The Spartan Chronicles - Volume 4

[Googlie]

Free Drone Central

I deactivated the commlink, and gazed out of the window, deep in thought.

Cyrus Peake's plan was audacious, but do-able, so long as he kept his side of the bargain.

I began to assemble the plan in my mind.

I keyed in some combinations, and one by one my contacts appeared holographically in the Command Center.

Ian. Miles Cavanaugh. Trixie Patterson. Lisa Mayberry. Paula Forbes. Ron Stone.

They looked expectantly at the holovid camera that in each instance was probably above the screen where they saw my face.

"Logistics first - where are you all?" I began.

Ian was at Great Conclave, as military coordinator. Miles, Trixie and, to my surprise, Paula, were here at FDC. Lisa was at Fort Legion, her wing having been recalled there for the defense of the Spartan homeland.

"Lisa - you're excused. Too far away - and the less you know of this the better. Give my regards to Corrie."

With that I cut the link to her.

"What's this about?" asked Ian. "And if Colonel Mayberry shouldn't hear whatever we're about to discuss, should I?"

"You're right," I said. "You were necessary if she had a role. And as she doesn't, you're expendable."

I cut the link to my son.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Here is what I propose."

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

Due North of Temple of Chiron

Julia held up her hand for them to stop, then went ahead alone to reconnoiter.

Thankfully Conrad and Toby lowered the hammock to the ground, and Mike Potter grunted as he felt the hard surface beneath him.

He looked quizzically at his bearers.

"Heard a noise,' muttered Conrad. "Went to investigate. Thinks that it might be Hive searchers looking for us."

Potter nodded, and rolled to one side. "I can hobble to cover if we need to," he said, wincing even as he spoke as the pain lanced through his legs. Even with the field surgery pack applied, his broken leg was taking what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time to heal.

Ahead, Julia picked her way through the fungus fronds, till she crested a small hill and looked over the other side into a small clearing. Beyond, she could see the blue of the ocean in the distance. There were three people there, what seemed to be two women and a man, civilians, from their garb, huddling over what at that distance appeared to be a commlink.

Julia backed down, and retraced her steps to her crewmate and the Peacekeeper team.

"So I don't think they are hostile," she finished. Probably lost and seeking directions. Or maybe a scientific team of some kind. I vote we establish contact."

Her colleagues nodded agreement, so Julia went back to the top of the hill, and stopped in surprise.

There were around 25 or 30 children milling about the three adults, some clapping hands excitedly, while the adults tried to quieten them.

They did soon enough when Julia materialized from among the fungus fronds, and Julia herself was surprised to see Francine Hawkins there, the creche mistress from Temple of Chiron. They knew each other, but just on casual acquaintance terms.

Julia whistled, and shortly thereafter Toby and Conrad lumbered out from the fungus carrying Mike Potter between them.

Introductions made, Tony Ward, who seemed to have assumed the leadership of the group notwithstanding Francine's position, explained what was exciting them so.

"We were contacted by Scott Allardyce himself. Seems he was given Francine's commlink number by my sister, Brooke, who is a captive of the Hive at Temple. Anyway, we are to make our way to the coast yonder - about a two days' hike, I reckon, where we'll be picked up by an empath gatling skimship that Allardyce has somehow persuaded to divert from its patrol around UN Marine Agency. It'll be a tight fit, but at least we'll get out of the Hive's clutches.

"And get you some proper medical attention, Sir," he added, looking at Potter.

"It'll take us more than two days to reach the coast carrying Potter," Conrad said. "Maybe they can took your lot out and come back for us?"

"Not a problem," Tony said. "We have an old converted Unity rover that we came here in - pretty slow through the fungus, but not bad once we are on open road. And we came up from the coast - that's where we were camping - the fungus runs out in another couple of hundred meters or so. We came in here to hide from the Hive patrols. But they have stopped overflying us for the last few days now - probably given us up for dead."

"Conrad nodded. "That'll work then. You're in command, so lead on."

Tony looked over at Ms Hawkins, who nodded, then to Julia, the ranking Gaian officer.

Julia nodded as well. "It's your command," she said. "Lead on."

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

Temple of Chiron

Brooke Ward stood in the makeshift Command Center facing General Peake and Colonel Hsui.

"I understand," she said. "What I don't quite follow is why you are doing this. Two days ago you wanted nothing to do with the problem, and now you are part of the solution. Why?"

"Let's put it this way," Peake replied.

"We are not inhuman monsters. Oh, yes, we have our differences in how we structure society, and in our values system. But peel us apart and we are not that different. In fact, the differences that divide Hiveans from Gaians from Morganites are miniscule compared to those that separate us humans from the Progenitors.

"Am I taking a risk? Absolutely. But I am banking on the unavailability of the Usurper commander at this juncture. So play your part to the hilt, as I will mine, and the result should be beneficial to us all."

Brooke nodded.

"Now go back and prepare your colleagues," Peake added, and with that, Brooke was escorted back to the Prisoners' Compound.

Cyrus Peake turned to Seng Hsui.

"Go and find Canla. Keep her occupied."

Seng nodded and left.

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

Garden of Paradise

The base Governor had granted the afternoon off to the whole base to welcome the visitors.

Now they crowded on the small landing strip at the air terminal - the garrison being the honor guard, and the schoolchildren clutching their Morganite flags that had been hastily prepared and issued for the occasion.

They heard them before they saw them, the THRUB THRUB THRUB of the rotors, then they came into view. Over the 1150 meter peak in the Monsoon Jungle, and following the river's course as it meandered down the hillside to Garden of Paradise itself.

As they came in, the MorganNews insignia could be seen clearly, and the absence of any kind of weapons pods indicated that they were indeed civilian craft, as advertised.

They landed, and taxied to the apron where the guard presented arms, and the Governor stepped forward to meet the guests.

First out was a diminutive redhead whom they immediately recognized as the MorganNews evening anchor, Paula Forbes. The children cheered, and the Governor extended his hand:

"Our facilities are at your disposal, for repair, rest and recreation. I understand that you have had an exceedingly long flight."

"Indeed," Paula replied. "We came via Deep Community, so we are not so battered as we might have been had we come directly. But we cannot stay more than a day.

"The co-operation we are receiving for this major piece is incredible - from all the warring factions.

"But allow me to introduce my companion," she added, turning to the chopper, where a black cloaked figure descended.

"Haraad Ashaandi."

[Googlie]

The Manifold Nexus

Darkness came quickly to the shaded are where Canla crouched, silent in contemplation. She looked above her, picking out the stars that flickered beyond the ruins of the roof, seeking Homeworld - Harmony - from which the Usurpers had been banished many thousands of turnings ago, driving them to create the Rim Systems, around the periphery of the Tau Ceti star system of which Harmony was its only inhabitable planet - and currently occupied by the hated Caretakers.

She glanced at her commlink display, just to confirm the time. Innately, she knew to within tenths, what time it was, day or night, regardless of season.

It was time.

Looking up past the great buttresses at the ruins of the vaulted ceiling, she saw the faint glimmer of a star appearing as Chiron lazily turned on its axis.

Tau Ceti.

She trilled the hexachord, as the ancient datadisks had outlined, softly at first, then with growing confidence as she realized that the Nexus itself was replying. Well, not so much replying as catching, amplifying and returning the faint resonance of her trilling. She felt it in her very being, tusks and skeleton resonating with the sound, now continuing of its own accord, as she had grown silent.

Canla heard a faint rumble behind her, and turned to look at the wall, which irised into an open door.

She got up, and shuffled through.

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

And stopped in her tracks.

Although the wall had appeared from inside and outside to be just about as thick as a forelimb, Canla had entered into a small auditorium, perhaps a boardroom, or command center of some kind. The ancient disks had told of such rooms - where the Conquerors gathered to plan strategy. Indeed some said that the current Command Centers of the Usurpers were modeled after these ancient edifices.

There was a raised tablet in the center, and six chairs around it.

Canla ran a talon along the top of one, wondering for how many millennia it had sat there, and who had occupied it at one time. It felt almost alive to her touch.

She drew back.

And was startled to hear and sense the chamber resonate with a greeting:

"Welcome. Please be seated."

'Must be an ancient recording that I've activated,' she thought, moving round the dais to the head of the table where she lowered herself onto the chair.

"Greetings, Supreme Conqueror Xontrex. What do you wish displayed today?

Canla sat transfixed.

Xontrex.

The fabled Progenitor SpaceFleet Commander from before the Flowering. Before the Secession Wars. She was sitting in his seat, and the AI thought she was he.

She shivered slightly. Hesitant.

We wait your command the chamber resonated.

She pondered. Then altered:

"Display the Six Manifolds."

The room dimmed, and from nowhere, arcane machinery activated and in front of her there appeared, hovering above the dais, six points of light. On a lower plane were three, with a fourth above them and in the center, as if the apex of a cone. Above it were two more, slightly offset, as if lacking a third to complete the symmetry of an inverted cone resting at apex point on the apex of a stable cone.

Canla studied the image, intuitively recognizing the pattern.. this was what she had studied her whole life for.

"Add the original Manifold" she resonated softly.

As expected, a pinpoint of light blinked into existence where she had seen the missing space, completing the base of the inverted cone.

"Identify," she altered.

Suspended beneath the pinpoints of light appeared tiny icons, which, when Canla directed a barely imperceptible hum towards each, responded with their identifier.

The lower plane trio were Cygni, Epsilon Indi and Groombridge. The central point was Alpha Centauri. The two remaining were Sirius and Epsilon Eridani. The extinguished one was Tau Ceti itself.

Canla gazed long tenths at the holograph, then resonated quietly:

"Show me the spatial context, and the Flowering."

Other pinpoints of light sprang into view - Sol, Altair, Lalande, Wolf, Procyon. She watched in fascination as the pinprick of light that represented Tau Ceti darkened, and then expanded, rushing through the vortex of space to encompass the manifolds themselves, yet growing paler and weaker as its strength dissipated on the outer reaches of the displayed universe until at its fringes it fluttered into nothingness.

"Can they still be linked?" she asked of the chamber.

Indeed. You wish us to, Supreme Conqueror Xontrex?

Canla pondered.

"Not physically - but schematically. Show me what happens."

The holograph came to life again. Where Tau Ceti had been there appeared Harmony. Then the micron-thin beams of light sprang from Alpha Centauri linking each of the other six, which in turn linked with each other. And expanded to the other stars, and yet more appeared: Ross, Barnard, Kapteyn, Lacaille, Kruger. All linked by the light beams until the space in front of her was a lattice work of light filaments.

"And what of Manifold Six?" she asked. "Magnify, and show me the Manifold."

Abruptly the lattice shimmered out of existence, and in its place came the familiar shape of Chiron.

But now it was pulsing with energy. She could recognize the fungal net crossing the landmasses and the oceans, but now it seemed vibrant, expanding and contracting, as though she were watching pulmonary action on a laboratory specimen. Lancets of light shot out crisscrossing the planetary surface, emanating clearly from where she was, the Manifold Nexus.

