivering in computer-induced agony.  Despite the malfunction,
the vital work of education had to continue, and Keith took a sadistic
pleasure in knowing that these social misfits would receive no undeserved
reprieve.  Why, this old woman had been caught with an illegal radio,
listening to the so-called Silvermane's seditious broadcasts!  That
was almost as great an act of transgression as possessing that piece of
filth that those disgusting Believers called a "bible", and if Keith had
his way, the old woman would writhe in torment forever.  Or at least
be recycled for the sake of efficiency.  But Keith knew that despite
his disgust, as a member of the elite Mental Hygiene Police, it was his
duty to fulfil the Chairman's directives and assist the social psychologists
in rehabilitating these prisoners or eventual reintegration into society;
and most of them usually did, Keith conceded.  Those that did
not would be turned over to the Genejack factory.  One way or another,
they would serve the society they had rebelled from.

[senatus]

Jessica McCollough arrived at the entrance to the Punishment Complex
eleven minutes and twenty-eight seconds after she'd sent Lars and Jacqueline
off.  The security doors were closed as part of the routine precautions,
but an LCD screen was mounted in the left wall that provided two-way communications
access to the security terminal inside.  She nodded to Michaels, who
stepped forward and paged for access.  A face appeared and Michaels
identified his team.

"Sergeant Harris and security squad reporting as ordered."

Michaels stood before the retinal scanner; the computer produced an
match between his pattern and the one stored in memory three weeks before
the probe teams had arrived.  Since his security clearance as a mere
sergeant in the MHP was not very high, it had been child's play for Sven's
computer specialists to insert a new record.

Alexander Keith looked over the new arrivals with the critical eye of
institutional paranoia, but that was more reflex than suspicion. 
Nevertheless, he was a stickler for procedure, whether that was the exact
level of pain stimulus to a prisoner, or security protocols.

"Security passes, please?"

The four Believing Drones held up their cards.  These changed regularly
and there was no way they could have been prepared in advance, but Jessica
wasn't worried.  What she presented was a generic ID; with just a
little mental effort, what Keith saw was the very same passcards
that he and his team had been issued.  The doors opened a moment later.
Michaels, with his supposed rank, did the talking.

"Where did you want us stationed, sir?"  Michaels asked.

Jessica found herself tuning out as Keith and Michaels spoke. 
High emotions assaulted her empathic senses; despair, sorrow, pain, madness. 
It was as if a hundred voices were screaming in her ear.  Had she
been the untrained empath that Sister Miriam had recruited so seemingly
long ago, she would've been overwhelmed, curling into a fetal position
to shut out the horrors of so many tortured souls.  But for all the
intensity, this was not all that dissimilar to a mindworm boil's mental
attack, and the trance techniques that the Gaians had taught Jessica served
her well.  She was aware, but not incapacitated.  Aware, and
she felt a rage developing within her as she shared every feeling of the
victims within the punishment spheres.

Alexander Keith, meanwhile, had noticed the attractive young woman at
the back of the newcomers' party, and he found himself strangely drawn
to her.  It wasn't just that she was attractive; there was a strange
magnetism to her that he would never be able to explain. He beckoned her
over to his security console.

"You're new here, what's your name?" Keith asked.  He was unaware
that as he did so, his hands moved to take a data crystal that the young
woman provided him, inserted it into his console... and bypassed the security
system.

"MacBride.  Abigail MacBride," Jessica responded.

"Well, Citizen MacBride, you've come to one of the most important duties
an officer of the Mental Hygiene Police can serve.  These are the
most dangerous criminals you can imagine.  All locked up safe and
sound and suffering the punishment they richly deserve.  These scum
wanted to be treated as "individuals"?  Well, now they've got their
very own rooms and the individual, loving attention they so wanted." 
Keith chuckled at his own joke.

"I'm glad you enjoy this job," Jessica said very quietly.  "That
makes things... easier."

Alexander Keith cocked his head inquisitively at the young woman for
a moment, and then his eyes widened in surprise as, seemingly of its own
volition, his right hand drew the shredder pistol from its holster. 
His mind was still in shock as his body turned, arm extended, and his finger
squeezed as the sights lined up on a pair of his troopers.

Chaos erupted. The flechettes, as designed, were deadly at short ranges,
and Keith's gun swept over another two of his men while they were still
flat-footed.  Still, the others had combat-trained reflexes, and one
actually managed to draw her weapon before being chewed apart.  The
other three were smarter and obtained cover before attempting to return
fire against the madman suddenly in their midst.  The Believing Drone
probe team had drawn their own weapons by now, and also threw themselves
behind cover along with the MHP guards, as if equally concerned by the
lieutenant's homicidal fury.  The remaining three guards, understandably
focused on the obvious (if inexplicable) threat, only had a half-second
to notice that their supposed comrades' weapons were pointed, not at what
was left of Alexander Keith, but at them... and that wasn't enough
time before four triggers pulled.  Three more bodies joined the corpses
on the floor.

"Clear!"  Benjamin Michaels shouted.

"Clear!"  Jessica replied, and stood up when Andrejs and Mina also
reported that all opposition was dead. The scene she surveyed suddenly
reminded her of some version of Hell, for still sixty prisoners were twisting
and screaming silently and visibly within their spheres, while crimson
gore was splattered over the walls and consoles, and blood was pooling
on the synthemetal floor plates.

Mina, a former Free Drone doctor, stepped over to the main control console,
pushing the slumped corpse aside as she deactivated the punishment spheres. 
Meanwhile, Jessica turned to face the spheres and closed her eyes as she
concentrated, empathically projecting a sense of calm and removing the
pain of the victims.

One by one the punishment spheres opened, and in turn each dazed prisoner
was helped out by two of Jessica's team.  By this time Lars and Jacqueline
had arrived with their laundry hampers; there were enough drone overalls
for everyone. Jessica took a deep breath, stepped forward, and focused
all the strength of her personality.

"Citizens, you have suffered terribly and unjustly, not for any crimes
you have committed against the Hive, but for the crimes the Hive commits
against you.  You have cried out for rescue, and you have been heard. 
You are free.  Not free from danger of recapture and persecution,
but free to hope for and strive for a better future for yourselves. 
Each of you is being given a data crystal.  Each crystal is will give
you a new life - new identity keys, new background stories, new knowledge. 
With these, you can disappear into the community if you so wish. 
With these, you can learn about the promise of a life more eternal than
the Hive can ever hope to offer.  You can learn to be free. 
We cannot stay with you, but we can help you to escape this place and the
Mental Hygiene Police.  The rest is up to you - but now you all know
that there is hope out there, and one day you may see it realized. 
Remember your brothers and sisters amongst Believing Drones, as we remember
our brothers and sisters here."

One of the former prisoners raised her hand.

"Who are the Believing Drones?"

"We are people just like you," Jessica smiled and continued.  "But
we know what it is like to be free, and we want to share that with you. 
And we serve a master who is far more compassionate and merciful than the
Chairman.  That data crystal also holds our Conclave Bible, and all
sorts of information about the world outside the Hive; information that
the Ministry of Education doesn't want you to know."

"What about our old lives, our families?"

"As to your families, each of you will have to choose for yourselves
whether or not it is best for them and you to contact them, or not. 
One of the responsibilities that comes with being free, is freedom of choice. 
There is no longer a Ministry to tell you what to do or what to think,
and I know that can be frightening.  You can even turn yourself back
in to the Mental Hygiene Police if you really think that is best for you. 
But the Ministry turned its back on you when they put you in those spheres;
you will never be able to return fully to the lives you had before, even
if you wished to.  I enjoin you to instead seek a new life,
and in the Conclave Bible you will find out about the new spiritual life
that we have embraced and that you are free to embrace as well."

Jessica held up her hands to forestall further questioning.

"I know you must have a hundred questions, but I'm afraid we don't have
much time.  There is a general evacuation going on in this level,
and with your new IDs and overalls, you should be able to disappear in
the confusion.  But we have to leave or risk recapture.  Follow
our people outside."

The prisoners moved with alacrity. Whatever their thoughts, none of
them wanted to be present when the Mental Hygiene Police returned; and
Jessica's team separated and moved out of the complex swiftly.  Ten
of the former prisoners came with Jessica, but one in particular caught
her attention.  At first glance, there wasn't anything special about
him - he seemed fit and strong, like most drones, but his eyes moved about
with alertness and intelligence as the group moved, as if he were constantly
assessing their surroundings.  His arms seemed relaxed, but Jessica
noted that his wrists were bent slightly and the fingers were extended. 
Jessica knew that pose.  Whoever this man was, he'd had unarmed combat
training.

Once outside, Jessica quietly wished good luck to each of the former
prisoners and watched them disperse.  The man she'd noticed also was
about to make his way off, but she touched his arm as he turned.

"Excuse me, Citizen...?"  Jessica prompted.

"My name is Tim O'Reilly.  Thank you again for rescuing all of
us, but I think you're right about us needing to split up quickly lest
we draw attention.  Good luck to all of your team."  The man
squeezed Jessica's hand and turned again, but Jessica shook her head.

"I think we should probably stay together after all.  You might
be able to help us, and I think we should try to help you."

Jessica concentrated for a moment, and nodded.

"Yes, I can appreciate your concern, but there are things you need to
know.  My real name, by the way, is Jessica McCollough.  And
yours is Frank Lancer."

---

Two Hours Later

Jessica arrived at Team Mark's rendezvous with Frank Lancer in tow. 
Benjamin Michael's eyebrows rose as he took in the newcomer, but he said
nothing.

"Everyone, I want to introduce you to Lieutenant Frank Lancer, from
the United Nations of Planet.  Lieutenant, this is my team. 
Maybe you should tell us your story."

Frank Lancer raised his eyebrow inquisitively.

"I thought you knew it all by now?"

Jessica shook her head.

"No, I only 'read' you because we were in a hurry and I needed to know
if we could trust you.  But once I found out who you were, I stopped. 
I don't believe in reading an ally's - or a friend's - mind without their
permission.  So you need to decide whether or not to trust us."

Lancer nodded and made his decision.  He didn't know much about
the Believers or the Drones, although the U.N. had been on good terms with
the latter - but he did know that both of them were implacable enemies
of the Hive.  And since the enemy of his enemy was his friend,
well....

"To make a long story short, I was the leader of one of two multifactional
teams that were sent into Hive territory almost a year ago to capture and
retrieve a Progenitor alien for questioning.  Things went wrong and
everyone was captured or killed.  I suspect we might've had an intelligence
leak or even a mole, but I'm the only one left.  Before we got taken
by Yang's agents, we did manage to download a fair bit of data about
the aliens from Yang's datalinks. Yang's men disabled my MMI, but much
of the raw data is still buried in my internal databank. I'd like your
help in getting out of here and returning to the nearest U.N. base so the
Axis can get at that data."

Jessica shook her head.  "I don't think we can do that... or rather,
I don't think that would work," she amended as she noticed Lancer tensing.

"You see Lieutenant, the U.N. has officially declared a peace treaty
with the Hive, and has withdrawn from hostilities towards the aliens."

Lancer was astonished.