"What are they?" she asked.

The intelligence seemed momentarily nonplussed, as if taken aback.

They are by your command, Supreme Conqueror Xontrex. They are the dormant energy banks and psi portals that you established for the founding of future bases.

'Ah, the monoliths,' Canla inwardly resonated.

But more so, Canla was now aware of a brooding, palpable presence - and recognized it for what it was - the sentience of the other Manifolds clamoring for attention from the Nexus. She looked at the planetary representation before her - at the tiny coruscations erupting all over the surface, and resonated inwardly:

'There isn't much time.'

Reluctantly, she rose.

You are leaving, Supreme Commander? Will you be visiting again soon?

"Absolutely," she altered. "And with company."

Exiting the chamber, she paused to see the door iris shut, and to the naked eye there was no idication that one had ever existed.

She tapped her commlink controls.

"Get me Conqueror Marr. Immediately," she hissed at the flunkey whose visage appeared on the screen.

Her commlink spat: "Marr here. This had better be important, young Stochastic Canla. You are interrupting a meeting of some importance."

Canla bowed her head, exposing her throat, not sure if the tiny molecular camera caught her obeisance.

"It is, Honored Conqueror. I desire to bring you here and show you what I have learned."

"And just what have you discovered," he altered.

"The Secrets of the Manifolds," she resonated excitedly.

[senatus]

Strategic Planning Centre, Sparta Command

The twin supercomputers of the Command Nexus ran at feverish intensity
within their liquid helium baths, analyzing possibilities and predicting
battle outcomes down to the life and death, death or victory for thousands
of individual soldiers in the most intensive, critical simulation that
the Spartan Federation had ever staged.

Seated around the main holo were all of Sparta's active generals, wordlessly
observing the virtual battle being played out before them.  There
was no need for words; each of the generals was in constant communications
with his or her "troops", as well as the other commanders, via their command
MMIs.  The room was dimly illuminated; the light from the holotable
was playing off the generals' faces, and combined with their wordless silence,
the image was eerily serene.  Nor was their much movement, although
General Lockhart involuntarily flinched as "his" command rover was destroyed
by enemy weapons fire.  He was still able to observe, of course, and
even give orders - but only in the capacity of one of his subordinate commanders,
based on the information and plans those subordinates had available to
them.

Newly-minted Field Marshal Salvadore St. James savagely resisted the
urge to rub his eyes in fatigue.  Besides, mental fatigue was useful;
it helped accurately model the combat situation he'd possibly be facing. 
That made it particularily important to have mapped as many probabilities
and contigencies in advance, rather than relying on unpredictable flashes
of on-the-spot brilliance.  While a well-known axiom of battle was
that no plan survived contact with the enemy,  practicing and reviewing
the objectives with his own generals meant that each of them would be able
to respond locally to surprises on the battlefield and still be able to
adapt quickly to meet those objectives.  Spartan doctrine even emphasized
the value of personal initiative on behalf of not just the generals
and officers, but even the lowest-ranked individual soldier.  As Lockhart
had just demonstrated, it was entirely possible that a general could "die"
on this battlefield; but his subordinates down to the lowly privates would
be instantly ready to adapt as the situation warranted.  This adaptability
and initiative was, in part, what made the Spartans the warrior elite of
all the human soldiers on Planet.

The "Gecko" nodded in some satisfaction as he saw the same fatigue in
his generals also subordinated to the legendary Spartan self-discipline.

They're damn good, he thought.  Cassaroni, Lockhart,
Wang and Honshu... 96 hours of sims, fourteen scenario iterations, and
the Nexus still reports 98.7% performance baseline.   I wish
the we could win 98.7% of the scenarios though!

The truth was, things didn't look good in all nine of the simulations
of direct conflict with the aliens.  Three of them, predicated upon
intelligent tactical and strategic actions on behalf of the bugs - ended
in massive casaulties for Sparta, coupled with methodical elimination of
all of Sparta's remaining bases, beginning with Sparta Command.  Of
course, Santiago herself had "commanded" the alien forces in that the opposition
AI, played by the Command Nexus supercomputer, worked within strategic
parameters designed by Corazon.  And they had mopped the floor with
Sparta's best; a fact that St-James hoped that Honshu had noted. 
Four more scenarios predicating that the aliens were poor military
strategists - as perhaps implied by their tactics when taking Hero's Waypoint
and Janissary Point - had still ended with the total conquest of
the Spartan Federation, although at least they had inflicted severe losses
upon the aliens.

It was General Lockhart who'd suggested the most optimal strategies
leading to two somewhat more successful scenarios; in these, the Spartans
had dispersed their armour into skirmisher formations, attacking in open
ground against targets of opportunity, and retreating with their superiour
mobility against the alien war machines' counter-strikes, instead forcing
them to eventually commit and expose their gravships.  Even this though
had ended with a decisive victory for the aliens, controlling the vital
production and infrastructure bases, with only a few outlying bases such
as Assassin's Redoubt surviving through virtue of being ignored.

In all nine of the scenario simulations, the very base that St-James
and the Junta were running their simulations from, fell within five days
of the simulated alien assault.  Sparta Command.  The results
had shaken the Junta - perhaps even, or most especially, Honshu - but they
were Spartans, all of them, and adapted rather than flinching from the
brutal, if simulated, facts.

So instead, they accepted what appeared to be inevitable, as St-James
himself had a few days ago, recalling the conversation with Corazon Santiago.

"We're going to lose Sparta Command for certain, aren't we," St-James
had asked.

"I think so," Santiago had replied.  "You'll need to game out
the scenarios, of course - maybe Honshu really is the military god he thinks
he is, and can devise a winning strategy.  If so, use it, and maybe
he really should be in charge when this is all over.  But I've
run the math, and this is a battle we will lose.  So can we turn it
into a war we can win?"

"You're thinking of using Sparta Command as a sacrifice?"  St-James
queried.

"If it saves the Federation, then yes.  We're a faction of survivors,
Salvadore.  Hell, if Miriam's Believers can survive losing New Jerusalem
and come back a hundred years later, then we Spartans can surely do no
less.  And it could return the initiative to us, you see?"

"Yes... I do," the Gecko replied, his mind whirring like a computer,
seeing the same possibilities that Santiago had.  "The aliens can
literally drop in almost anywhere within our interiour, and have a mobile
force in those gravships we can't match.  They could attack anywhere
they wish, and so have the initiative.  But if we present them a target
we know they'll have to go for, then we can choose the battle
site and reclaim the initiative.  Meaning that our attack will be
matched against their defence.  It's still uneven, but not nearly
as bad as our defending against their attack weaponry.  But what makes
you sure they'd come here first?"

"We make this - ostensibly - our stand.  They will come, it's
in their blood and their culture.   You read the report on Progenitor
Psych that Miriam and Morgan's people put together; they have a tribal
warrior culture.  Surprising, given their advanced technology - or
perhaps not, since they are  a civilization in decline, living on
the higher achievements of previous generations.  Look at the 'challenge'
they issued us at first.  If they follow the same pattern of behaviour
- and why shouldn't they?  They have won all the battles so far, and
expect to keep winning.  Give them a few more 'victories' to reward
that pattern, and we should be able to guarantee that they won't change
their formula when they come to Sparta Command," Santiago predicted.

"And once they take it, they'll be exactly where we planned them
to be.  And knowing this in advance, we can optimize our counter-attack," 
St-James finished.

It was probably the best plan they had, in that it was the only plan
that offered a long term victory.  St-James knew this, but still he
had to be certain there were no other options.  Hence the first nine
war simulations.  There was always some room for error in the simulations
- even the Command Nexus couldn't model everything - but not the margin
required to hold Sparta Command. And now that the Junta knew it too. 
It was ruthless; knowingly sacrificing thousands of Spartan soldiers and
civilians just to get the aliens into a position where the Spartan army
and airforce would probably be able to force the most favorable
terms of engagement, and might be able to achieve a victory after
all.

Some members of the Junta had balked at first, but St-James had found
a surprising ally.

"We must be pragmatic," Honshu had told the Junta.  "Not one
among us can be glad about the sacrifices we must ask of our people. 
But they are Spartan.  In history, great nations withered and fell
as they lost their will to fight and die.   Look to the United
States of old Earth, and the decline and fall of the British or Roman empires. 
At the peak of their strength, they became afraid of what they had to lose,
and so they lost their ability to win. But we are not afraid.  Our
people are warriors; we do not embrace war, but neither do we flinch from
its consequences.  Our people are warriors, our people are Spartans!"

Nice speech, St-James had thought sardonically.  He does
know how to play to a crowd.  But then, so did Julius Caesar. 
Doesn't change the fact that he's right, after all.

And so the Junta had run the last set of simulations, based on the strategy
that Santiago and St-James - and Honshu - had set forth.  Even the
first had looked promising, yielding a victory probability of 24%. 
Which was about twenty percentage points above the previous options. 
The past thirty-six hours had been spent making successively smaller iterations
to the plan, and now their victory margin looked almost even.

One by one the Junta's generals fell silent as the final simulation
reached its close; Cassaroni and Wang were now "dead", for the armour units
had suffered huge losses in the battle.  But they weren't expected
to survive. Their units had given the simulated opponents much grief in the early
phases of the simulation; now that they were eliminated, the aliens rushed
in, knowing that nothing further opposed them, other than insignificant
ground troops.  Only Honshu and Lockhart remained; the Militia and
the 469^th were primarily composed of these "insignificant" infantry
units.

But these were Spartan infantry units.  Elites.  Capable
of covering twice the distance that anyone else could, fighting twice as
hard.

The simulation completed, and the Junta looked at one another. 
A ghost of a sigh could almost be heard through the room, though none of
them said a word, until finally Salvadore St-James spoke.

"Members of the Junta - I believe we are done with the simulations. 
Prepare your troops for combat."

Odd that with all our advances, it comes down to the common soldier
slogging through the mud.  In chess, we must make sacrifices to win. 
And in life, infantry is the queen of battles.

[senatus]

Chiron Seas, Southwest of Sparta

Patricia MacMillan tossed uneasily in her sleep.

"Here it is", Santiago said.  "Our unity rover patrol spotted
it washed up on the beach."

MacMillan checked her breather mask before stepping out of the rover's
hatchway, but the function was an automatic survivor's mechanism. 
Most of her attention was on the dull gray hover foil sprawled awkwardly
on the forsaken beach.  A Spartan guard saluted the two women and
stepped aside from the foil's hatchway, and MacMillan entered first.

"Colonel" Santiago's nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly at the briny
smell in the Unity foil's cabin, but this was a familiar smell to MacMillan
after twelve years in the Royal Navy.  A welcome smell.  She
quickly moved over to the operator's chair and surveyed the control panels.

"It's operational, although in good need of a mechanical overhaul,"
MacMillan announced. "So what did you want to do with it?  Scrap it
for parts?"