"Impossible!  The U.N. sticks by its allies - and making peace
with the Hive?  After they flagrantly violated the Charter?"

"I'm afraid so," Jessica confirmed.  "There's been a change of
government - Lal is no longer Commissioner.  Actually, truth be told,
the General Assembly itself is splintering.  Several bases and units
have defected to the Hive.  Most are remaining neutral; some units
have independently thrown in with the Axis.  We even have some U.N.
air units at Great Conclave."

Lancer pondered for a moment.

"Well, my team was sponsored by the other factions too.  If you
can get me to the Gaians, or even Sparta...."

Jessica shook her head again.

"Both factions are under direct assault by the aliens and the Hive right
now.  Velvetgrass Point is in ruins, and Sparta Command itself is
under siege."

Lancer paled. "They'd told me that when I was in the sphere, but I thought
it was just propaganda and disinformation."

"Unfortunately, in this case at least, the Ministry of Education was
actually telling the truth.  I think you should probably come with
my team to Great Conclave.  From there Sister Miriam can put you in
touch with a number of important people - Marshall Allardyce, maybe - or
send you on to Morgan.  His bases at least aren't under attack - for
now, anyway.  Will you come?"

Lancer nodded grimly.  "It seems I have little choice."

Benjamin Michaels signalled to Jessica that he wanted to talk to her
in private, so she excused herself and stepped aside with the Believer
captain.

"Sister Jessica - we only have stealth suits and jumpjets for seven
people.  If we take Lieutenant Lancer along, one of us will have to
stay behind," he warned her.

"I know that, Benjamin," Jessica acknowledged.  "I will stay, and
you will take our people home."

"Sister - I know you feel responsible for the team, but we can't afford
to spare you.  Brother Sven may be dead, and you're the only other
leader we've got.  Let one of us stay; any of us including myself
would be willing, if this Lancer's information is as important as it sounds."

Jessica shook her head.

"No, Benjamin. You're wrong about not having any other leaders - I know
that you are qualified.  But I've decided I have to stay.  You
see, even after all our briefings, I was never truly prepared for what
I found here in the Hive.  The suffering, the brutal repression of
individuality and freedom.  Even the people we freed - probably more
than half of them will be re-captured, and for the others, what's the point
of turning them loose with no-one to teach them or to help them? 
So for us - for me - to have any moral credibility here, I have
to stay.  I'm not speaking as the leader of Missionary Team Mark. 
I'm speaking as a minister.  I feel the call here, Benjamin. 
You understand - and so will Sister Miriam."

Benjamin Michaels nodded once, slowly.  He wasn't happy with Jessica's
decision, but if there was one thing that Believer society accepted as
universal, it was to respect the call.  As he watched  Sister
Jessica inform the others, he could see the same feeling on their faces
- regret, but also respect, understanding and encouragement.  One
by one each of them hugged "their" minister, and then they briefly held
hands while Jessica led them in prayer one last time.  As the team
headed for the maintenance elevator, Jessica shook Frank Lancer's hand
as well.

Jessica traced the sign of the cross just as the elevator doors closed,
and then they were gone.

Now she was alone.  Well, not quite alone.

"The Spirit of the the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord
has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.  He has sent me to
bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives, and release
from darkness the prisoners," Jessica quoted to herself and smiled.

[Hydro]

Sparta Command

Submind Two knew almost endless patience, but now that patience would no longer be needed. The command had come to attack.

One of his comrades activated, rising a few more meters into the air as his legs came to battle readiness. The reverse articulation changed in a fluid motion in the front, where the legs bent outward. It started moving forward and a fraction of a second it was moving faster than many organic eyes could likely follow. Leg movement blurred and the ancient battle mech flowed across the edge and into the city. The outskirts of the alien city was already littered with debris, both from ruined or partially ruined structures but also from the debris of war machines. None of this mattered to the mech, who either sidestepped large objects, stepped over objected it judged to be innocuous, or simply blasted anything that might activate its threat algorithm. Blue and read pulses were emitted at unpredictable intervals, and at targets that were far from obvious. At one side a tree erupted into shards and superheated water turned to steam, creating an organic bomb of formerly living shrapnel. A thin red beam sliced to and into a low building, and there was a muffled explosion from within. An orifice opened in the front of the Battle Ogre. Moments later the air seemed to shimmer, and twist. This pulsing wave of disorientation lanced outward, creating a vortex that drew in loose objects, and it intersected the side of a Spartan building. Immediately the dun colored, massive building wavered and seemed to bend, expanding around the resonance wave. Then it simply disassociated, as if the parts were repelling each other, and it flew apart and away from the resonance beam. A resounding boom reverberated from the imploding building. Debris and dust washed over the mech, and he disappeared from view.

Submind Two observed this with a detached eye, an analytical eye. He had seen this sequence repeated thousands of times. Although each time the details were different, be it a different planet, foe or time, the cause was the same: a conflict of wills to be decided with violence. Submind Two understood this, and his role, and this gave him patience.

In a few moments it would be his turn. Battle would be joined.

*~*~*~*

“Eng, forward. 20 meters, left. Crouch and roll. NOW!”

A compact woman in gray rose up from behind a low mound of rubble, standing and leaning forward until she was almost crouched over. She clutched her projectile weapon with one hand, using the other to steady herself as she pivoted her feet up and over a crumbled column. As she went over she used her arm to push her even further and, for a moment, it looked like she was flying. But only for a moment. She landed in a roll, tucking at just the right time, and came out in a sprint. She darted left and took up her position along the edge of the recreation commons. Looking forward, carefully, she tried to discern what was in the billowing dust that was wafting over her. Stifling a cough, she nodded once.

All clear.

Mich pointed at two more in her squad, and snapped a motion toward Eng. There was no hesitation. The two figures leapt forward, avoiding shards of metal and glass with quick twist and somehow finding purchase on the sifting ferrocrete that was still hot from whatever had ripped it apart.

The tall figure broke right, disappearing into the fog of dust that hung in the air and covered everything. The other went left of Eng and took up position on her flank, crouching and tense.

Two more quick gestures, and two more were in a run to either side, one crawling up a high pile and over a partially intact wall, and the second racing after the tall man that had vanished into the swirling white.

That’s all of them, Michelle thought, only me left.. She got up, ready to jump up and over, and had just placed her hand when a red beam stabbed, down through the white fog. It hit near where she had been hunkered down. From above.

She mentally berated her two-dimensional thinking, running all the time to complete the rolling formation. As she did she could feel the shadow, and detected movement above her and to the right. A small explosion lit up the white murk, and a roaring din of masonry being propelled and impacting all over, and simply falling, filled her ears. There was pain, and an impact on her shoulder that spun her around. Another impact that forced the air from her lungs and her long stride was vectored away as the kinetic energy of the ferrocrete took over, sending her directly away from the explosion.

Another impact, this one very hard. It hurt. Mich repressed it, and activated her tranks. It was barely enough. A lot was broken, but it didn’t matter. She knew she had to move. Just a little more.

*~*~*~*

Submind Two relied on a series of partial sensor readings. Nothing worked as it should. His visuals were degraded by the billowing ferrodust, which created a strange arcing electrical pattern that played off the vaporized metal. In short, it was nearly useless. Auditory was somewhat useful, although there was enough background noise to attenuate any of indicator of his quarry by over 70%. EM and infrared was similarly degraded. All he had were fragments of each, and fitting them together was an interesting challenge. It took a second instead of nanoseconds, and it tested his mettle.

He knew his targets were all around him. Beneath him, to be exact. It was an interesting gambit, and it was oddly refreshing to not be able to simply incinerate or disarticulate the enemy. By playing beneath him he was limited to unused secondary weapons, and maintenance lasers. Pretty poor stuff, but more than enough for these warriors. Fast and mobile, they seemed to be where they could not be. A challenge.

Still it was a one sided challenge. His initial analysis had been correct, even though he had checked it over several times. These warriors had no armor, and no weapons to speak of. Even so, they had inflicted minor damage to one of his servos in his fifth leg, a weakness he hadn’t realized he had.

Interesting.

Submind Four to Submind Two: More movement detected, and auditory indicates left. Firing.

A small explosion ripped into the wall of the recreation commons, which was long since roofless. Masonry slid down as the support for a roof truss finally gave, sheering off at ground level.

Submind Two slaved Submind Five to move them out of the way of the growing avalanche of iron and false rock.

!!!!!

A *****! There? How?!

Another burst of fire heated his reverse articulated servo on his fifth leg again, degrading it performance by another 10%. He vectored the fire, locked, and returned. It had fired from directly beneath him.

A small, involuntary scream started and was cut short.

There was a human shout, and a whine. A series of explosions shook the ground in and around Submind Two, and at the edge of the massive ferrocrete building. The explosions were not his doing. He felt something unusual: a tilting, and loss of control, as if he were being lifted up.

It was a delay, just an instant, but it had been enough. The west wall of the recreation commons shifted, twisted, and sloughed downward. Fragments of plasmasteel beams that had held up the roof now tilted into the air, above the cloud of white, like fingers scratching from beneath a while cloud. The rotation continued and the remaining bulk of the massive building disintegrated, forming a wash of debris that slid downwards.

Submind Two could feel the impacts, and the tearing. The rush of mass pushed him off his legs and away, carrying him. Legs pivoted to keep above the churning mass. Ancient metal grinded, and legs snapped. Subminds Three and Five gave an electronic spark of surprise, then went dark.

Register: distress, shock.

Then silence. Relative silence amid the white.

Interrogate: status, augment.

In moments Submind Two knew his status. His fifth leg was destroyed, two others partially immobile, and two subminds inoperative. Armor near the fifth leg was rent. Functional status was down to 40%.

Submind Two assessed his situation. He could free himself of the debris, and return, as was ordered.

He slaved Submind Four to complete a threat analysis. Result: none; enemy destroyed. Surely buried.

As Submind Four finished the needed permutations, Submind Two pondered what had happened. His enemy was strangely mobile, had almost no armor, and had pitiful laser weapons. They were no threat. They had maneuvered under his main weapons, and danced to avoid sure death from even his secondary defenses. Then, the series of explosions. From where?

Then he keyed in on the high whine. It had the signature of a fusion reactor on overload.

It made sense. It explained the four explosions, the catastrophic failure of the building, and the damage to his leg.

Interesting. Another unique gambit he hadn’t considered: self-immolation. He would consider that in the future if his odds for survival were so vanishingly slim.

He picked his way up and over the rubble, and in a few minutes he made his way out of the white mist of ferrocrete dust. His sensors cleared.

What he saw was a vision from ancient days, when Progenitor fought Progenitor. There was fighting everywhere. Lines of mechs were moving, as if in slow motion, against squads of obsolete rovers that fired searing bursts of what had to be shard fire into the flanks and rears, seemingly wherever they were weakest. Submind pondered: for ‘obsolete’ technology they were performing as well as a hovertank. Mechs crumbled, taking rovers with them in fireballs as they went.