Santiago shook her head.

"No.  I want you to get this vessel repaired.  Then I want
you to take command of it and map out the nearby waters.  Requisition
anyone you need for your task.  Oh, and welcome to the Junta."

MacMillan's eyes widened at that.  Although she'd had a military
background in the once-proud Royal Navy of England, she'd never held an
independent command of her own on Planet.

"I'm flattered.  Why?"

"This is, in many ways, a water planet," Santiago explained. 
"Although all our resources are focused on exploring this land mass, one
day we will need a naval presence - if only to keep our shores our own. 
And you're the best naval officer I've got.  Besides, Allardyce recommended
you."

The flagship cruiser Patroklus rode a particularly large swell, and
MacMillan's dreams shifted.

"There's the beacon, Captain."  Her crewman pointed out the
semi-submerged Unity pod just ahead.  Old Earth's planners had designed
the Unity's components well; the supply beacons had been durable and, as
it turned out, possessed a positive buoyancy.  Already MacMillan's
foil - grandly named "Victorious" - had retrieved a valuable network node
for the Spartan cause the previous year.  So the Junta had widened
their search, even committing resources to build subsequent foils. 
The contents of the few-and-far between pods were too valuable to ignore. 
Especially if anyone else was looking for them.

MacMillan felt a sudden stab of anxiety.  Something was wrong. 
Something terrible.

She shook her head, startled by the sudden feeling of fear. 
What the hell?  Then she noted the suddenly pale face of her lookout,
his eyes wide, sweat suddenly springing from the Spartan's brow. 
And then she knew.

"Pull back!  Engines full reverse,"  MacMillan yelled,
as the nauseating fear choked her words.  There was no response; evidentially
the engineer was equally overcome by the unexpected psychic attack. 
Spartan patrols had encountered mindworm boils a few times before; some
had even survived, albeit with terrible casualties.  But here? 
At sea?  How was this possible?

She saw the answer to her question as the smooth, slithering mass
of seaborne worms chittered hungrily, floating along in some sort of colony. 
There had to be thousands of the disgusting creatures entwined around each
other, trapping air beneath and within their coils.  The seaborne
boil wriggled towards Victorious with unbelievable speed, somehow maintaining
its cohesiveness as it came.

The lookout was already firing his shredder into the mass, but that
was purely instinct; the needles had no visible effect.  MacMillan
turned and ran towards the back of the Unity foil, as one by one her crew
began to scream; some fired randomly, others curled into fetal balls. 
The psychic claws were reaching for her now....

And then she reached the fuel cage.  Quickly, she unlatched
the cage, and with desperate strength rolled the fuel barrels into the
water.  Some of the worms were slithering onto the deck, now, but
most of them had surrounded the tiny craft.  MacMillan drew her own
shredder and fired, not at the worms but at the bobbing fuel canisters.

Although she hadn't been conscious much after that, they later told
her that she'd saved the ship, even if half her face had been burned off.

Admiral MacMillan awoke with a start, her hands flying to her face,
and once again felt the comforting touch of normal flesh, regenerated a
dozen times now since those early days.  The old dream....

Her commlink chimed, and Captain Rahman's voice came through.

"Admiral, we're leaving the extreme range of Spartan air cover," her
subordinate informed her.

"I'll be right up," MacMillan acknowledged, and stepped over to her
dresser mirror to inspect her appearance.  Rank had its privileges;
MacMillan's stateroom was a full eight-by-eight cubicle, downright luxurious
by Spartan standards.  Of course, the cruiser flagship displaced eighty
times as much as the cramped Victorious, retired long ago.  She'd
easily outlasted her first Planet command, and looked little older than
she'd been when the Unity cryocell had closed in on her.  Sharp features,
but still the attractive blue-eyed blonde, now physically in her mid-thirties. 
Nice to see after she'd once burned half her face off....

"Admiral on the bridge," the ensign announced as MacMillan entered.

"As you were," MacMillan acknowledged.  She'd never had much use
for the military formality that was so in vogue these days - but these
youngsters couldn't remember a time when Sparta hadn't been a rigidly militaristic
society.  It hadn't been always that way, she remembered.  Scott
Allardyce and Gavin Burge had never been sticklers for formality the way
Honshu and the new up-and-comers were.  The man made Santiago herself
look like a left-wing radical.  One of the reasons why MacMillan had
tipped the Junta vote against him; that, and Allardyce had asked her. 
They'd been friends; more than friends, once.

Which was one reason why she'd been prepared to help oust Santiago,
at first.  Scott Allardyce had been MacMillan's patron and sponsor
into the Junta; this despite his constant amusement on how an Irish-Scotswoman
had ended up as a frigate captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy.  Of
course, heritage aside, she'd been born and raised in the United Kingdom,
and unlike Free Scotland, Great Britain maintained a credible navy. 
One that MacMillan had loved and served well, before Unity. 
And so she'd been, by default, one of the finest naval strategists and
tacticians on Planet.

However, MacMillan had never commanded - or desired - the sort of personal
following that Honshu or Allardyce or Atriedes did.  She'd never had
the same ambition or desire for power.  Despite her military rank,
her greatest contributions to the Junta's debates had been in the civilian
domain.   For one, she'd actively championed and orchestrated
a program of building sea formers and supply foils, and the extensive kelp
farms and fisheries off the Spartan coasts had earned her the nickname
"Trawler" .  She'd frequently had to fight with the Junta for the
necessary resources, for too many of the generals were focused on military
growth, even at the expense of basic infrastructure and industry. 
And so she'd had to become more politically aware to win these turf wars. 
Which had led to some interesting revelations into the power dynamics of
the Junta.

When Honshu had first made his pitch to the dissidents in his bid to
oust Santiago, he'd practically accused her of "selling out" to politics,
at the expense of "true" Spartan ideals.  Whatever the hell those
were.  MacMillan's first instinct had been to laugh derisively,
although her political acumen had fortunately allowed her to maintain a
poker face.  Corazon sell out?  For politics?  Hell,
she hardly knew the meaning of the word.  And sell out to whom? 
Not the U.N. - Santiago had little but contempt for Lal and his Charter. 
Morgan?  Certainly Sparta did trade with the mogul, and likely more
to his profit than to theirs, but MacMillan hadn't seen Honshu offering
to give up his longevity treatments in deference to his precious principles. 
And whatever Sparta was becoming as a nation was far less dependent
upon Corazon Santiago than the collective direction of the Junta; for the
truth was that Corazon was bored with civil administration, and spent far
more time honing the military.  She still remained a popular figure
to the populace, though; perhaps because she was known to be apart
and above the Junta's factionalism.

MacMillan knew this, and to hear Honshu's outraged accusations had left
her privately concluding that either he was a total political idiot, or
a very clever politician after all.  Since she'd never seen Honshu
as stupid in any other arena, MacMillan had astutely measured him to be
the latter - even if many of the other generals had fallen for his act. 
Or perhaps they, like herself, had reasons to want to see Santiago ousted. 
MacMillan was at least honest with herself; she'd still been seriously
pissed off at her old mentor's expulsion from the Junta, and had been prepared
to punish Santiago for acceding to Scott's dismissal.  Even if it
meant going along with Honshu.

But barely a week before the crucial vote, Scott had contacted her personally
and asked her to support Corazon.

"Of course I'm still angry, Pat.  And I'll never forgive Corazon
for letting Ashandii  get loose.  But I'm also a pragmatist. 
If the Federation falls to the aliens, the rest of the Axis - and humanity
- may not be far behind.  And since that includes you and me, Sparta
had better not fall.  Which means I'd rather have Santiago
calling the shots than Honshu."

And so with that succinct piece of wisdom, MacMillan and some of the
others had switched their support from Honshu to Santiago.  Which
brought her back to where she was now.

The Spartan Navy was at full stop in a circular formation around Patroklus;
the most powerful navy on Planet was awaiting her orders.  Well,
the second-most powerful navy, MacMillan privately acknowledged. 
The Hiverian navy was larger, just as well trained, and better equipped
with the coordination of their Maritime Control Centre.  It was inevitable,
MacMillan supposed; with the introduction of air power, the Spartan Navy
had been relegated to a distinctly second-class priority.

In fact, this could well be our last mission ever.

"Ops plan Alpha," MacMillan ordered her chief of staff, and Captain
Rahman relayed her instructions to the fleet.  The tactical holo blinked
and went from green to blue, indicating that the plot was now based on
Patroklus' passive sensor arrays rather than the usual active sensors. 
Everywhere in the fleet, other ships' holos would be doing the same as
the formation contracted in upon itself and began to proceed at half speed.

Contrary to conventional doctrine, MacMillan was deploying none
of her screen as scouts.  That, plus deactivating her active sensors
and reducing engine rotations, would make her fleet very hard to detect. 
Of course, that also meant that she would have very little warning
if she encountered hostile vessels.  It was the naval equivalent of
turning off one's headlights and coasting downhill in the middle of the
night.  A risk.  But a calculated risk.

MacMillan's orders were to avoid Yang's navy at all costs.  Not
that she was afraid of the Hiverian fleet, or that she didn't think she
could beat any task force she ran across; but it would advertise her presence,
and merely sinking enemy ships was not her strategic objective.  Instead,
they were headed for the Usurper's continent.

MacMillan had been less than thrilled when Santiago had given her the
objective.  It was, at best, a long shot - to be able to travel that
distance undetected, find and bombard shore facilities, and survive any
remaining local Usurper air presence (it was the last one that made MacMillan
the most nervous).  But she'd been forced to agree with Santiago's
thinking; a powerful navy that remained in port while the homeland was
being invaded might as well be sunk already.  Just like what happened
to Hitler's Kreigsmarine in old Earth's second world war.  Besides,
MacMillan was Spartan.  If she was going to go down, she'd rather
go down fighting than wait for her ships to be sunk in port.

---

Hiverean Resonance Fleet Foil Li Min

"There it is again, Sir."

"I see it, Jerome.  Any ID from CinC yet?"  Captain Walters
joined his tactical officer at the holodisplay, where the flickering amber
of a tentative contact displayed itself at the extreme edge of sensor range.

"No, sir.  If there's something out there, it's under total
EmCon.  Or maybe a wandering Isle?"

"Hmmn."  Walters considered the possibilities.  If it was
an Isle, then with the resonance weaponry that Li Min carried, the
odds were with him if he attacked.  And a harvest of Planetpearls
would serve the energy-starved Human Hive well.  Not to mention doing
no harm to Walters' career.

"Activate data link to the MCC, and let's approach.  But cautiously,
Tung, very cautiously."  Walters made his decision and the Li Min
responded to his commands.

Hiverean Resonance Fleet Flagship Enlightenment

"Admiral, the Li Min has departed from station and has activated
the MCC link," Commander Covelia announced.

Admiral Zhu Lai Hy turned in his command chair to face his operations
officer.  He didn't bother to demand further elaboration; already,
the talented young woman was updating the master plot and downloading data
from the Maritime Control Centre.