To his left other mechs were dealing with infantry with their great siege guns, which were laying in their fire and moving with unnatural speed into the banks of mechs. The spread of light was impressive, and it tore into the mechs. Chunks of metal glowed, and then were blown away by continuing fire. Defensive fire decimated the infantry, and as he watched a siege gun imploded as a mech leg skewered it before it could fire again.

Above him inelegant aircraft were battling to the death with the Deathspheres. Light, sound, and the searing embrace of resonance waves filled the sky.

The true battle had begun.

Submind Two felt right at home.

[senatus]

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

King Henry V, Act IV, Scene 3

Sparta Command

The Recreation Commons exploded outwards with a shockwave powerful enough to shake the surrounding buildings, but deep within the Strategic Planning Center, the lights didn't even flicker; and "Colonel" Corazon Santiago, President and Supreme Commander of the Spartan Federation, didn't even blink as she addressed the half-size holographic projection of Salvadore St-James.

"They've penetrated the perimeter defence. The local civil defence squads are pinning them down for the moment - or rather, are providing enough targets to occupy their attention. I imagine the photon defenders will be an unexpected and hopefully unwelcome surprise. Your units are in position?"

Sixteen kilometres away, the Gecko nodded, not needing to consult the tactical plot beside his rover's command seat. Both General Timothy O'Brien and his second-in-command had died last week battling the aliens, although Rolling Thunder's foray had been a success.  Rao Kosaru was the most qualified candidate, but was too junior in his role to exercise command of an entire division.  So St-James had assumed the role of Rolling Thunder's brigade commander, with Kosaru as his tactical officer.

"That's affirmative.  All the enemy unit positions are being fed to us real-time.  We're ready to go."

"Then do it, Salvadore."  Santiago's command rang tersely in the Gecko's headset.  He turned to Kosaru.

"Activate targeting designators.  Pick out two targets, one for each of our shard rover divisions."

Two of the progenitor battle mechs now had green circles with crosshairs superimposed on them on St-James' display.  Another four had green circles with amber crosshairs a moment later as Mel Cassaroni's Lightning Strike divisions downloaded their own target designations to the rover's battle computers.  A sudden hum of fusion-powered machinery filled the cabin as over a hundred rovers accelerated towards Sparta Command.  A countdown appeared in the bottom-right corner of the main tactical display as the ETA of engagement diminished.  St-James had slightly less than four minutes before contact, and he used them to review the events leading up to the battle to analyze for any patterns he'd missed.

After the first preliminary probe that had left four of the alien mechs burning - and killed O'Brien - the aliens had mustered all their forces.  This time, whoever was in charge of those forces had decided upon a coordinated assault, emptying out of Janissary Point and Hero's Waypoint to converge on Eastguard.  St-James' original plan to hit their forces while divided had fallen through when the alien skyships had taken up air interdiction above the converging columns, again illustrating a certain amount of caution and diligence on behalf of the enemy commander; unexpected given the nature of the original assaults.  Perhaps the Spartan early victories against the probe had given the aliens cause for caution.  That was dangerous, since the overall Spartan plan was predicated upon overconfidence and mediocre tactics on the behalf of the enemy.  Normally, St-James would never have approved a plan that required the enemy to be overconfident, but this time they'd had no choice - the odds were so poor for Sparta that they needed a break to achieve even a marginal victory in the long run.

So instead, he'd withdrawn from Eastguard, leaving behind only a skeleton garrison of volunteers to man the ferroconcrete bunker complex and buy time for the retreat.  Against the forces now arrayed against Sparta Command, a static defence was suicide, and even the new photon defenders would not hold out long against the alien weaponry.  It ran against the grain to withdraw without even firing a shot, but at least this meant that he had all of Rolling Thunder's and Lightning Strike's divisions intact for an assault on the aliens as they engaged Sparta Command's defenders.

"In range!"  "Fire!"

Fusion-powered particle accelerators threw ultra-dense shards of plasma steel at incredible speed into the Ogres, gouging terrible wounds in the alien armour.  It pleased St-James to see that Spartan weapons development had, in little more than a hundred years, exceeded the best weaponry of old Earth - and, it seemed, was more than enough even against the resonance armour of the aliens.

"One, two,... four aliens destroyed, two with heavy damage, Sir."  Rao Kosaru reported calmly.

"Good, Major.  Find me two more targets for the pens.  Interceptors, stand by to interdict those enemy fighters," St-James ordered.  He knew as well as the interceptor pilots what the outcome of the last dogfight between Sparta's best and the alien fighter craft, but ultimately their job was to protect the much more vulnerable needlejets as they prepared to hammer another pair of mechs to scrap.

In the depths of the Strategic Planning Center, Santiago leaned forward suddenly to examine the holographic theatre as she punched in a query to the Command Nexus.

Salvadore's tactics are good, I understand his plan, but maybe....

There was no time even to allow the Command Nexus to process her query.  If she was wrong, this would be a disaster.  But if she was right....

"Command override!  Rolling Thunder Needlejet Wing Two, hold.  Wing One, continue your run.  Interceptor Wing: Abort."

What the?  St-James thought as he heard Santiago's orders.  He looked at Rao Kosaru to see if the tactical officer had noticed something that St-James hadn't, but could see a mirroring confusion in the younger man's eyes.

Without interceptor cover, that pen wing is dead meat, St-James thought, and his face was grim as a moment later three of the pens exploded as the enemy fighters tore through their formation.  The other nine twisted about in frantic evasion.

"Needlejet Wing Two, engage as previously specified," Santiago ordered, and St-James frowned in further disbelief as his commander ordered the second Rolling Thunder bomber wing to join the first, virtually committing suicide.  They were trying like Spartans, though, to hit their targets despite the apparent insanity of Santiago's orders.  Trying, and dying.  The alien fighters flitted about like bushido-drama warriors cutting down their vastly inferior foes.

In the Strategic Planning Center, Santiago's eyes registered the dead and dying Spartan pilots, but her mind was already four steps ahead, running on instinct and orchestrating commands even faster than the Command Nexus could.

"Rolling Thunder units... seventeen through twenty, come to heading forty-eight, no, fifty-one degrees, maximum velocity.  RT units thirty-one, thirty-five, thirty-six follow at fifty-meter spacing.  Wang, roll 2nd Armour Division around the Bio Labs on the east and elevate guns, activate air tracking now.  All interceptor wings, track and engage target on this heading...."  Santiago didn't have time to rattle off the aerial coordinates, instead simply drawing her finger over her touchpad, leaving a matching trail glowing in the Command Nexus master projection.

St-James sat up straighter as his mind began to see the same possibilities that Santiago had.  She'd ordered specific units from Rolling Thunder to break their current formation.  Relatively obsolete Chaos Gun units.  Relatively obsolete anti-air Chaos gun units.  And Wang's Shard Rover division was also anti-air.

Near the Biology Laboratory Complex, one of the silvery ovoid "ghosts" - alien hoverships - "blinked" into position faster than Spartan sensors could track, but continuing the pattern of destruction it had wrought previously.  It began to focus the devastating singularity laser at its target... and then suddenly lurched violently to the side as hundreds of shard projectiles smashed into its port stasis field.  Smoke began to billow from the nigh-invulnerable stasis shield, but the alien hovership was clearly still operational.  It instantly turned towards the new attackers on the ground, rotating the
compromised stasis shield away from Wang's units - but in so doing, presented the weakened shield perpendicularly to the Rolling Thunder rovers, who threw their peculiar chaos waves at the hovership.  Two seconds later, the Spartan interceptors joined the fray, and assailed from all sides, the alien battleship seemed to simply vanish for a moment... and then a tremendous explosion rained energy and plasma down from the skies over Sparta Command.  Later analysis would show that the Deathsphere had imploded into its own singularity reactor, then when the reactor shut
down, exploded outwards again.

"Yesssss!" Private Annabelle De La Croix cheered in exultant triumph, then quickly stifled herself with embarrassment over the un-Spartan outburst.  The various Civil Defence scout infantry units were less disciplined, and she could hear them cheering loudly on her communications channels.

The aliens, on the other hand, seemed enraged.  Even their Ogres fought in cybernetic frenzy, vaporizing their enemy whenever the huge guns scored a hit.  The alien Gnats spun about, furious to have been suckered, and tore after their Spartan counterparts, ignoring the few surviving bombers.

"Scatter plan Epsilon," Santiago ordered, and the Spartan interceptor wings took flight as the three Gnats bore down upon them like some vengeful god.  Three eye-tearing flashes in the sky signified the deaths of their first three targets; the rest dove towards the central headquarters sector of Sparta Command, as if trying to use the tall, blocky buildings for cover.  The alien pilots knew their own advantages, however; the Gnats were easily able to follow and immediately did so.

Suckers, Santiago smirked, as those same incredible fighters found themselves charging through a sheet of antiaircraft fire as the AAA photon squad finally revealed itself.  Between the forwarded data from the Aerospace complex and their own high-speed ballistic tracking computers, their short-range defensive gunnery was dead
on; the alien fighters - virtually invincible battling opponents in the air - suddenly found themselves facing the massed, perfectly-preplaced fire of entrenched infantry on the ground.  Two more explosions marked the death of the lead Gnats; the last one survived and retreated from the airspace, trailing smoke.  The Spartan interceptor pilots smiled coldly;their comrades had been avenged tenfold in tactical value.

St-James also permitted himself a cold smile.  He could see from his Command Nexus projection that despite their heroic efforts, his Spartans were still taking terrible losses.  But they'd expected to take terrible losses; the best they could hope for was to inflict measurable losses in return to the aliens.  Virtually every human able to carry a gun was fighting; Sparta Command's entire populace knew full well the fate of the residents of Janissary Point and Hero's Waypoint, and were determined to die on their feet.  The Civil Defense was fully mobilized; dozens of poorly-equipped reserve squads were still rushing towards the perimeter almost as fast as they died, and they were buying St-James' rovers extra time to repeat their attack runs, raking the slower Ogres with their shard and chaos batteries.

[senatus]

The battle continued for hours as the aliens slowly but inexorably crushed through their opposition.  The Spartans had fought well, even downing another of the ovoid hoverships, but there had been no more runaway victories like the last.  It seemed that the aliens were now fully committed to a frontal assault and were willing to take whatever losses were necessary to kill their enemies, and they had the force advantage.  Hui Wang and most of the 2nd Armour division was destroyed; Lightning Strike was down to 42% power and Rolling Thunder was little better.  The last of St-James' interceptors had exploded after a suicidal run at a hovership, and he knew he no longer had air cover.  The aliens still had four of their hoverships and nearly half their Ogres, and the elite photon defenders were finally succumbing to the alien juggernaught.  It would only be a matter of minutes, now, before Sparta Command fell - what was left of it, that is.  The streets were strewn with Spartan dead; the surface buildings were smoking piles of rubble.

The Strategic Planning Center was operating on emergency power, now; even sheltered deep below the surface with meters of plasma steel surrounding the Command Nexus, many of the tunnels that Santiago knew intimately from over a century of meetings with the Junta had collapsed.  The tactical display was grainy now, as dust speckled the holographic images.

"Honshu to Santiago.   Fallback position at Westguard is ready."