"No communications other than the out-of-band MCC signal.  But
they've shut down their active sensors and diverged from their patrol pattern. 
I'm detecting increased data download from the MCC; it looks like they're
looking for something and are using the MCC's passive buoys to do it. 
Which means it's something they don't want looking for them."

Covelia studied the MCC data for a minute, analyzing the data.

"MCC reports a large wake disturbance, headed South by Southeast., speed
42 knots.   Data's too uncertain to give a more accurate analysis."

"A convoy?"  Admiral Hy asked.

Covelia shook her head thoughtfully.

"Maybe, but there's nothing to head towards on that bearing.  Unless
they're taking evasive action, meaning  that they've detected Li
Min, and he's under heavy stealth himself.  Plus, if they did
detect him, they'd probably attack.  No, I think this is a Spartan
task force."

"And our nearest fleet division is..."  Hy prompted.

"We've got a major concentration in 3rd Fleet, Ulrik Svensgaard commanding
fleet flagship Crusty Barnacle."  Covelia reported, and Hy
winced.

Commander Covelia noted Hy's expression and felt an answering distaste. 
Other members of the command crew might've interpreted the expression as
an understandable disgust for the undisciplined mob of... pirates
that followed Svensgaard; opportunists rather than Champions of the People
like themselves.  But Covelia was the only member of Hy's staff to
know the truth, that Ulrik Svensgaard was long dead, and his shape worn
by none other than Haraad Ashandii himself.

Zhu Lai Hy privately despised Ashandii, and would've privately toasted
his forcible and ignominious flight from the Circle's Covert Ops base months
previous, had such an action not been contrary to the philosophy of the
group.  Hy also didn't underestimate Ashandii, and he did fear the
vicious empath, but only in the strictly professional manner that he would've
feared a rabid mindworm boil .  The fact that Ashandii - in the role
of Svensgaard - was nominally under his command only worsened things. 
Hy was one of the rising stars of Yang's cabinet, and one of the very few
who had any inkling of his master's true feelings towards the Manifold
Usurpers.  He was also fanatically loyal to the Chairman and his Vision,
which was the real reason Hy hated Ashandii, for he knew well that
the empath's devotion to that enlightened vision of true egalitarianism 
was... lacking, to say the least.  But like the Usurpers, Ashandii
was useful to Yang, and therefore had to be tolerated.  As
well as handled very carefully.

"Record message to 3rd Fleet Command," Hy ordered, refusing to refer
to the most un-Hiverian ship designation Crusty Barnacle.

"Patrol Foil Li Min tracking probable contact, possible Spartan
task group.  Investigate and, if appropriate, engage."  There. 
That gave the initiative over to Ashandii, as the latter would've demanded. 
Meanwhile....

"Commander Covelia.  Bring the Fleet about, project course towards
probable intercept between 3rd Fleet and the unidentified contact." 
Hy ordered.

The mighty resonance fleet started to come about, and Covelia stepped
close to her superiour's command chair.

"He'll be angry if he senses that you are monitoring him." 
Covelia murmured quietly, but the warning was sincere.

Hy shrugged his broad shoulders almost imperceptibly, and Covelia simply
nodded and stepped back, privately impressed by Hy's courage.

I fulfill the will of the Chairman, Hy thought.  Yes, he
feared Ashandii.  But not nearly as much as he did Sheng-Ji Yang.

 

[Hydro]

Near Sparta Command

Submind Two paused. The air was ripe with smells, and they told him much about where he was and the state of the world around him. Sometimes the smells and tastes told him even more than when he used his other primary senses, sight and sound.

Open left, lower port. Intake air.

In a moment a diagnostic flashed, and Submind Two digested it. Most of the information was simply a scroll of numbers, including the partial pressure of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and inert gasses. This information, however, was not what interested Submind Two since the data synthesis was part of a simple routine required by protocol that took a fraction of a second. He preformed a threat analysis on the data with negative results, so precautionary measures were not needed, at least not now.

Open left, lower port. Intake.

Bypass: diagnostic. Reroute: sensory.

A flood of feelings pulsed through Submind Two. He felt the warmth of the air instead of simply knowing what the temperature was. Fungal spoors washed in, creating an earthy aroma, complete with a promise of new life. Tasting them, he could see their essence, and he knew what they were. This one was a lowly decomposer, designed to digest the wastes of particular subspecies of a brachial forest fungi. Another was beginning a transmutation into a photosynthesis-adept symbiotic that was ready to bond with any of 50 or more freshwater algae. The most common, and Submind Two’s favorite, was the simple fungal mat spoor, which was omnipresent and versatile, and so critical for the interdependent fungal ecosystem, and to the health and renewal of the planet-wide neural net. It had a vaguely metallic taste, something like that of heated copper, which he found enticing. Submind was careful, though. Some of the spoors knew him and his kind, and they reacted by attacking, subverting, and consuming. He understood these well, and he also knew to be wary. Manifold Six, like all organisms, was always evolving, especially at the lowest level where most of its defenses lay. These low-level hunter-killer spoors had to be absorbed quickly, or cauterized, if he could, since an infection of biophage fungi was a serious and potentially fatal problem. Indeed, any awakening of Manifold Six’s intrinsic immune response was dangerous. Submind understood that he was not of Manifold, that it might see him as a threat, and that it would always be alien to him. Still, it did provide a tasty selection of smells and tastes. The risk was small, but it was worth it.

Submind Two knew most of the native smells and tastes on Manifold Six, but some smells were new and alien, and potentially interesting. Submind Two was not familiar with these new flavors, nor their ilk or what kind or organism they represented. Care had to be taken with these. A smattering of these new smells was fungal spoors, but some were different, more primitive. Haphazard. Their signature was less clear, and he could taste their aspects, even if he couldn’t fully understand their place or their nature. As he consumed them he examined their coding. They were not Progenitor. Each was alien. While each had its function, the spoors did not have a place that Submind Two could perceive. These were newcomers to Manifold Six, but Submind had no doubt that the Manifold would put them to work by either adopting or adapting them. One showed an interesting adaptation that allowed it to digest granitic rock, first digesting down soft micas, then the alkali feldspars, and breaking them down ever so slowly into a useful soil. Another was, evidently, a parasite of some kind, and Submind could not divine its function. Perhaps it was designed to attack an alien organism? It was hard to tell. Submind filed this one away for later analysis instead of tasting, and destroying, it. A few even showed signs of modification by Manifold 6 since snippets of its coding were similar to those of the fungalnet. These tasted more…right.

He knew that he did not smell the air, of course, but rather that he smelled and tasted what the air contained. As Submind sampled the air other smells intruded. Some of the airborne particles were so large that he found it amazing that they were able to travel by air at all. But, that shouldn’t be too surprising since pulverized rocksoil, and other organic debris, were all aloft in the lower atmosphere to ionosphere as part of the ever-changing ecosystem. Some of these particles were not airborne detritus, and these held the germ of life that were different and potentially more virulent than the fungal spoors he knew; these were new to Submind Two. Submind Two almost always recoiled as he tasted and assessed their potential. They tasted bitter, and they came near to overpowering his senses with a strong acrid aftertaste that he felt had to be purged. Still, he continued since Submind was curious – he wanted to know what they were, and what they meant. As he tasted he examined these new aspects to saw what was written in their code. These were alien life forms that could only be at odds with the carefully tailored, self-regulating ecosystem of Manifold Six. The form of these was not clear, since the coding was alien to him. This one seemed to be a taller branching sessile life form, and another the embryonic larvae of a winged creature. What kind of branching life form? What niche did the winged creature play? Submind Two didn’t know. Some interesting bacteria were riding dormant on some dust, and Submind was not sure if they were a threat or not. Each of these new forms promised a violent assault on his sense of place and function, for these alien constituents were at war with the fungalnet and its multitude of forms. Each was a pioneer and a colonizer, destined to grow and displace, or be displaced, almost like an infection. The balance might be upset. However interesting these new invading lifeforms might be they tasted wrong.

Other smells were routine. The air was full of wisps of burning organic matter, some from fungus but others that were clearly from the alien organisms. Submind Two had gotten used to these smells in the last few weeks and he had learned to classify objects by their residual chemical signature, and he used deductions based on smells and direct observations to correlate their chemical signature to purposes and causes. Most of these smells were the smells of war, and the destruction that inevitably followed. There was much to be learned, subtle and nuanced, or functionally useless but interesting. For instance, the smell generated during destruction caused by alien weaponry was due to heat, burning, and the generation of airborne fused silicates and partially combusted carbon-based organics. Progenitor weaponry, by contrast, left little signature since most was based controlled singularities, which simply obliterated matter, letting the resulting energy release blow apart the remains of the target. This was certainly interesting, but Submind Two could not figure out a way to use this in any practical way since it was functionally unimportant to know who destroyed what.

Most reassuring was the faint odor of ancient metal from him and his companions. Battle armor gave off few ions, and Submind Two was especially sensitized to the aroma of these rare atoms of neutronium that escaped to mark their passing. Each of his companions had a different flavor, too, and each flavor was subtle. The taste of companion L23-8 was heavily influenced by her ancient battle damage. Her rear armor belt was melted and was partially blasted away, and the minimal maintenance subsystems no longer functioned in those areas. Some of these components had decayed over time, and foreign debris had built up in and under the pocked armor and within her dead subsystems. She smelled of decay and earth. It was not an unpleasant smell, by any means; it was simply her smell. By comparison, companion 4-M33 smelled new. He had been constructed just before the last Flowering, and he had never seen combat before he had been reprogrammed here on Manifold 6. He glistened in the sunlight, and he pulsed a little faster than the rest, his multi-articulated legs gliding surely over the alien built road. Submind Two could see him actively collecting data on all that was around him, using sensors for optics and resonance fields, sucking in data in almost unrestricted torrents. He was not sampling the air, Submind noted with some small satisfaction, since he did not, evidently, think it important. Time would teach him wisdom, he reflected. Still, Submind could understand his enthusiasm since he retained a few of his memories from his first activation, the few that had not been purged or written over during subsequent reprogramming over the millennia. Everything was fresh to 4-M33, and he had been the most eager of the companions during their uploading. Undoubtedly 4-M33 and all of his subminds were intact, Submind Two thought wistfully. Several of his had perished long ago. Submind Two understood this, and he was not really bothered by it, at least not too much. He was performing his function, and he would continue to do so until his neutronium armor ablated and all his subsystems or subminds failed. He had served well for over 8,000 solar cycles, and he would continue to perform his functions as long as he was able. He had the ongoing satisfaction that he had performed his duty, and what happened after that was not relevant.

A sound intruded on Submind Two’s tasting. A dull booming echoed up the hillside, and its distant shock wave was noticeable through the ground, and later in the intergrown fungus and alien plants as they shook ever so slightly.

The time of battle was nearing.

Submind Two spied about like 4-M33, piercing his surroundings with both resonance and photon-based visualization systems to verify that there were no threats in the immediate area, for the moment, at least. All that he detected nearby were his companions, although he knew his target was not too far distant. He did not need to view a map, or interrogate one of his subminds. He knew his quarry, its disposition, and his task.

Submind One? he queried.

No response. His internal subsystems that had served Submind One were quiet, and the area that had been Submind One was still dead.

Submind Two had not expected a response, but he was duty bound to try before the start of battle. That particular part of him had been dead for over two millennia, killed in a battle with the Seeker Faction on an asteroid base near Manifold Three. Submind One had been his better part, the superior mind, and he had been its slave, not unlike the lesser subminds that now obeyed his commands. All his efforts to repair and renew his damaged person had failed, and he could not get past a permanent block that inhibited him. His maintenance subroutines were still active, but they only served the functioning portions of his being. Active systems were renewed and rejuvenated; otherwise he would have fallen into disrepair ages ago. Not for the first time Submind Two longed for the return of his regenerator, or the healing touch of a repair bay. He knew he was not likely to experience either, since these Progenitors lacked the ability to repair, much less create, his kind. They had lost so much in the last Flowering, which had been particularly severe. Submind Two did not understand the Flowering, and he felt no compulsion to understand, but he did know that it was a natural part of the Progenitor culture. Even though the repair bays and the technology that allowed them to function were lost, Submind Two still could have repaired himself with his internal regenerator. Unfortunately, he and all his ilk’s regenerators had been deactivated so long ago as punishment after some of his companions had gone rogue during the Moon Rebellion. The Progenitors didn’t take kindly to betrayal by their tools, and so they had sentenced him and his companions to non-renewal, and death by degradation, or destruction in combat. They would no longer suffer semi-independence by their tools of mass destruction.

Still, longing for contact with Submind One was not a productive use of time, even if it would be reassuring to take commands from Submind One again. Submind Two knew he was only a little less capable, and he would do as he was commanded since his orders were quite clear.

His task, and the task of his companions, was simple: exterminate the Invader aliens. His target was ahead of him: the Invader city called Sparta Command.

Submind Two proceeded diligently forward. A Battle Ogre Mark II knows his duty.

[Hydro]

Velvetgrass Point

S'clit took up her position behind the fragment of a building. It was tall, sinuous, and a dark brownish gray with pleasant greenish streaks running down the side, along with an impressive pile of rubble along its flanks. Based on what was left it was impossible to determine what it might have been, only that it was one of a seemingly endless network of buildings throughout the city, each of which had to be captured and purged. The center of the structure was pillar-like, and it looked suspiciously organic, as did the fragments of 'walls' that draped to the left and right of the trunk. Was it a plant? She really couldn't tell until she got closer and examined it more closely, but right now she was concentrating on not being eviscerated, incinerated, or otherwise mangled by the increasingly desperate defensive fire coming from the ruined outskirts of the Invader holding. It didn't really matter if it was a plant or wall as long as she could use it as cover, and maybe as a rallying point for the continued Progenitor thrust into the heart of the city.

Some of the scree to her left moved and there was the unmistakable sound of her vatmate's as they clawed and bounded up behind her, taking up positions on the detritus slope. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… she counted to herself as she scanned the area for threats. After a few minutes she knew her mates were all here, or the remains of her squad were here. Two had fallen a week ago during the initial assault, which had been headlong and spirited. After a week of pounding by artillery she was confident that the Invader defenders were surely weakened or destroyed. Common wisdom had it that it would be a quick and glorious Progenitor victory, like those on the continent of the militant Invaders that called themselves the Spartans. After all, this group's pathetic air force had been long since eliminated and their Invader ally Yang, who ruled the skies with his pathetic excuses for aircraft. Any one of the Progenitor gnats could have taken on five of their best and still won, it was said. Pathetic as they were, they were more than sufficient to sweep the skies of this supposedly weak and pacifistic Invader faction.

Then, the allied Invader aircraft had ceased their bombing runs and they had retreated en-masse. The Invader ally shock troops likewise pulled back. S'clit remembered puffing up, her outer chitin expanding in kind and her thin sub-carapace flushing green with delight. They are cowards, she remembered thinking, and they quail before Progenitor might! Such thoughts were common, and battle fever reach a high pitch. The attack was started!

Now, as she waited in the ruins weeks later, S'clit resonated sourly to herself. They hadn't counted on there being so many of the Invaders to kill. As soon as they slaughtered one pathetic band of defenders, another rose in its place. Some of them were armed with mere combustion projectiles! Such weapons would not do more than inconvenience their assault, but it did slow it down enormously. So now here she was, the Progenitor warrior, slogging her way through the ruins of the eastern half of the damnable tree town, only a quarter of the way toward their goal of purging the city of its Invader vermin.

S'clit felt a third degree resonance from her rear guard, indicating that everything was in order, and that none of her warriors required medical aid, nourishment, or elimination rights.

She trilled, adding a dissident harmonic, and waved her quantum laser rifle to the right side of the ruined wall, indicating their direction of attack. Moments later she sprinted forward, followed by her dutiful vatmates. Small arms fire from the city defenders started at once as they came into the open, most of it lancing harmlessly into the rubble. Occasionally some ordinance found its mark, but it left nothing more than a small scorch mark on their resonance armor.

S'clit was concentrating too hard on her objective, which was the next pile of rubble just ahead of her, to be much more than annoyed. Demolished buildings stood, or partially stood, on all sides and she and her squad were running through one of the only streets in this area that was not choked with debris. She felt exposed and vulnerable, but then she always felt exposed and vulnerable - if she didn't feel that way then she knew she would be stupid, and probably dead, since these Invaders were tricky, and cowards to boot. That was a dangerous combination. They had proven that over and over again - they preferred tricks to honorable, open combat.

Boom…CRASH

She could see and feel the explosion, and a portion of a tower ahead of her started to slide toward them and to the ground, almost as if in slow motion. Although the small arms fire could not hurt her, she knew for a fact that uncounted tons of dead mass would render her to little more than crunchy green pulp. Instinctively she pivoted away from the sound and the falling building, careening to the right and toward another building fragment, and the cover it would provide.

BooMMMM!

This explosion was much closer, and S'clit felt the impact of dust, mortar, and small shards of steel on her face and armor, the force of which drove her backward for a moment. She stopped what was left of her sprint, which had been slowed considerably by the impact of all the debris. Behind her she could feel the alarmed, involuntary resonance of vatmates as they tried to stop, cutting their forward momentum as their RNA-training had taught them. In a split second were huddled together in a defensive knot, rifles pointed outward.

BOOM, CraaaaaCK

Within a second S'clit heard the long, drawn-out crackling sound and saw movement above her, a shadow that partially obscured the vague sunlight that permeated the smoke filled ruins.

She looked up toward the shadow. A tree is falling was her first thought as she saw the tall, formerly stately plant-like pillar building crash toward the ground, and them.

A moment later she realized what was happening. She reacted instantly, as did her mates, and they scattered.

I wandered into a kill zone, she thought angrily, and the falling Gaian tower crushed her and her squad an instant later.

The rubble settled, and there was relative silence in this isolated section of Velvetgrass Point. Then there were weak human cheers from throughout the ruins, particularly from the impromptu demolition charge team that had choreographed the explosions.

It was a small victory for the Gaians. There were so few these days, and a rare victory is sweet indeed.

[Googlie]

Temple of Chiron

The Hive military honor guard, with General Peake in their midst, stood to attention as the three choppers in Morgan insignia settled on to the small landing strip.

As the whine of the rotors died to a low hum, he stepped in front of the guard to welcome Paula Forbes and her news crew. He was looking forward to meeting the renowned news anchorwoman, although he might have wished for better circumstances.

He saw the diminutive redhead emerge, closely followed by a larger man who carried with him an air of command and aloofness.

Cyrus Peake shivered as though an icy cold wave had suddenly washed over him, engulfing his mind, and in a flash he knew the man.

Haraad Ashaandi.

He stepped in front of Paula, and confronted Peake.

"The children? They are safe? You have called off the search for them?"

Peake nodded .

"Yes. Those were the instructions I received. They are making their way to the northern coast where they will be picked up.. Now we don't have much time for the news shoot - I'll have my Colonel co-ordinate with Ms Forbes. If you would care to accompany me, Sir, we can go to our modest Command Center."

Ashaandi shook his head.

"No, I'd rather wander around and take stock of things. Tell Paula I'll come looking for her in a few hours."

Cyrus nodded, and as Ashaandi wandered off, he was aware of Colonel Seng Hsui's eyes burning into him.

"Yes? What is it Colonel?" he asked.

Hsui was looking at him strangely.

"Why have you just allowed that operative to wander over to the detention pens unaccompanied? I thought we'd agreed that this would be a supervised evacuation? We can't have just anybody wandering around the base."

"Ah, my dear Colonel. That wasn't just 'anyone.' That was the redoubtable Haraad Ashaandi, the confidante of our Chairman, and the master of the Circle."

"Bollocks" said Hsui to the astonished Peake.

"What?" he sputtered.

"That was just an empath. A strong compellor, I suspect. Projecting, I see now, to you, that he was Ashaandi."

"What do you mean?" Cyrus asked.

"I've had the neural augmentation treatment - part of the drop training in the Bioenhancement Center. I sensed the vibes and activated the blockers. I couldn't for the life of me understand why you were groveling before him like you were. Didn't know who you thought he was."

"Hmmm," Peake mumbled. "I wonder why he wanted me to think he was Ashaandi?"

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

Miles Cavanaugh moved over to the holding pens where the citizenry of Temple of Chiron were confined. As he approached, he sent out an advance empath wave, a sort of broadband probe, which would be picked up and recognized for what it was by any developed – or even latent – empaths. He was rewarded by a dozen recognition acceptances – responses to his faint probe, to whom he empathed ‘meet me by the main gate.’

This was going to be the hardest part. Convincing this group of Gaians that they should be saved, while their friends – and in some cases their families – were denied salvation and would be left to the whims of the Aliens or the protection of the Hive military.

The scope of the rescue was limited. The three choppers could evacuate some 30 in total, and the discussion around Allardyce’s holotable had been the criteria that would determine who would be chosen.

It had been Allardyce himself who had made the final decision.

“The Talents and the empaths, then any children not on the field trip,” he had said. And so the planning had begun.

Miles met them at the gate to the enclave. They shrunk back at the sight of him – a tall, black-cloaked figure, and as they heard the guards muttering:

“’Strewth, it’s Ashaandi himself. “What’s the Circle doing here?”

He aimed a mild admonitory mental jolt their way, and was pleased to see them shudder inwardly and avert their eyes, allowing him to pass right to the gate itself.

He ran a quick interrogative scan, searching for Brooke Ward, the Garrison Commander, and was mildly perturbed that he didn’t immediately detect her presence. But he did detect a strong counter probe aimed his way.

From a civilian, hovering around the edges of the crowd.