Santiago nodded at her onetime nemesis' image and she pulled on her battle helmet.  One of the Headquarters guard handed her a shard rifle and she looked at the Command Nexus one last time.  This would be the last time she gave orders from here, she knew.

"Santiago to St-James.   Time to go.  Take one last pass and fall back to Westguard.   I'll see you there."

"Acknowledged,"  came the Gecko's reply.  Santiago started moving, and now spoke into her suit mike as she ran down the escape tunnel, her footsteps and those of the Guard echoing in the corridor.  Never thought I'd be using this passage for real, she thought.

"Santiago to Bisset.   Are you still alive, General?"

"Yes, Madame President," Xavier Bisset spoke from the Tactical Planning Center.  The recent revivifications had not been kind to Bisset, and without recourse to the regenerative treatments that 99.9% of the Junta was able to take for granted, he was now confined to a wheelchair.  Nevertheless, he was in full battle regalia, and a laser rifle was balanced across his knees.

"I am prepared to do my duty, Madame.  I will relay tactical data for as long as possible.  Good luck, 'Colonel'.  Victory in battle."

"Sparta will long remember, General," Xavier heard in response.  He turned to the tactical screens, built so long ago that they made use of liquid crystal displays rather than holographic technology.  He was pleased to see that Cassaroni and St-James had survived.  That was good.  Sparta would need them both almost as much as Santiago.  Bisset also saw that the last of the photon defenders had been obliterated after a courageous last stand.  Now, the enemy were coming for him.  They would be here in minutes.  He wheeled his chair around to address a squad of the Headquarters Guard.

"Members of the Guard," Bisset spoke.  "You have served loyally and well.  Sparta Command has fallen, and it is time for you to save yourselves."

One of the guards shook her head, and spoke for the others.

"We stand or die with you, General.  Long live the Junta!  Long live Sparta!"

"Long live Sparta!"  The others shouted in unison, and Bisset bowed his head in acknowledgment.  The squad moved out to take a final position near the command center's outer entrance.  The guard who had first spoken stayed with Bisset, and trained her rifle at the doorway.

"I am very proud of you, Angelique," Bisset said quietly.

"Thank you, grandpere," his granddaughter smiled, not taking her eyes or her aim away from the door.

An explosion rocked the command center, and there were shouts and firing.  Then the aliens marched into the room, their alien armour shimmering with resonant energy, their rifles trained at the two last defenders of Sparta Command.

"Long live Sparta!"  Xavier Bisset cried, as he pulled the trigger of his laser rifle.  The aliens' energy bolts tore through the old man's body, but he felt no pain.  Bisset died with a smile on his face, and as he died, a signal from his life-support unit reached the computers of the Command Nexus.  Powerful explosive charges rocked the sublevels of Sparta Command, as the Command Nexus self-destructed.   Bisset's executioners died only microseconds after he did.

---

Deathsphere Alpha

Conqueror Zzar surveyed the remnants of the Invader city on his sensors.  The only signs of life he saw were those of his own troops and the Ogres.  Deathsphere Gamma, Delta, and Zeta took up the remainder of his diamond formation, battered but victorious.

As Marr had ordered, so Zzar had obeyed.

Sparta Command had fallen.

 

[Hydro]

Sparta Command, now Conquest of the Weak

Submind Two was stationed along the eastern flank of the tumbled ruins of the Invader city. Billowing smoke and flame rose like randomly place black and red columns that rose up and then bent east, converging over the entire region to give it a dark pall like a ceiling. Light was down to 55%, and it appeared to be dusk. At random intervals he could detect echoing explosions as the demolition crews finished exterminating the remaining Invaders, and as he watched one of the few remaining squat towers twisted and collapsed, adding another black and red column to the black ceiling that hung low overhead.

Movement triggered attention to his left just behind a damaged building. There were a series of low figures that rose up, dashed a few meters, then slunk down in the rubble again. Individually it wouldn’t be anything, but since there were hundreds of them it looked like the entire landscape was infected with small jumping fleas that darted up, over, and then down again.

He activated Submind Five to do a threat analysis, and in moments he had his answer: retreating Invader non-combatants. This had been a big city, strange and alien, and it contained the Warrior Invaders. Many had fought tenaciously, but tens of thousands remained, bereft of everything but their pathetic lives and they were apparently were trying to leave by any means possible. Although most were unarmed he had his orders, which came directly from Marr himself: exterminate. None were to escape.

Submind Two activated his resonance bolt, feeling the trickle of power rise. His subsystems were damaged now, and his firepower now attenuated faster and his targeting had never been this poor – the result of battles and skirmishes since he had arrived on Manifold 6. In reality, these warriors had inflicted almost all of his damage, and he knew it would never be repaired. As he swiveled into position he could feel the warm, satisfying feeling of a resonance bolt at almost full power. He tracked the middle of the fleeing group for maximum effect and superimposed a topographic grid and sequenced his fire, anticipating where the Invaders would move as the assault continued.

His audio sensors shut down to 10% as the resonance bolt sheared into the rubble, creating a linear crater and propelling fragments outward in a lethal trajectory. The airborne debris quickly made many of his other sensors useless, but he continued his firing. After the fifth firing a wash of superheated air blew over him, carrying with it a blast of smaller fragments and dust.

It was enough, he knew, and he ceased firing.

Still, even in death these aliens could be dangerous. He had seen some of the non-combatants immolate themselves when their destruction was immanent, so that even in as they died they hurt their enemies. These were tenacious. Nothing was wasted.

He had to wonder at the new name for Marr’s city: Conquest of the Weak. An interesting name, if somewhat misapplied.

Rubble settled, and wind dispersed the airborne dust. This little disturbance wouldn’t add much to the black and red pillars and ceiling that formed above him.

Submind Two resumed his patrol.

*~*~*~*

Conquer Zzar could smell the pheromones, a veritable reek that came from all the surviving Progenitors as they came back from battle. With the pheromones were not subtle resonances of battles, and of what had been seen. The combination was intoxicating and it had already overwhelmed some of the lesser warriors, who were now almost senseless.

His warriors reveled in their victory. The Invaders were crushed, their strongest place taken. Evidence was all around.

Yet, Zzar didn’t feel victorious. Much had been lost, including two Deathspheres and gnats; these could not be replaced. Half of his battle ogres were destroyed, and the rest damaged. His infantry would recover, but many were destroyed.

Zzar altered an imperative, with got the attention of everyone in Deathsphere Alpha. The cacophony of resonance stopped, and every Progenitor filed outside without a word. In a few minutes the command deck was clear.

Calming himself, Zzar submitted his talons to the reader and willed it to interrogate Courage: To Question. A slight tingle of the full sensory holo activated, and he withdrew his talons to stand fully erect, as was befitting a Conqueror.

And he waited. He waited calmly.

Hours passed, and Zzar continued to stand at attention. Finally an amber light played into the interactive holo, but Conquer Marr did not appear.

Now Zzar knew fear. The Conqueror did not deign to speak with him in his moment of victory. Perhaps he knew the price of this victory, or has distracted by some other important event. But what event could be more important than this?

Still, he knew his duty.

“Great Conqueror Marr,” he resonated, “I report victory, as you predicted. Your forces were able to overcome the massed resistance of the Invaders at their capital and the city is now yours. As you ordered, it will be known as Conquest of the Weak in honor of this great conquest. We have almost completed the eradication of the weak Invaders, and all those that flee have been destroyed. Even now cloning vats are being set up to repopulate this city with Progenitors, and this will be a forward base to your continued assault.

Amist this victory I have to report that Invaders have denied us some of our spoils. Their grand project the Command Nexus was destroyed, evidently by demolition charges as our infantry secured their last stronghold.

I await your orders, Great Conqueror.”

Zzar cut the interactive feed. In a way he was relieved that Conqueror Marr had not interrogated him since it would likely have been unpleasant, and he had enough troubles to deal with at this moment, such as reigning in overzealous warriors who were likely to go on a rampage with little thought to coordination. That would pass, especially after the pheromones died down to normal levels and a degree of sanity returned to normal operations. With the others gone the reek in the command module was returning to tolerable levels, and Zzar considered keeping them locked out. After all, for all they knew he was having a long, in-depth discussion with the Great Marr and was not to be disturbed.

He recognized a weak thought when he had it and he shoved that one back where it deserved to be. Sending out a trill, he activated his acceptance of his command staff to re-enter the upper level of the Deathsphere. As they entered a few shot him anticipatory glances, half expecting him to grace them with some wisdom he had received from Marr. Sadly, Zzar knew Marr’s wisdom: frontal assault - crude but effective, but very crude.

Zzar passed a talon over the battle display, which dutifully winked into existence. He saw his mechanicals were eliminating the retreating mass of retreating non-combatants and he suppressed a wave of irritation. He would, and should, have pursued the few fleeing Invaders. But Marr had given him explicit orders: exterminate, and liquidate. As a result almost 20% of the Invader’s mobile force would escape.

Then Zzar felt pain. He looked down and saw that his talons, in a reflexive action, had involuntarily clenched at the thought of the lost opportunity, piercing the leathery chitin on his palm.

Strangely, this made Zzar feel a little better, and for a moment the twisting in his gut lessened. He thought, This is my battle wound.

The thick blood congealed in his palm, and he watched it throb out of his body in tri-pulsing action of his three hearts. Abruptly, he overturned his hand and the blood fell to the floor.

That is the least of the Progenitor blood that has and will be spent, he thought.

[Hydro]

Sea Hive

Chairman Yang reached over and squeezed the soiled scrub rag in the bucket, and gray water dutifully trickled out as Yang squeezed harder and harder. After a few moments no more water was forthcoming and he shifted his stoop and continued his methodical scrub of the hallway floor. A group of six Hivean citizens surrounded him, and they were also stooped and performing the same labor. The only sound was the occasional tinkle of water as it dropped into the dark gray buckets and the slosh of water as rags were cleaned out. Each citizen was clad in identical gray jumpers that were cut in such a way as to be uniformly unflattering. Men and women were difficult to tell apart due to the utilitarian bagginess of the jumper and the fact that almost all had only a minimum of facial hair, including Yang. For all age and sex was indeterminate.

This lot of drones was a cross section of Hive society, and each was performing their scheduled duty of manual labor. Yang was not immune to this almost sacred Truth that all labor was good labor, and that none shall be excused unless a higher duty called. Each labor gang was randomly rotated, and citizens notified of their appointed time and place of service. No one acknowledged each other or their overseer, although one was always present – the labor itself was the point, and the objective. And no one acknowledged Chairman Yang, although he was recognized and each member felt honored to be serving with the Chairman. This was proof of their egalitarian society, where at a basic level all were equal.

Yang himself had instituted this practice at the very beginning, at the conception of his drive to form a perfect, utopian society bereft of distractions of class and inappropriate material possessions. Some in the Hive leadership did not agree with this practice, but these did not survive long. Those that did not embrace the ideals of equality and egalitarianism were fairly quickly weeded out and re-educated to a more appropriate task. Menial tasks. The only exception was Aashandi.

At that thought Yang squeezed his rag a little harder. His back and forth scrubbing of the floor did not pause, and only the most astute observer would notice any change in his placid demeanor.

A group of seven men and women walked down the hallway, buckets and rags in hand. They stopped, still in formation, for a moment and then kneeled to start their labor immediately adjacent to Yang’s stooped group of drones were working, taking up where the other group had finished. As soon as they had started their scrubbing Yang’s group rose as one and walked back to the assembly area in this sublevel. Their supervisor took up position in back of them as they walked at a brisk, uniform pace. The buckets did not spill a drop of water, and their formation was semi-formal but noticeable. Order was preserved.

*~*~*~*

Yang felt rather than saw or heard the summons. It was a little uncanny, almost like the abilities Lady Skye was reputed to have. Still, it had happened a number of times and his ‘sense’ had not failed him.

He stood up and waited. A shimmering appeared in front of him, and a holo coalesced into the image of a Progenitor. By its markings it was a sub-Conqueror, and it was at one of the Usurper bases based on the architecture visible within the holo frame.

Yang knew what this communication was about – the capture of Sparta Command. Interesting, Sheng-Ji Yang thought. This is one of Marr’s minions, and not even a member of the command staff. So I, his loyal human, do not even rate an official pronouncement of their moment of victory? I wonder what this portends for us. His mind worked furiously, assessing the viable permutations. Knowing what he did of these Progenitors he knew that status is everything, and that alone spoke volumes.

“Invader Yang: attention required. Conqueror Marr: destroyed Invader Spartans, Invader forces crushed, defeated. Invader city Conquer Marr’s. This victory: proof of Progenitor supremacy. You will watch, you will learn if alien brain can comprehend. Attention: now,” the figure said.

The holo changed, showing Sparta Command from the air looking toward the west. It was a sprawling dun colored city that looked like a series of low, truncated pyramids. A few buildings stood out, those in the capitol complex and some of the larger residential towers. Most were simply massive and squat, and forbidding in their own way. In this view there was substantial movement toward the city’s outskirts. Yang recognized them instantly as the mechanicals, or Battle Ogres, and they moved with a flowing motion that made them look like they were floating above the ground. Following these were rank upon rank of Progenitor infantry, marching in knots similar to human divisions. Hovering high overhead were gnats, both bombers and interceptors, which looked like a swarm of circling crows at a far altitude, although any crow would be envious at their maneuverability. Last in the formation were the vaunted Deathspheres, and Yang deduced that this holo had been taken from one of these.

“Now: attack begins,” the voice of the Progenitor pronounced.

Yes, the attack was beginning. There was movement all along the edge of the city, but it was moving outward. Yang almost smiled. It was the Spartans that were attacking, not the Progenitors. Bright bursts of light erupted from entrenched Spartan infantry, and these lances of light transfixed some of the mechanicals as they advanced, gauging wedges out of the advancing line. Little silvery ants swarmed out from a few points, and these had to be the Spartan rovers, their elites. Even from this distance it was clear that they were moving many multiples of the speed of the mechanicals, and the mechs found themselves encircled. The flowing advance stopped and brighter lights erupted into and through the front ranks of the Progenitor mechs and infantry as the rovers fired in a classic Spartan shoot-and-scoot fashion.

Within minutes the first rank of Progenitors was decimated, and a series of spectacular explosions rippled across the plain. Once in a while the backwash even caused some turbulence for the observing Deathsphere. Yang’s eye caught new movement as the Spartan air force lifted off, flying almost straight up to gain as much height as they could. The gnats, which had been hovering, descended like birds of prey. Now lights played within the air as well as the ground, but this time it was clear the Spartans were getting the worst of it.

Yang stopped watching the details and tried to take in the larger picture, the strategy and tactics of both sides. On the ground the Progenitor forces were stunned, and were not moving much past the defensive perimeter. The slower mechs tried to move in to fill the voids created by those the Spartan strikes had eliminated, cutting off the rovers. Yang knew that would fail, and it did. The rovers simply maneuvered where they were not. There were hundreds of rovers and, almost as one the wheeled around and struck outward again into the heart of the Progenitor infantry.

That got Yang’s attention. A blunder? Maybe a suicidal death charge?

No. The Progenitors reacted, pulling away from the perimeter to encircle the rovers. Then almost all of the rovers turned, almost in place, back toward Sparta Command while some of their counterparts struck with blinding force into the advancing infantry in the second rank. Where they struck the defenders staggered, and great gouts of smoke, light, and explosions followed. Progenitor siege guns ruptured, as did some of the rovers, and the mechanicals closed in.

As they did the bulk of the rover force raced back unopposed toward the perimeter of Sparta Command, and relative safety. The Spartans had executed a feign of a feign, sacrificing a third of their force and causing the attackers great losses, and to be out of position.

At other locations along the perimeter the Progenitor mechs and now infantry were slugging it out. The line bulged, inward this time, and some of the mechanicals advanced into the outskirts of Sparta Command, spewing resonance death to defenders and buildings alike. The force of the overall advance closed in where the rovers had cleared the field. Sparta Command was encircled again.

In the air most of the gnats were engaged, slaughtering the Spartans. Here the technological superiority of the Progenitors was showing, and it was not pretty for the Spartans who lost 3 to 1. Soon it was at least 5:1 as the numeric forces were outbalanced after almost all the gnat interceptors had their field day. Yang knew the feeling of growing desperation he knew the Spartans must be feeling, since the Spartans had done this to his air defenses during their blitz of his territory. The air broiled with confusion, and at the periphery Yang could see that the Deathspheres could not resist the tumult, striking in to join the slaughter. And the Spartans gave way before them, almost as if the waters of the air were being parted. The Spartans seemed to be retreating, yielding up their airspace.

Yang’s eyes narrowed. That was wrong.

As he watched the lead Deathsphere gave chase, wreaking havoc. It picked up speed and it crossed over into the edge of the city.

And Deathsphere staggered, almost as if it had hit a plowed into an ocean. It was sheeted with a blinding wave of antiaircraft fire that washed over it from every direction. The retreat reversed, with the remaining interceptor pilots pulling seemingly impossible U-turns as they turned to attack, adding their fire to the stricken Deathsphere. There was a pulse of blackness, and a contraction that seemed to suck in light, then an enormous explosion.
Yang was stunned, and he realized he was holding his breath. He had seen it with his own eyes: the death of a Deathsphere, impenetrable and almighty.

A quad of Spartan interceptors broke off and was joined by some ungainly chaos interceptors, who flew off fast, low and away from the battle. Yang was puzzled again, but only for a moment. While their comrades sacrificed themselves to keep the infuriated gnat defenders busy, these interceptors were making a b-line for one of the second Deathsphere that now hesitated at the edge of the battle, just beyond the city perimeter. They fell on it hard. The first few were swept away, but then one and then another gout of flame erupted from the Deathsphere as its singularity shields simply couldn’t take the strain of repeated direct hits. More Spartans died, and a few more hit home – one hit on the Deathsphere from the death of one elite Spartan interceptor pilot. The Deathsphere reeled, sinking toward the ground rear first. An obsolete chaos interceptor fired again and again, straight into the damaged flank. Defensive fire from the Deathsphere pierced the interceptor, which held together for a moment and then exploded on top of the Deathsphere, which vanished in the wash of heat and flame. As the flame cleared the Deathsphere was still there, but it keeled over to its side and sank at an increasing rate toward the ground, throwing out great gouts of purple flame and smoke. As Yang watched it seemed that a great bite had been taken out of its flank, but that bite kept growing and as Yang watched the Deathsphere just disappeared. It had consumed itself, maybe from an out of control singularity.

Back on the ground the Spartans were losing ground, but making the Progenitors pay for every meter. Yang could see lightly armed and armored defenders race out to engage, harry, and delay the attackers, and do it successfully.

“Invader Yang: watch the end,” the voice said.

The scene changed. The outskirts of Sparta Command were fully engulfed in flame, and the perimeter defenses and defenders were gone. Pillars of black smoke rose as the invaders systematically reduced the city to rubble, destroying everything. The remaining gnats were strafing the city at will, although most had returned to base. Building after building crumbled and fell, and the city seemed to be rolling up as he watched. A series of vehicles were taking off vertically from the center of Sparta Command, which still stood. They angled upward and then to the west.

Those are jump pods. Sparta Command is being abandoned, Yang thought. He counted as rapidly as he could, and it looked like mainly elite rover and infantry were lifting off, most likely the 469th infantry and at least two divisions of attack rovers.

Usurper infantry were advancing en mass, with the damaged mechanicals semi motionless along the former perimeter of the city. Destruction continued for tens of minutes. It was clear that the invaders were still facing some opposition, and that they were heading irresistibly toward the most massive, but not the tallest, building in Sparta Command – the Command Nexus, the heart of the Spartan empire. More destruction, and more pillars of black rose in the air until it looked like a forest of black tree trunks with a black canopy.

Then Yang’s impassive eyebrows went up. As he watched the Command Nexus puckered inward at the center and, in slow motion, fell in on itself. Another huge column of smoke and ash started to rise.

They destroyed the Command Nexus, he thought, to prevent it from falling into Marr’s talons. Scorched earth. Leave nothing behind. Commendable.

It was over, although Yang watched as more and more columns rose into the air. It went on for hours, but he dutifully watched as he was commanded. As he did he remembered that he had almost incinerated Sparta Command with a planetbuster, and he would have done so had not other distracting matters intervened. He would have willingly obliterated the entire city, like he had ordered the vaporization of two Spartan-held former University cities as a demonstration. Given that, what did he feel? Not much. The Spartans had fought well, and had inflicted grievous harm on Marr, although Yang suspected that Marr himself didn’t quite understand that yet, and maybe he never would. As expected, the Spartans had concentrated their firepower and emptied his continent of their forces while the Usurpers dawdled to prepare their assault. The Spartans had sacrificed many of their most experienced forces in a seemingly futile defense of their capitol, only to lose it in the end. Or, did they lose? It depended on how you define lose. Surely Marr thought he had won, but what did he have to show for his battle?

Pillars of smoke. That is what he had.

If anything Yang felt a certain satisfaction. The Spartans were weakened, but had escaped with much of their ground forces. It was unclear if Santiago had survived, but Yang was almost certain that she had. She would never give up, he had know that when he had hired her back before Unity had lifted off. It was a desirable, if unpredictable, talent. But, more importantly, Marr had been damaged. He had lost simple and replaceable infantry in his disastrous assault on Velvetgrass Point, where Yang had been very content to sit and watch its destruction. This time he had lost most of his army of formidable mechs, and the rest damaged. At least two of his terrifying Deathspheres had been destroyed. And his army and airforce was mauled. The only faction that could do that was the Spartans, and he had arranged it. The Spartans and Usurpers were significantly weakened. That he was free to retake what was his from the Spartans, Believers, Drones, and Gaians on his continent was simply a finishing touch.

The holo winked out, with the last scene being the last of the Spartan towers collapsing on themselves.

“Invader Yang: observe proof of Progenitor superiority. Great Conqueror Marr: demands obedience. Will order soon. Obey: alternative death. Submit,” it ordered.