He singled out the man – one who looked old, as some did, who eschewed the rejuvenation procedures.

Narrowing his focus, he sent out a welcome, adding:

‘I am not what I seem. The guards think I am of the infamous Circle, and we must maintain that appearance. But I need to speak with Brooke Ward.’

The empathed reply stunned him

‘Alas, it is not possible. She was taken earlier today by the Progenitors. It seems that she is to be the next feast delicacy.’

Miles shuddered. He’d been briefed, of course, by Allardyce on the bizarre practices of the Aliens of eating their conquered enemies, and though it barbaric, not at all fitting for an advanced starfaring race. But he also knew that they had regressed significantly during their dark ages after The Flowering.

What perturbed him more, though, was the calm acceptance by the Gaians, almost as if they had conceded the inevitable.

Well, his instructions had been clear, and he meant to succeed.

Drawing closer, he spoke for the first time:

“Gather round. I need your help to save yourselves.

We ostensibly are a Morgan News crew here by tripartite negotiations between the Hive leadership, the Progenitors, and the Axis leadership. The intent is to demonstrate that the Aliens are not the barbaric animals that they are commonly portrayed to be, and that the Hive are themselves not inhuman monsters. Crews will be set up to vidshoot, and you will go through your usual routines of the day. At the end of the day we’ll pack up and leave.

“That’s what the schedule calls for.

“Except we will vary the procedure and leave with you, and I need the help of those empaths among you to strengthen my mindlock on the guards to allow us all to board the choppers and leave.”

“That will take some time”, one interjected. “We are over 2000 in number, and I saw only 3 machines. Many trips will be necessary.”

Miles looked at her.

“We are not evacuating the whole base. Just you two dozen or so. The drones are in no danger, as the Usurpers do not consider them to be ‘conquered’, merely subjugated.

“But our job will be harder, and I may need to call on your empath talents more than I’d planned. We need to get Commander Ward back from the Aliens.

“So here’s what we’ll do………”

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

Paula was the first to sense it. A tremor of excitement running through the ranks of the Progenitors, a subtle stiffening of their bearing, and some out-of-character squeaks and squeals of resonance passing back and forth among them.

Curious, she waylaid General Peake to ask what was happening.

He gave her a perturbed look.

“I don’t like it, Ms Forbes. I understand that Conqueror Marr himself is on his way here. Apparently the forces commander has made some significant discovery over at the ruins that is bringing him hotfoot here.”

Paula’s news instincts took over.

“Hmm – a discovery. I wonder if we can interview them and find out more. How well do you get along with the Commander?”

Peake chuckled.

“Well, we have had our run-ins, but I’d say pretty well, considering.”

Just then he stiffened, as he saw approaching the black-cloaked figure of the Circle’s master.

“It’s not Ashaandi – just some Spartan masquerading as him” he fought to tell himself, but even as he did, he felt his resolve weakening.

“Seng must be wrong,” he thought. “It is Ashaandi. I’ve met him before, while in training, and I’ve seen him at the Chairman’s side.”

He quailed as Ashaandi stopped in front of him, and fixed a soul-searching, implacable stare at him.

“You have not kept your part of the bargain,” Miles hissed. “The Garrison Commander has been taken for one of their ‘ritual feasts’. You will arrange for her release – or you will join her as a delicacy.”

The visibly shaking Peake stuttered:

“But I am not sure we can. I suspect that her being taken for the feast – as the ranking officer - is to do with the arrival of Conqueror Marr himself.”

Miles started.

“Marr is coming here?” he asked.

“On his way,” Peake replied.

“Excellent, then,” Miles forced himself to say, yet feeling sick within. “Now please excuse us, General. I need to co-ordinate some arrangements with Ms Forbes, here. Perhaps you can ascertain the whereabouts of Commander Ward, and devise a rescue plan.”

Cyrus Peake nodded, relieved, and turned away to search for Colonel Hsui.

Miles turned to Paula.

“I need help,” he said simply. “I’m getting out of my depth. How soon could you get the Morgan Covert Ops top guns here? Like Paul Andreas. His people?”

“Don’t know. I’ll find out,” she replied.

[Googlie]

Due East of Temple of Chiron

The ageing Unity Rover crested the small summit and paused, as if deciding whether to run full tilt for the beach below, or more sedately pick its way down through the foliage.

Tony Ward stood in the conning blister and surveyed the path to the beach below. Taking his optic enhancers, he scanned the beach and the shallow ocean shelf, looking for the trawler that was their rescue craft.

Nothing.

Shifting to further out, he thought he could just make out a dark shadow in the trench where the shelf dropped off, and flicked the distortion eliminator in the goggles, smiling as the shape of a submersible slowly came into focus.

"Kool," he muttered. "We've got a sub."

He ducked into the rover to report.

It was stifling hot, with the interior jammed tight with kids of all ages, plus the five adults - Francine and the two aircrews. Their excitement mounted as Tony recounted what was waiting for them.

"Sure it's friendly?" asked Toby, ever the pessimist.

"I have the PK's recognition codes," Conrad muttered. "Give me the commlink and I'll use a line-of-sight laser burst that can't be intercepted."

"Key them in," Julia said. "I'll transmit. Not sure what their reaction might be to you as you are still technically a defector."

"Over to you, then" he said to Julia. "The codes are active."

Julia took the commlink, and went to the conning blister, retracting the canopy so that there would be no diffraction, and fired the short interrogative burst at the sub. The response code flashed back, and she gave Toby the all-clear to take the rover cautiously down the track to the beach.

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

Aboard The Retribution

"It's them," Commander Sturgeon said. "Surface and launch the dinghies."

Slowly the bulk of the submarine breached the surface, water cascading from her sides as she rose from the depths of the shelf. Sturgeon was in the tower, scanning the beach with his binoculars, watching the rover descend from the hillside above. It stopped, and disgorged its cargo of adults and children.

"Strewth, there's about thirty of them," he breathed to his 2-ic. "We're going to be packed for the trip back to Marine Agency."

The two inflatables were launched, and made their way to the beach, where Potter was gingerly being unloaded from the Rover.

"Signal Allardyce that we have picked them up," Sturgeon commanded of his communications officer. "He wanted to be kept informed."

On the beach, Jennifer shyly took Tony's hand, and looked up at him with adoration.

"You did well," she said. "It was tough marshalling all those kids and keeping the adults in line too. I'm proud of you."

He looked down fondly at her:

"At least we are alive," he said. "At the beginning I wasn't even sure we'd make it. I wonder if Sis is still holding strong?"

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

Temple of Chiron

Brooke Ward was quietly preparing for death.

Strangely, she was calm. She knew that she had done her best in the defense of Temple, and even as word was reaching the prisoners that Velvetgrass Point was slowly succumbing to the Aliens, she took some pride in being able to negotiate the release of the drones, and in brokering the rescue of the children. She knew that Cyrus Peake struggled with his conscience in the matter of the administration staff and the Talents, and was hopeful that in some way they could be rescued.

But she was earmarked for the next Progenitor feast, and already was undergoing the preparation treatment.

She had taken the routine shower that cleansed the dirt from her body, and next was to be the chemical shower that effectively, with its depilatory properties, would remove all her bodily hair. Then would come a soak in another chemical bath that would dissolve her nails and tenderize her skin - with a self-deprecatory chuckle she thought of it as 'marinating'.

About 2 hours before the feast she would be given the ritual drink - it not only dulled the senses, but apparently made the blood more enjoyable to the alien palate. The early victims had not undergone this rigorous treatment, and consequently the aliens had found their flesh almost unpalatable and the blood bitter.

She wondered if it were worth putting up any resistance. She knew that she would be put in the pit with a youngling for the kill, to give it experience and the morale boost that a first victim would give. Could she fight? She had courage enough, but hand-to-hand combat was not normally a Gaian skill. More Spartan, she thought ruefully. And it wouldn't be hand-to-hand anyway - more hand to claw.

She quieted the fear that was beginning to build, and inwardly repeated the acolyte's prayer. She would return her being to Gaia with dignity, even if her throat were torn by the alien's talons.

She continued her preparations for death.

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

Cyrus Peake and Seng Hsui were earnestly conferring.

"We can't let this happen," the General was saying. "Even if we are victorious, and 'transcend', or whatever, with the Usurpers, it'll be a blight on our consciences for all eternity."

Colonel Seng nodded, recalling the decision he had made at the evacuation of Morgan bank, to spare the Rec Commons and Children's Creche from destruction, to save innocent lives.

"But how can we stop it, Sir?" he asked. "Short of just marching in and taking her, there's not a lot we can do. And I can't see Canla and her troopers willingly just handing Ward over to us. You'd need some sort of mind-control over her to ensure that."

Peake looked at him strangely.

"By Nessus, you've got it," he said, pumping him on the shoulder. "That's just what we'll do. Come on, let's find that Ashaandi impersonator."

Miles was conferring with Paula when they found him.

"Miles, I'm sorry. I've tried all the channels I know. I just can't raise Paul. My guess is that he is on a mission somewhere."

Miles looked dejected, but looked up when he saw Peake and Hsui approaching, immediately going into 'compellor' mode to project the Ashaandi persona.

Peake pushed Hsui forward, grimacing as he did so.

Seng stepped up to Miles.

"You can cut the Ashaandi crap,' he said softly. "I have neural blockers - go ahead - probe me. I can tell you are a Gaian or Spartan operative posing as Ashaandi - and you have convinced all the base here, but I can see through you."

Miles extended a secondary probe and realized that Seng was speaking the truth.

"But we are on your side," Seng continued. "We don't want to see these ritual slayings continue any more than you do. We haven't much time, but here's what we think could be done, if you have the capability."

He outlined the General's plan, and on hearing it, Miles winced.

"Mind-control a base? I've never done that - don't know even if I can. Certainly not with Progenitors around."

"Wouldn't be the whole base," Seng interrupted. "The General and I will give the order to the troops who will obey. You can focus your psi energies on Canla, and we'll arrange the complete evacuation of the administration staff and Talents. After you are gone, we'll 'snap out of it' and resume as we were, but with no one left to feast on.

But we have to do it in the next few hours, before Marr arrives."

Miles groaned inwardly.

"OK. It's our only hope. But I'll need help. You have a detachment ready to take Ward from the aliens, and meanwhile release the prisoners. I'll drop the Ashaandi pretense."

Hsui nodded, and turned back to Peake, whose jaw dropped in amazement as he saw Miles take off his long black cloak to reveal, underneath, the dress uniform of a Spartan General, complete to the ripped slash across the left breast.

"I just hope the Aliens are as gullible," he thought to himself.

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

Thera Keep

Catherine heard it first, a keening in her mind, a bellow for help:

Merlin.............. Sarah.............. Are you there?

At her side, Ruth stirred, and queried:

"I know that wavelength. Is mommy awake? She knows it too."

Catherine nodded. "I'll go see."

She got up and padded to Shauna's room.

She was sitting up in bed, rubbing her temples.