Yang turned his gaze to the image of the Progenitor. He gave it a slight bow at the waist, then straightened, making eye contact for just a second. It was a calculated insult, since the Progenitor gesture of obedience was to bear one’s soft throat underneath their head crenellations. A submissive certainly did not make eye contact, even for a fraction of a second.

The Progenitor’s image trilled, and then paused, obviously considering this Invader. It chirped once, and the translator was not able to find the correct words to translate this with respect to human anatomy. Then the image winked out.

Yang stared at where the image had been. Let them think of me as simply an ignorant and backward human. That serves my purpose, he thought to himself.

Then he returned to work. There were many pressing issues, internal and external. Some, like Aashandi, he viewed as a greater threat than the so-called Conqueror Marr.

[Hydro]

Morgan Industries

CEO Morgan looked into the polished black veined marble wall, leaning just close enough so he could see himself clearly. Looking himself over, he picked an errant piece of lint of his navy suit, adjusted his vest, and fluffed some of the lace at the cuffs of his shirt.

He stood back and looked again. Now I’m ready.

Turning, he walked over to the polished inlayed bronze doors to the council chamber. The doors opened soundlessly at his approach, and he entered the room. There was silence except for the clicking of his paten leather shoes on the salt-and-pepper granite floor. As he approached the other Board members rose.

“Please, be seated,” he said with casual grace as he gestured to their seats around the long and brightly lit table. Morgan approached his chair, which was slightly larger and subtly more ornate that the others, but did not sit down.

He turned toward his advisors, who were the elected officials from each of the Morgan municipalities. Leaning forward, he put on hand on the upper portion of his chair. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you’ve heard the news about Sparta Command.”

Morgan paused and looked into the faces to make eye contact with of all the Governors. All had strained expressions of shock and fear, but all were composed. All Morgan managers functioned well under pressure or they didn’t hold their high stress jobs for long.

“We knew it was coming. The aliens had been building up for months, slowly and methodically, and it was clear that they were going to attack Sparta Command. Now they have. I have a bit of news for you, and an action plan that I want you to vote on. First the news. We have intercepted a transmission from the alien city Courage: To Question to Sea Hive that was intended for the traitor Yang. With your permission I’d like to play it for you in its entirety.”

He made eye contact with all the Governors again, and each gave a solemn nod. After breaking eye contact with the last woman he directed their attention to the left side of the table, pulled out his chair and sat down. The lights dimmed, and the image of the Progenitor Yang had seen played out. The Governors watched as Yang humbled himself to this alien, and a few angry murmurs swept through the darkened room. It was clear that Yang was the willing vassal to these monsters. Then it commanded him to view the destruction of Sparta Command.

There was silence in the Boardroom as they watched the Progenitor army’s advance. As the burst of firepower started a few gasped, but these turned to cheers as it became clear the Spartans were busy blasting the front rank to scrap, rending and tearing with abandon. More cheers as the Spartan air force took flight. Feign, and counterattack. The rovers dashed for home, and the Governors cheered them on. There were gasps as the Spartan air defenses retreated and the gnats and a Deathsphere rushed in for the kill, then more cheers as the Deathsphere imploded, then exploded spectacularly. More dogfighting, where the Spartans were clearly losing. Then the gallant drive and the destruction of the second invulnerable Deathsphere! Cheers!

Throughout Morgan was silent, but he was watching. But not the holo. He was watching his Governors.

As the holo continued the Spartan victories stopped, and the tide turned. The Spartan air force was swept from the sky, and the city started burning. Waves of infantry pressed in to replace those that were destroyed or disabled. Gasps of fear involuntarily escaped from the Governors as first one, then two, then dozens of soaring pillars of smoke rose.

And the aliens advanced.

Then they heard the Progenitor voice, “Invader Yang: observe proof of Progenitor superiority. Great Conqueror Marr: demands obedience. Will order soon. Obey: alternative death. Submit.”

There was no angry growl now. Just more silence.

An hour passed, and before it was done the vaunted and seemingly invulnerable Sparta Command was gone. The last thing they saw was the implosion of the Command Nexus, a final act of defiance. There were no cheers, only a single low simultaneous groan of disbelief.

The holo ended, and the lights came back on. Morgan stood, pushing his chair to the side. He leaned forward, placing his extended fingers on the polished wood of the conference table. All eyes turned expectantly to him.

“Who can we fight this?” he asked. It was clearly a rhetorical question, but one that was on all of their minds. “This is a tragic defeat for our allies the Spartans. We have placed our hopes in their ability to defend themselves, and by extension us, from the ravages of these aliens. And it seems they have failed.”

Morgan paused again. “Or so it seems. Look closely and you will see signs of hope. First, look at what they destroyed. They took the pride of Marr’s army and air force and almost fought it to a standstill. They destroyed at least two Deathspheres, which every military planner said couldn’t be done. Most of their mechanicals are damaged or destroyed. His army is in tatters. His air force damaged or destroyed. And,” Morgan paused for effect, “you will notice, at the end, that they evacuated their best fighters to fight another day. Fight another day.

Now, I’d like to play you something else that I just received.”

Morgan swiveled and sat down. A holo appeared to the left again.

“Friends and allies,” the familiar figure of Santiago said, “I give you a short message. The Spartan cause is still alive, and we view the events of the last day with both pride and regret. Many brave men and women sacrificed themselves, and everything they know and love, to defend what was theirs, knowing their fate. But, they did this willingly for they wish to defend our way of life, and the lives of all humans on Planet. Our capital may be gone but we will fight on. We will honor the memory of the fallen and use this memory as an inspiration for the future, the future that they died to protect. We will not fail them. We have found that the Progenitors can be beaten, even as they seem to be victorious. We all have hidden strengths, our natural abilities. Use them. Do not hide. Strike where and when you can, for we are many and they are few. Together we can stem this tide, and together we will persevere.

Now, I must go. I have a battle to fight. And so do you.”

Santiago’s stern image winked out.

Morgan scanned the faces again, and many were surprised, but most were simply stunned. Morgan resolved to removed that stunned look and replace it with something else.

“Ladies, gentlemen, the Coronal is exactly right. We have our hidden strengths, and we will use them. I have two proposals for you.”

Morgan passed out a pre-programmed data pad, and each of the Governors accepted it without looking at it.

“This is top secret information I am giving you. These datapads are encoded and keyed to self-destruct, so no recording devices will be able to document what is written on them. Please activate the pads.”

Each member did so.

“This is my first proposal. We will continue supplying Santiago with the energy she needs to maintain and expand her fighting force, and she will have no lack. After this we still have a reserve, which we have been loath to tap since our conflict with Yang and the near destruction of Morgan Bank. This project that I propose will require the construction of an aircraft carrier,” he said as he pointed to the first line item. “It will also require that we allocate every supply crawler in our land toward a special project, one that we are uniquely suited to construct and use. When completed it will hurt Marr in a way that he can scarcely comprehend, and probably has not dreamed of in his worse nightmares.”

Morgan waited for a moment as the Governors waded through the bare details of the proposal. One elderly man from Morgan Pharmaceuticals abruptly put the pad down loudly on the table and looked at Morgan with a pained expression. The others, who were slower readers or just a little slower than the old researcher, just looked up from their datapads and then to Morgan.

Morgan smiled. “I see you understand. This will require extreme sacrifice. We will not only have to lose the resources the crawlers have provided us, but we will have to scrap some of our more expensive buildings that are not economically oriented. For instance, our research hospitals will all be scrapped. The new fusion lab at Morgan Bank will be scrapped, too, since it can not be fully effective since Morgan Bank is still suffering from Yang’s crippling nerve gas attack. These sacrifices will allow us to strike back, and strike back hard.”

The Governors were entranced. Few had ever seen this almost maniacal fervor in the CEO’s normally calm eyes. He held all of their gazes.

“Unless you want to surrender to Marr,” he said almost casually.

He couldn’t have gotten a more visceral reaction if he had reached out and slapped each across the face. Each new, in painful detail, what happened to those in humans who happened into Marr’s loving care.

“I call for a vote,” Morgan said. “I move that we enact my first proposal, to be implemented immediately. Phase 1 will be completed within the next few weeks by marshalling all of our resources, and Phase 2 within the month. Do I have a second?”

The old director from Pharma was the first to recover. “Second,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Voice vote. All in favor say ‘aye’.”

A chorus of ayes rang out.

“All not in favor say ‘nay’.”

Silence.

“Abstentions?”

Silence.

Morgan smiled, his bright white teeth contrasting with his dark brown skin and steel gray hair. “The ayes have it. Motion approved. Now, for my second proposition I’d like to invite two long time friends into our chamber. I know it is against all policy, but considering the circumstances I think it is appropriate.”

He didn’t ask for a vote on the procedural change, and paused only long enough to give the impression that the Governors had the option of objecting. None did.

“Come in please,” he said to the air. The great bronze doors opened, and two figures walked in.

“I am sure all of you are familiar with this august pair, but let me introduce them anyway. First there is our old security advisor Andre, long time trusted advisor to this board and the mastermind of amazing feats of bravery. Second, and certainly not least, is the vaunted Rose. These two have a long history,” he said, savoring the double meaning. In truth, the two hated each other. “And together they have done the impossible – penetrate Yang’s Aashandi’s Circle and cripple it, and helped infiltrate the aliens. I believe that our lovely Miss Rose has an interesting proposition. Rose?”

Rose smiled delicately and inclined her head slightly to Morgan, and then glanced to Andre. He was silent, but at least his body language wasn’t hostile.

She walked toward the board so that she would be under a spotlight and fully visible. She turned her hand palm side up and extended it. A Progenitor vehicle, much feared, appeared above her palm – the Deathsphere.

“The Spartans managed the seemingly impossible. They destroyed two of these Deathspheres, which are the pinnacle of the alien technology. Nothing that we have can defend against them, and the Spartans destroyed one at great cost to themselves. Could we so?”

She paused, still holding the image of the Deathsphere.

“No. So what do we do?”

She paused again, and her smile grew by centimeters.

“I have an answer, and its right up my and Andre’s alley.”

Rose looked around the room. She had everyone’s undivided attention.

“I’m going to steal a Deathsphere.”

[Googlie]

Temple of Chiron

Cyrus Peake tugged at the collar of his dress jacket, trying to smooth the bulge where the translation yoke sat on his neck. He hated this device, even although it was much more compact than the early models. The materials were now synthsilk, so much more comfortable, the resonance baffles now arranged much like a cravat at his throat. And they concealed the throat mike that picked up the vibrations from his own speech and translated them into the resonance waves understood by the Progenitors.

Usually it was Canla that wore the translator when they met – the Progenitor equipment was micro, fitting just behind one of her receptor flaps – it was easier to capture and render the crude human speech patterns into resonance, much like a child’s first uttering squeals might be. The transmitter that converted the Progenitor resonances into a crude facsimile of human speech was but a simple wrist apparatus no bigger than one of the 21st century timepieces that Cyrus had seen in the old vidflicks.

But they had developed a sign language that they used when neither was yoked – simple communication, and she had entered his quarters giving their agreed upon sign “yoke up and come with me.”

He turned to her, sensing the tension in her stance and asked:

“What’s the hurry? Where are we going?”

His cravat tickled under his chin as the baffles caught her resonance and he felt the bones in his shoulders vibrate from the transmission through the yoke.

“To the Nexus” the resonance hummed deep within his bones.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“It’s Conqueror Marr,” the slight alteration was caught by his yoke baffles.

“Go on,” he said, as he switched off the holofeed he’d been playing of Chairman Yang’s latest communication to him. He left his cubicle and followed her to the waiting vehicle.

“It has been more than thirty turnings,” she went on, the concern manifesting itself in the choppy resonance “since he shut himself in the communications room – hasn’t eaten since he found it, but more to the point no orders are being given to the commanders in the field.”

It was the longest speech that Cyrus had ever heard the young stochastic give.

They boarded the rover and Cyrus remembered how uncomfortable these much larger seats made him. He felt like a kid at crèche dinner sitting in a high chair as he strained to see through the viewports.

“Why can’t an aide just take food and drink in to him?” asked Peake

“He’s entombed in some strange cocoon,” she altered. “Like he is sleeping, except he is resonating and his limbs are jerking as he lies there.”

Cyrus saw just how concerned she was.

‘This sounds strange,’ he thought to himself as they sped along the road linking Temple and the Nexus.

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

As they entered, Canla motioned to Cyrus to keep quiet, lest Conqueror Marr be disturbed.

One look at the recumbent Usurper told Peake everything he needed to know.

“It’s a VR environmental suit,” he said, the yoke carrying the translation to Canla, who gave her Progenitor version of a “so what” shrug.

“He’s wired through an MMI interface to the nexus computer itself,” he went on. “I’ve seen vidflicks of old Earth where people donned such netsurfing suits. If the rig is typical, it should be able to display dynamically exactly what he’s doing. And he’s getting nutrients thru the suit – the cocoon - itself”

Canla pondered that, then altered:

“Nexus. Animate.”

The huge holotable to the right of them flickered, then the room darkened. Cyrus and Canla sat down on nearby seats, and watched in awe.

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

Judaa Marr sat at the command console of what appeared to be a Progenitor Battlecruiser.

He was addressing his onboard intelligence.

“Show me The Beserker”

The view shifted to a spatial overview, and there, just rising from the surface of Harmony, was the great Caretaker Battleship.

“Zoom” came Marr’s resonating command.

The view shifted as though a remote observation gnat were flying down the length of the battlecruiser. The resonance deflector shields were clearly visible, being deployed as they always were during its most vulnerable phase – the liftoff from a planetary surface. Then the weapons pods came into view. The ominous shape of the string disrupter cannon could be seen secure in its antimatter housing, flanked by the singularity torpedo bays. The view panned down past the rows of Hornet ports, for the deployment of their aerial defense system,

Amidships was the telltale bulge of the battlecruiser’s singularity powered reactors, linked immediately aft to the Vizorium-5 fuel tanks that were themselves shielded by the huge resonance augmentation baffles that took and amplified the thrust , like the afterburners that were shown in the old vidclips of the ancient terran aircraft..

“Threat analysis?” came Marr’s throaty inquiry.

The view shimmered, then a new shape appeared on the holo – a differently configured ship, older, more battle-weary.

Canla tapped Peake on the arm, and Cyrus felt the yoke vibrate as she resonated excitedly “It’s the Impaler. Our flagship.”

Then it dawned on her, and she turned agitatedly to Peake:

“It’s the decisive battle of the Succession Wars – the Impaler versus the Berserker. Marr’s father commanded the Impaler – Marr himself was a weapons officer serving on it. The Berserker was commanded by Kenal K'esh, the broodmate of Conqueror Marr’s lifelong enemy, Guardian Lular H’minee. It was the Usurper’s greatest defeat, and it looks like Conqueror Marr is going to relive it to see what went wrong.”

“Sheesh,” muttered Peake. “How long did the battle go on? – He’s been out of circulation for over three weeks now, and things are heating up here.”

“Over thirty turnings” Canla altered.

“Another month,” Peake exclaimed. “We can’t have that. Call him out of it”

“I daren’t do that,” Canla retorted. He is my commanding officer.

Peake looked at her levelly. “Do it,” he commanded. “Your race’s future depends on him being at the helm.

She wavered.

“I can’t”, she said. “It is more than my life is worth.”

“Then will the computer obey me?” asked Peake.

“If I command it to,” she altered.

“Then do it,” said Peake.

Canla hesitated, then squared her shoulders.

“Nexus,” she resonated.

“At your service,” came the deep alteration of the system.

“Take your orders from the earthling, Peake. He will command you.”

“We await instructions,” came the disembodied resonance of the Manifold Nexus.

Peake hesitated, then took the plunge:

“Shut down the simulations and pull Conqueror Marr out of it.”

There was a slight pause, then the holo faded, and the room went quiet.

A soft humming of machinery took over, and they watched as the node connections and wires snaked away from Marr’s cocoon, and the nutrient and life support connections withdrew.

The sensory pod opened, and a puzzled looking Judaa Marr sat up and took stock of his surroundings.

“Welcome back, Conqueror,” resonated Canla

He regarded her coolly. Then turned and looked at Peake.

Back to Canla.

“Why did you recall me?” he altered.

Peake jumped in:

“You have been out for more than thirty turnings, reliving the past. The present needs you. Your troops have won a phyrric victory – if you know what that means. A hollow victory. You have gained your objective of capturing Sparta Command, but at horrendous loss of personnel and materiel. Your people need your leadership. While you have been indulging your fantasy, your warriors have won a battle, but may have lost the war.”

As Marr caught the resonance, shaped it and absorbed it, he grew agitated, mandibles fluttering.

“You will never understand,” he altered. “Your kind cannot. I have been discoursing with my father – and his advisors. They have shown me what to do.”

“And that is?” Peake interrupted, causing Marr to look up in anger as the harsh resonance hit home.

He turned to Peake: “Deal the invaders a blow from which they will never recover. Now help me up and let us go to the Command Center.”

They followed him out of the Manifold Nexus to the waiting rover.

[Hydro]

Morgan Industries

From a distance it looked like thousands of tiny fireflies were buzzing lazily around in the night sky. The course of each light was erratic, and just as a light appeared, it disappeared, winking on and off at seemingly random intervals. Most of the tiny lights were yellowish white, almost points.

It was a beautiful illusion that only held if you refused to hear the din of vehicles, clanging metal, and the high whine of pulses of electricity and fusion torches. The points of light, upon closer inspection, were not random at all, just focused on fast moving robots that flew frantically over their charge. Hoverbots literally swarmed along the construction dock, rising into place, fusing their bit of metal or electronics into place, or applying their nanogel or pre-configured components. These dutiful robots worked untiringly round the clock, and were the height of technology, each one worth more than a mid-sized corporation’s CEO’s net worth.

A trio of suited figures watched the seeming pandemonium with spyglasses or remote holo cameras from the staging office at the base in the upper tier of the drydock as the work progressed. The figure on the left was slightly rumpled, and her suit had long since given up its wrinkle free air of perfection for an unsightly unkempt look. Still, Senior Engineer Marian Clause was beyond caring at this point, and a disheveled suit was the least of her concerns. This was the fastest and most complex design-construct job ever in the history of Morgan Industries, and it was her baby. More accurately, it was her head if it failed. She would be lavishly rewarded of coarse, but Marian couldn’t afford to be distracted by such thoughts now, although they were firmly in the back of her mind.

The view in Marian’s VR goggles jumped back and forth to the current critical choke points in the project – the fusion reactor assembly in the propulsion system and the autolift in the carrier deck, and the amalgamation of seamless, rounded hull components. She keyed in on bot N25-CN, noting it was lagging in her abstracted system display that was superimposed on her field of view. In a split second she rode into its tiny brain, and saw the problem – a malfunction in its secondary altitude adjuster, which meant that it simply could not maintain its place accurately enough to finish its task. With a blink she dispatched it, and called in one of her few reserves.

She felt her stomach grind as her sys display reminded her, again, that she had only 15 spare bots left of that type. At the rate they were burning out she would be forced to use some of the obsolete units or, worse, actual human workers. More troubles, and more delay. The inefficiency of actually having to communicate with real workers made Marian’s skin crawl. Still, it had to be done. With another blink she called up a worker list, and queued the replacements, bid for their services, and authorized their contracts with a retinal scan, shunting this task over to her senior project manager in one of the other control stations. Marian hated the waste of time; there was so much to do, so much.

“…and this will a fully functional carrier, able to service and operate a full wing of pens or ints.” the first blue suit said, waving his left arm dramatically toward the hull that was silhouetted by the firefly lights of the swarms of worker bots. “Our proposal was well within the RFP, which required, among other things, a deep pressure hull for full submersion. Imagine – a carrier that can operate as a submarine, and a huge one at that! We have contracted to have this submarine carrier to be operational two weeks from now,” he commented casually and pointedly. The other suit turned toward him, clearly impressed, or at least that was the practiced expression he put on his face. “This completion will increase the profits in this quarter for Morgan Shipyards by 235% with this project alone! In addition to the expected startup and completion bonus, and the nullification liquidated damages contract, this integrated design-build has a progressive end date achievement bonus that is measured in days, and a 50% markup on expenses and subcontracts. There was no restriction on subcontractors, or bidding arrangements. CEO Wong-Ingredson was told by CEO Morgan himself to get the job done, and hang the expense. And we will.”

The gray suit whistled silently to himself as the P&L statements that spun through his mind became pure profit, and no loss. The markups on materials alone on this project would guarantee the margin for this quarter for all of Morgan Shipyards!

One of the firefly lights that buzzed around the carrier brightened briefly and suddenly, and Marian groaned. Not only had the bot exploded, but it had taken a uniquely fabricated section of hull with it. She toggled a replacement, and called up her integrated timetable to make sure this loss wouldn’t severely disrupt the installation of the third rotor.

Marian groaned again, and her fists clenched.

The suits didn’t notice.

[Googlie]

Sea Hive ~~ level 13
Central Intelligence

Early Afternoon

Bree cleared her throat somewhat self-consciously as she approached the corner cubicle. The nameplate on the shoulder high wall was partially covered by his jacket that he’d slung over the corner, and all she could read was simply Research Officer. But she knew that he was significantly more important than her immediate supervisor and she didn’t want to startle him.

The scuttlebutt in the recroom was that he was somewhat of an empathy, and Bree had to admit that she often found disconcerting his ability to steer conversations in exactly the way she wanted them to go – but other than that she had no first hand experience of his displaying any empathy talent.

He was engrossed in analysis of a holo model that he had brought up over the workspace table, moving his hands through the air to activate his system commands and rotate the model – it seemed to Bree to be of some alien weapons system.

“That’s a good omen,” she thought. “Exactly what I want to talk to him about.”

He looked up from his work as he heard her discreet cough, and his face broke out into a grin of recognition:

“Ah, Bree, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Don’t tell me – Alien desk, no?”

She nodded again, somewhat impressed. She had met him maybe five times in all, usually at staff meetings, and he hadn’t seemed to notice her at all.