"I heard - or rather felt something. Someone is in trouble. Very weak message though."

"Come to our room," Catherine offered. "We'll do this better together. Ruth thinks you know the source."

Shauna pulled a gown from the chair by the bed and followed Catherine to the room she shared with Ruth.

They sat in Catherine's bed together, and joined their minds with each other.

Catherine took the lead, the echo of the wavelength still fresh in her mind.

Hello she broadcast.

A faint echo returned.

Who is this? Who have I reached? I am Miles Cavanaugh.

"Ah," Shauna said. "Can you project me?"

Catherine nodded, as did Ruth.

Shauna projected to the others, who amplified it and sent it planetwide: Miles. It's Shauna. Kurt's Shauna. Are you in trouble?

Miles replied: I need booster help badly. Is Ruth with you? Young as she is, maybe she can help.

Shauna looked at Catherine. "He's a friend. A compellor. Obviously needs help. Can I tell him about you?"

"I'll do it myself," Catherine said.

Miles. I'm Catherine Atreus, Ruth's teacher and mentor. Together we can help. What do you need us to do?

Miles explained.

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

Penzance

Merlin.............. Sarah.............. Are you there?

Haraad Ashaandi sat bolt upright in bed, awakened by the psi thunderbolt that coursed through his mind. Tempted to respond, he waited, and listened, and drank in the plan that was being concocted.

He grunted to himself. His impersonation of Ulrik Svensgaard would have to be put on hold for a few hours while he dealt with this threat.

He began to prepare himself for long-range psi combat.

[Googlie]

Temple of Chiron

The empathi gathered round him, a scant half dozen of ill-trained psi latents. Miles focused on them, drawing their minds and thoughts into his, trying to forge a will as one. Drawing strength from some, nurturing a feeble wisp of psi-sentience in another, gradually he melded them into a cohesive whole.

Join us now, Catherine he implored.

Stantos sat in the circle, a young physician at the health center, he had joined the empath club when it formed, and had reveled in elementary mind reading and thought projection. Now he wallowed in the wealth of mindsharing that he was experiencing as the group waited, as one, for the mighty empath that Miles had talked about.

Around them the rest of the freed prisoners milled, trying to get a feeling of what was happening as they anxiously scanned the faces of their colleagues for clues.

Then Stantos thrilled with delight as he felt the tenuous tendril of a thought permeating his being:

I am Catherine.

The simple realization took hold of him, and suddenly he was one with the others. With Miles, the stranger who had come to effect their rescue. With Alicia, the leader of their budding empath group, whose mind he was now intimately connected with on a deeper level than had ever been achieved at their meetings. With Boris, the crusty old agronomist whom everyone thought was a University refugee.

He was snapped back to attention by Miles' forceful thought projection:

General Peake tells me there are but 50 or so Progenitors who we must control - the hardest will probably be their leader, Canla, who has had some psi training. I will deal with her. The rest of you will need to take on some 2 or 3 each, so they will need to be adjacent so that your strength is not diluted. Take your direction from Catherine who will 'zone you'.

Stantos started shivering. This would not be easy.

How will we be able to control them without knowing their thought patterns, or language? he empathed.

A new mind melded with theirs. And a voice in his head spoke, young, full of confidence.

I am Ruth. I know their language and thought patterns. Look on me as the missile and you as the launcher. Project, with Catherine's help, and I will do the rest.

"When do we start?" he asked aloud.

Miles looked over at him.

We start when Colonel Hsui gives the signal that Canla has returned to answer the summons.

They waited.

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

Penzance

As did Haraad Ashaandi.

He had prepared as best he could.

The Circle was splintered, after Roze and Paul's attack on their Covert Operations Center, but still had enough functionality to mount a psi offensive, if co-ordinated. And Ashaandi was nothing if not a master co-ordinator. He also had insinuated himself into the circle of minds at Temple of Chiron, where he sat quiescent, largely unobserved, following the strategy as it evolved.

He also followed the tendril backwards from the group to Catherine and Ruth at Thera Keep. Interesting, he thought, that the Aliens had totally ignored them in their advance towards Sparta Command. And they with a monolith adjacent to the Keep that would have provided an instant psi-gate to the heights above Sparta Command.

Then with a start he realized.

Catherine and Ruth must be blocking that knowledge even from the Progenitors themselves. As Judaa Marr and his officers were looking at the holovids and battlemaps, they were just not seeing that monolith - else they would surely have utilized it. Could Catherine be that powerful?

He sensed Miles thought projection:

Here she is now, with Seng. Now

Now he commanded his Circle zealots, and as one they forced the neural block on the group, ramming through their meager defenses, taken by surprise as they were. With a sense of exhilaration Ashaandi triumphed mentally:

You have met your match now, young Catherine. Do not even try to resist.

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

Thera Keep

Catherine threw her hands to her head as the pain lanced through her consciousness, with Ruth and Shauna looking on helplessly.

She writhed on the bed, uttering small groans, and they saw the sweat beading on her forehead. Try as they might, they could not enter her private hell to assuage her mental torment.

"Stay with Miles and his people," hissed Shauna to Ruth. "I'll try and help Catherine."

She put her fingers to Catherine's temples, and willed herself into her mind, recoiling in fear as she confronted the childhood nightmares that Ashaandi had awakened in Catherine. She felt helpless. Yet she was not without skill, some of it taught by Merlin when they were rescuing Kurt.

She began by erecting a small shield - a refuge, that she padded with her own resolve, then gently reached for Catherine's mind to bring it tendril by tendril to the safe place. They fought her, the Circle Adepts. She found herself weakening, losing herself in the maelstrom that was Catherine's demented mind.

She knew that Ruth could help, but Ruth had her hands full with Miles and his group halfway across Planet.

"Dear God, help me," she breathed.

Then he was there, by her side. As if they were fighting the dragon. The imagery was so intense she almost saw it literally. The damsel and the knight. Lance ready and sword sheathed, to hand.

Merlin she cried

Sorry I was delayed came the thought to her mind, as a stronger will reinforced her, drawing her back from the abyss. Got a little tied up on other things, but I was following as best I could. What have we here? Ah, Haraad no doubt.

Shauna sensed the pang of fear that coursed through Merlin as he confronted his erstwhile master.

Nevertheless she felt comforted. Catherine would be okay, with her and Merlin's help. She stole a glance at her daughter to see how Ruth was doing. Her small face was screwed up in intense concentration, eyes closed, her mouth moving wordlessly. Her body was full of tension, and sweat was pouring from her too, but occasionally her frown would break into a semblance of a grin, even a chuckle, so Shauna guessed she was coping just fine. She hoped so, anyway.

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

Temple of Chiron

Miles was standing in front of Canla, looking up at the alien. Although tall, she towered over him, glowering down her snout at him.

His mind held hers like a vise.

You will release the human prisoner Ward immediately he commanded if you value your own life. We have taken control of this base and you are a prisoner of war. You can, however, continue your stochastic studies if you agree to our terms. But first you must release the prisoner.

Canla looked around.

Hivean troops, with weapons at the ready were milling around. She even saw one or two of her own troopers mingling with the Hive soldiers, seemingly having joined them. She recognized her situation as hopeless.

Turning to her aide, she barked "Release the prisoner. We will do without a feast tonight."

The Aide altered with respect:

"It shall be done."

She looked at Miles.

"What am I to tell Conqueror Marr when he arrives? There will be no offering for him."

Miles saw the mandibles fluttering, and heard the resonance deep in his bones, but couldn't understand , until he felt the tender mind of Ruth's in his.

She put his reply right into Canla's consciousness:

He has gone without before. He can do so again. Besides, you have news of great import to give him.

"How do you know of this?" She used the command interrogative resonance mode, but it was lost on Miles.

We know everything that you know Ruth's reply insinuated into Canla's mind. You have no secrets from our mind probes

A commotion to one side caught Miles' attention.

The Aide was returning with Brooke Ward, who was complaining vociferously about her nakedness and lack of a breather. Miles stared. She was completely bald, still dripping from the chemical bath she had been rescued from, and not even given the courtesy of a towel.

He took off his General's greatcoat, and gently put it round her shoulders, ushering her to Paula Forbes' care.

"Board the helos," he ordered - "and cut the film short. We have what we came for."

As he watched the helicopters being loaded, he saw Canla glance to the sky, and followed her gaze.

The contrails of two rapidly approaching needlejets could be seen, as soon they themselves took shape, on a line for the small landing strip at Temple. Several of the Usurper troopers were also looking to the planes, and Miles noticed that those that had been milling around with the Hive troops were now rejoined to their comrades, a few looking to Canla for guidance. The Hive troops were shuffling nervously.

"Start the engines and go," he yelled to the copter crews. "We are cutting it a bit fine." He began to walk to the chopper nearest him, all the while looking at Canla, keeping his mindlock active, when suddenly he realized he had no idea what she was saying to him.

Ruth he empathed. But his mind was blank. He was alone.

"Go" he yelled to the chopper pilots, as he started running for the nearest.

One took off, amid a cloud of swirling dust, its fission engine whining as it catapulted its bulk northwest towards the Monsoon jungle and safety. The second followed in its wake, leaving the third hovering just above ground, waiting for Miles to board. Paula was in the doorway herself, hand outstretched to grasp his as he ran to it.

He saw the reflection of the muzzle flash in the canopy of the chopper before he heard the THWOP of the launcher or felt the impact on his back. His momentum carried him a few more yards, almost, but not quite to the waiting grasp of Paula, and as he fell, he grunted "GO", before his world collapsed around him.

His last thought was "I wonder what happened to Ruth?"

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

Thera Keep

Merlin was losing.

Shauna was a bystander at a jousting match - but one with evil undertones.

She saw - and felt vicariously - the fury of Ashaandi at being thwarted, and the terror building piece by piece in Merlin's mind as he realized that Ashaandi was intent on imprisoning his personality again in the dungeon of his mind.

"No" he wailed aloud, and Shauna longed to be able to do something to help - but was powerless.

She could only observe.

Meanwhile Catherine was in the grip of the Circle Adepts, put there by Ashaandi, and now unable to break free from their imposed will. It was all that Shauna could do to hold her in the present, but her psi energies were divided between Catherine and Merlin. Half of her was useful to neither, but to surrender one to help the other was ruinous.

She curled a thought at Ruth to see what was happening there, and was relieved to see that the rescue was almost complete, and that only Miles remained to get to the waiting chopper. Ruth's task was done.

"Ruth. Help Merlin. Quickly" she yelled, focusing her whole attention on Catherine.

Ruth left the group at Temple of Chiron to their own devices, and hurled herself mentally into the fight going on in Merlin's mind.

She met the implacable evil of Ashaandi, and recoiled, unable to comprehend how any mind could be so vile. He himself recoiled when confronted with the absolute purity of a childmind - his fondness for children and their purity was known only to a handful, one of whom, of course, was Ruth's grandfather.