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

She hesitated, then bit the bullet:

“Sir – we think – at least I … I - think, that you need to see what we’ve – I’ve – deciphered these last few hours. It’s fairly important, and standing orders are to interrupt you when we come across something like this.”

“Okay – spill the pearls – what have you got?”

“Sir, if you don’t mind – could you set up a secure office and I’ll project it and translate. – it’ll take a couple of hours. And my instructions are that only the Duty Officer and I are to be in the know. ”

He regarded her. His imperceptible pre-cognitive empath wash as she approached him had revealed her to be the technician who manned the Resonance Sweep Array, and undoubtedly she had picked up something of import.

He nodded.

“I’ll follow you to 117 – I’ll just reserve it and shut this test down”

As he turned back to his equipment he took his jacket from the partition, and she saw his name:

Kurt Weiss

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

That Evening

Kurt stood by the guardrail of the uppermost level of the sprawling floating city and watched as Prime slowly slipped under the ocean to the west. The weak evening sunlight of Secundus cast long weak shadows as it too began its disappearance.

The lights of the aerospace complex to the east began to take on prominence as darkness fell, somewhat obliterating the myriad of stars that were now appearing, and the steady hum of fusion engines carried over the water to the habitation dome, signaling more activity and traffic between the Hive and Progenitor bases.

He turned to Bree, standing quietly beside him.

“Do you have family here?” he asked. “Mate, parents, brothers and sisters?”

She thought that an odd question. Was he trying to come on to her, she wondered?

“No,” she replied. “I was paired, but my man was killed in one of the Spartan skirmishes. He was a needlejet pilot.”

Kurt nodded. “We lost many good citizens to that senseless conflict.”

Bree looked around. This was almost seditious. But the deck was deserted. Along the walkway could be seen the lazily revolving turret of one of the silksteel AAA garrisons, as their early warning radar swept north to southeast to cover the hills around Fecundity Tower, Drone Mound and Manufacturing Warrens, to anticipate any threat from these sources. Above that she could see the plethora of dishes and arrays that scanned the horizon and received and transmitted the respulses and commlink busts. She could identify the MorganNews dish, and there, behind it, was her own, mated to the Hive Hydroponics Satellite, that intercepted every Progenitor resburst both to and from Chiron.

Kurt looked at her.

“We must tell them,” he said simply.

She looked up at him.

“Do you think the Chairman knows?” she asked.

Kurt pondered that question. He doubted it. If Bree had indeed told no-one but himself, he certainly hadn’t passed it up the line. And the Chairman had not been present at the progenitor meeting.

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but we can’t take any chances. I’ll prepare a secure crystal for him and send it to him by courier rather than transmit it. He’ll need to get a translator to help him.”

“I could do that,” Bree answered.

“Afraid not,” Kurt replied. “I need you to come with me. They won’t have the technology to translate half as effectively as you can in person. That’s why I asked if you had family or ties here. The repercussions to our defection might be painful.”

“Defect?” Bree shivered. “How? To where? Why?”

Kurt probed her mind gently, letting an empath tendril permeate her mind, assuaging her fear, helping her deduce that indeed this was the right course of action – the only course, really, and that it was, to the contrary, not defection, but ultimate patriotism, for the greater good of the Hive itself.

She nodded.

“You’re right. But how do we get ourselves and my equipment out of here? And when?”

“I have contacts – they’ll come pick us up – we just have to be at the rendezvous point in time – the Advanced Weaponry Facility will do nicely, I think.”

“How will we ever get past security?” Bree asked, becoming somewhat agitated.

“Oh, that’s the easy part,” Kurt replied. “I’m an Empath – a Compellor, we’re called. I can make them think that it’s the Chairman himself who is walking past them, and that you are Judaa Marr.”

Bree shuddered. So it wastrue.

Kurt continued:

“Go get your stuff. Meet me back in 117 in an hour – I’ll have made the arrangements by then.”

He squeezed her hand and they left the observation deck.

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

Free Drone Central

I was scrolling down the casualty list from Sparta Command when ‘Jinty’, my all pervasive electronic assistant, chimed with her soft English accent:

Code magenta…code magenta …incoming transmission from Agent Phoenix. Commencing security lockdown and sweep

I sat up, and hastily turned off the system display before Jinty could do any damage.

The room darkened, and I sat still, as the various secure area sweeps commenced, and pondered the alert. code magenta was a “my eyes only” message – I’d set that up some time ago But who the heck was Agent Phoenix?

Confirmed secure. Link and initiate. Burst is two seconds with realtime approximately four minutes – link will remain in stasis for reply

I reached around and felt for the MMI connector, and fumbled at the back of my skull for the contact point, and steeled myself

There was a brief flash of pain, then the room brightened and I was sitting across a table from a holo of a long forgotten young man. The holo spoke:

“Allardyce. When you sent me into deep cover we agreed that if ever I found something momentous enough to change the course of the wars, or the peace, you’d extract me.

“I have just such information.

“I will make my way to the Hive Advanced Weapons Facility with a colleague. Send a chopper there – I’ll disable or distract the guard – and take us and our equipment off – better send an Empath with the chopper as well. It’s seven now – four hours should be enough.

“Can you do it? You know I do not ask this lightly.”

The holo faded.

I pondered briefly, my last conversation with Kurt coming back to me. The best of all moles – deep within the Hive intelligence apparatus, believed by the Circle to be one of its members. Estranged from his beloved Shauna and daughter Ruth in the name of the greater cause. Of course I had to get him out.

I activated the stasis switch.

“Reply – of course. Extrication at 0200 hours as arranged. Call sign “Jasper. Out.”

I chuckled – Jasper the friendly ghost – just came into my mind as I searched for a codename – just like Kurt – the friendly ghost.

An Empath, eh?

I knew just the man.

But there would have to be a diversion of sorts, to distract their attention.

I left the secure sweep active, and contacted Miles Cavenaugh. Then Trixie.

And pondered what news Kurt might be bringing.

[senatus]

Fort Legion

The mud-spattered soldier walked steadily down the underground
corridor, ignoring the fatigue in her body, the heavy weight on her
soldiers and arms from the sixty kilograms of weapons, armour, and
survival gear. She was a Spartan, after all, and as such was expected to
hold to the same standard that every other soldier of Sparta must meet.
And to set an example for the squad she led. More difficult though to
ignore was the fatigue in her head, the throbbing in her temples. She
hadn't slept in nearly one hundred standard Planet hours, and the stim
doses were no longer having much affect – at least so the bioenhancement
sensors were telling her. In fact, several alarms were displayed on
her MMI, and she overrode them yet again for the third time in as many
days. She still had a job to do, and she'd be damned if she let this
only human – if bioenhanced – body slow her down. Just a few hundred
paces yet to go, but the throbbing continued.

Da-da-da-da. There definitely seemed to be a rhythm to it. Maybe
this wasn't in her head, but some machinery up ahead? A few minutes and
she'd be sure.

Da-di-da-do. Sounded a bit different now. In her head or in
the air? A sudden moment of concern – perhaps she was hallucinating. That
would be bad. Maybe she shouldn't have been ignoring the effects of the
drugs in her bloodstream. She couldn't fight if her judgment was unfit.

Za-di-a-do. Not machinery. A chant. Many voices,
united. Words? The echoing distortion in the long corridor made them
impossible to discern, as yet.

Za-ti-a-go. Not words. A name. She smiled.

San-ti-a-go! San-ti-a-go!

A thousand Spartans, soldiers and civilians, chanted one name in
unison; a rallying cry for the woman who led their warrior faction.

Corazon Santiago stepped out of the entrance tunnel at the head of
what had once been a squad of the Headquarters Guard. Their camouflage
armour was, incredibly, scored and seared by shrapnel and energy beams,
proving that the group had skirmished more than once in the desperate
fighting and retreat from Sparta Command, yet they had survived – a
leader, a squad, and a nation.

Santiago brandished a shard rifle over her head, a gesture of defiance
and determination, and a thousand voices shouted their approval as she
stepped towards a nearby rover, climbing on top so that she could address
the crowd. Slinging the rifle over her shoulder again, she raised her
hands for silence.

"Citizens! Soldiers! Spartans!" Santiago said, and the huge vehicle
bay fell silent.

“The Spartan cause is still alive, and we view the events of the
last day with both pride and regret. Many brave men and women sacrificed
themselves, and everything they know and love, to defend what was theirs,
knowing their fate. But, they did this willingly for they wish to defend
our way of life, and the lives of all humans on Planet. Our capital may be
gone but we will fight on. We will honor the memory of the fallen and use
this memory as an inspiration for the future, the future that they died to
protect. We will not fail them. We have found that the Progenitors can be
beaten, even as they seem to be victorious. We all have hidden strengths,
our natural abilities. Use them. Do not hide. Strike where and when you
can, for we are many and they are few. Together we can stem this tide,
and together we will persevere."

"Return to your duties. We have a
battle to fight." Santiago raised her arm in salute, and now the voices
chanted again as she dismounted and made her way towards the cluster of
waiting officers.

San-ti-a-go! San-ti-a-go!

---

General Honshu successfully hid a grimace of distaste as he stood at
the back of the crowd. They treated her more like a god than a hero; even
though Sparta had lost its most terrible battle. They shouted her name
over and over; even his men – "Honshu's Militia" – were cheering
her with abandon. It was more than ironic that, only a few weeks ago,
Honshu had been almost able to depose Santiago as leader of the Junta
– and the Spartan Federation. Instead, war had come. True war,
with the Federation fighting for its life. And Santiago's position had
become unassailable. That her status as a popular wartime icon was now
absolutely necessary, however, didn't make it any less bitter a pill to
swallow. Honshu was even prepared to admit – privately – that Santiago
had been right and he'd been wrong about how to fight the aliens. Or was
that true? Yes, her tactics had been superb – Honshu himself couldn't
have done better – but the fact that she'd deliberately forced a battle
that they knew Sparta couldn't win – merely as an attempt to
inflict as heavy casualties as possible to the aliens – indicated that,
once again, Santiago's greater strategy was flawed. No, not flawed –
but the objectives were wrong. Instead....

Honshu nodded to himself as the thoughts formed a cohesiveness within
his head. The more he reflected upon it, the more certain he became. It
did not occur to him that he was blinded by his own dogma and dislike
of the woman he'd sworn allegiance to.

"Sir? The meeting?"

Honshu's aide, Poirer, stood at his side, the words interrupting
Honshu's train of thought. Nevertheless Honshu smiled fondly at his
subordinate. Poirer had been with Honshu's Militia for twenty-three
years now, and was completely loyal to Honshu himself. The loyalty of
his subordinates was, beyond all else, what Honshu valued most, and he'd
always felt duty-bound to treat those subordinates with respect and to
look after the interests of his soldiers. His.

"Of course. Let us see what our Commander-in-Chief has to say,"
Honshu said. He was unable to entirely suppress a touch of disdain in
his voice, and Poirer did a quick double-take. Honshu noticed, and forced
himself to look grave and serious, dispelling Poirer's concern.

So, even Poirer isn't immune to Corazon's charisma. Well, at least
he's still loyal to me.