Merlin seized the momentary respite to clasp Ruth mentally:

Block him. I need time - block him

Ruth rose to the challenge, spinning a portcullis of neural blockers in Merlin's mind that only she could open, and was rewarded by the sensation of Ashaandi banging his head against it as he tried to batter through.

Ruth. Seal this and excise it, pleaded Merlin as he opened his mind wholly to her, and guided her to that secret place, that dungeon where he was for so long imprisoned.

But your memories. You'll lose your memories, she cautioned.

Just do it he commanded.

Ruth guided her tendril of thought through Merlin, searching for the neural synapses that controlled the dungeon, found them, and seared their ends to form a continuous loop that forever bypassed them.

It's done, she empathed, as Merlin collapsed half a Planet away and both Ruth and Shauna felt him ebb from their consciousness.

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

Penzance

It's over. Have your Circle release her

Haraad Ashaandi felt the command in his mind. From a four year old wise beyond her years.

In his heart he knew she was right. He and his Circle had been beaten. Oh yes, Miles Cavanaugh had been killed in the rescue attempt - Conqueror Marr might yet have his celebratory feast - but the rescue had been, on balance, a success.

Even without the help of the Prime Empath, Catherine, whom he had neutralized.

Well, he would finish her off. Ruth would be no competition for a few years yet.

He instructed the Circle to admit him to her mind, and reeled in shock when they refused him entry.

But I am Ashaandi - his mental shout reverberated around Planet.

He was stunned to hear Catherine's voice in his head:

And the Circle is mine now. We are henceforth the Circle of Atreus. Haraad Ashaandi, You are alone.

[Hydro]

Sea Hive

Attaché Warren Newland took a deep breath to compose himself and collect his thoughts. It was a great honor to attend to the Chairman, even in his small role as an ‘attaché’, which was a fancy word for errand boy. Still, these mere messages, which were too sensitive or personal to be transmitted over a holo or even a secure channel, were important to the continuing function of the People’s Utopia. The Chairman must be kept fully informed, and he had left explicit and painfully clear instructions on what types of data were for his eyes, and which were to be delegated to his many subordinates. Warren did not make those decisions and the interpretations of what the Chairman would spend is rare and valuable time on. He was thankful for that since the Chairman was known to have a relentlessly logical and cold fury if his wishes were countermanded or misinterpreted. His previous superior officer had found out about Yang’s fury the hard way. He didn’t know what had become of her, and he really did not want to know.

Warren closed his eyes and focused, recalling his Chairman’s Wisdom.

Put aside the crass demands of flesh and bone…

His apprehension lessened, as it always did when he meditated on the Chairman’s wise words. To some extent he was able to but aside his more base weaknesses of the flesh, and this allowed him to better do his duty.

Thus steeled, he stepped into the screening area. In moments it gave him a red light, indicating he had passed and that it had verified his identity. The door to the Chairman’s anteroom opened soundlessly and he once again stepped forward, taking five measured paces into the middle of the anteroom. Although he could not see or hear it, he knew the door had closed behind him, and that he was being scanned again.

There was a tingling in his left side, and he perceived, rather than felt, a probe. The tingle turned into a feeling of heat.

Warren was not worried. Yet.

“CITIZEN. REMOVE THE DEVICE ON YOUR LEFT HIP. PLACE THE OBJECT BEFORE YOU AND STEP ONE STEP BACKWARDS. YOUR HAVE THREE SECONDS TO COMPLY,” a voice said.

Warren did not hesitate. He removed his assigned attaché datapad, placed it on the floor, and took an almost hasty step backward.

He knew the datapad was being interrogated and analyzed, but he saw nothing. There were no bright, stabbing lights, or strange and ominous sounds. Warren did not feel threatened or slighted in the least bit. If his datapad was a danger to the Chairman then it should be neutralized or destroyed. Likewise, he understood at a theoretical level that he may very well be required to make the same sacrifice. There were many forces at work that would like to see the Chairman and the People’s Utopia reduced to dust, and they would stop at nothing to achieve their ends. These powers could have tampered with his datapad, replacing or reconfiguring it to cause the Chairman distraction harm or or even death. Likewise, he knew that he might have been altered or compromised. He had no idea if he had been changed, but he accepted the possibility and understood the consequences. If such came to be then he would die for the Chairman. Doing so would spite those that would destroy the People’s Utopia, and preserve the Chairman. Warren felt fortified by this fact as the seconds dragged on to minutes.

“CITIZEN. YOU MAY RECLAIM THE DEVICE YOU BROUGHT INTO THIS ROOM. THE CHAIRMAN IS AWARE OF YOUR PRESENSE. YOU WILL BE ADMITTED WHEN THE CHAIRMAN IS READY,” the voice said. The door to the Chairman’s office opened.

Warren was both relieved and a little disappointed. Dying for the Chairman was more honorable than delivering a simple message. This time he wouldn’t die, but at least he knew he would deliver his message. Maintaining his erect stance, he paced into the Chairman’s room and took his place just inside the door, which closed soundlessly behind him. The room was spare, and rather small. Warren had heard some of the rumors and had seen all the TruVids released by the Ministry, and these demonstrated the excesses and corruption of other peoples on Planet. He knew that the Gaians were weak and given to disorder, and the wanton pleasure of the flesh, for instance, and that the Spartans were coldly inhuman, a people that eliminated the weak instead of allowing them a productive place within the society, like the Hive. Some of the vids showed the criminal excess of the Morgans, and the lavish waste of resources devoted to pleasure and not productivity. It was said that their leader CEO Morgan had palaces of gold that were the size of an entire Hive warren, and from what he had seen Warren could well believe it. In the Hive all had a place, and there was a beautiful duty to that place if one came to understand it. It was a duty to what was greater than your own petty desires, and a sacrifice of all that was beyond what was needed for life and service to the community. The Chairman’s modest office was a source of pride for him. It demonstrated that even the best of them, the good Sheng-ji Yang, who was a man of vision and resourcefulness, and who deserved the highest praise and reward, would put aside his own needs or wants for the good of the society that he had founded.

Warren took a moment to look around, and the office hadn’t changed since he had delivered his last message. The Chairman himself was seated in the left corner. He looked the same as ever, with his ageless face that could be of a man in his thirties to sixties, and close-cropped almost white hair, which suggested he would waste no more time than was necessary for appropriate personal hygiene. His form was fit and lean. There was no trace of sag in his face, his leg and arm muscles were taut, and there was no evidence of a paunch around his midriff. His legs were crossed under him, and his hands were folded in his lap.

It was not his lithe form, however, that increased Warren’s feelings of reverence and admiration. It was the look of supreme calmness, and confidence, that he radiated. Even now, with his eyes closed in meditation, he looked to be in perfect control, and at peace with his surroundings. Such a bearing could only come from a great inner contentment, from someone who truly understood his place.

Warren longed for a peace like that of Chairman Yang, and he was content to wait for his audience until the Chairman was ready.

Presently, he was. Chairman Yang’s hooded eyes opened slowly. For a languid moment he remained otherwise motionless, then his hands unclasped and his arms went to his sides. He rose in a single fluid motion. He stood still for a split second, then walked toward his visitor.

“Attaché Newland, welcome,” Yang said, unsmiling as always. “I understand you have a dispatch on the Gaian pacification?”

Warren stood straighter, if that was possible. “Yes, Chairman. May I retrieve the datacrystal?”

“You may.”

He slowly reached down and took his datpad from his waist and brought it to chest level, holding it away from the Chairman, but within his sight. He was careful not to point the datapad at the Chairman in case, but some stroke of bad fate, a treacherous trick had allowed it to be sabotaged and get past the intensive security. If it would try to kill the Chairman it would have to go through his own body first. At the same time, it was necessary that the Chairman could see what he was doing, lest he be vulnerable to a more straightforward assassination.

In a moment he disengaged the datacrystal, turned, and deliberately placed it in the Chairman’s open palm. His fingers closed over the transparent crystal.

Chairman Yang looked impassively at young Warren. “Have you reviewed the content of these reports?”

“Yes, Chairman.”

“I wish you to summarize the contents for me,” he ordered.

Warren almost sucked in a surprised breath. The Chairman wanted a personal report! An honor!

“Yes, Chairman,” he immediately replied. “The Progenitor attack on Velvetgrass Point continues and their infantry advances slowly into the heart of the city. As ordered, before the start of the attack our infantry pulled to the captured city of Temple of Chiron. The Hive air force bomber and interceptor wing, after having removed the last of the Gaian air defenses, likewise pulled back before the start of the Progenitor assault. Gaian resistance is weak, but persistent. They have a hastily formed a number of militia with no armor that are armed with hand weapons to meet the Progenitor infantry now that their regular military defenders are gone. The militias are being destroyed faster than they can be created, however. It is the opinion of the Hive theatre command staff that it is a holding action, no more.”

Chairman Yang nodded to accept the report. “Did our airforce identify any…other Gaian units during their bombing runs?”

“Yes Chairman,” Warren continued. “Some of the pilots reported a feeling of distinct unease to the north and south of Velvetgrass Point during their return to Temple of Chiron. One pilot identified a Gaian spoor launcher to the north of the city, and another what was likely a mindworm cohort of unknown strength. It would appear that we have found the long missing Gaian native life army, which is massed to the north and south of the city.”

“Have these findings been reported to our faithful ally, Conqueror Marr?”

“No, Chairman. By your orders, no information of this type has been implied or given to the Progenitor command staff, or their minions.”

The barest hint of a satifsfaction passed over Yang’s face. “Very well. You may go.”

Warren gave the Chairman a brief bow, turned, and left the room. As before, he could feel the door close behind him. Was there a gleam in the Chairman’s eyes, he wondered as he left. He thought about it for a moment, and then decided he it wasn’t sure.

Alone in his office the Chairman was smiling.

[Googlie]

Temple of Chiron

Canla shuffled nervously as she waited for the shuttlejet to taxi to a halt on the apron. An honor guard of sorts had been assembled, and they too were waiting with apprehension, as Supreme Conqueror Marr was to be feared, and not quite knowing what had just happened at the base, they were expecting his wrath.

They were not disappointed.

He stormed down the ramp, and strode to Canla, who bowed her neck in submission.

"Report" he snarled, the harsh resonance grating on all around. The guards quailed in fear, and Canla, too, was visibly quaking.

"Supreme Conqueror, I am not sure what exactly happened," she altered hesitantly.

Marr caught the nuances of fear and indecision, and amplified them, and cast them back at her

"Not sure?" he bellowed.

Even the Hivean troops standing around felt the palpable fear wash over them as their senses understood the harshness of Marr's tone. Peake and Hsui stood observing, quietly.

Marr continued:

"These were Morgan helos, were they not? We interrogated them, but they refused our signals. What were they doing here, and why were they not shot out of the sky on their departure?"

Her alterings were disjointed, and untelligible. He caught barely the gist:

"News crew......mindprobe..........escaped prisoners...........empathi.........General Peake...."

The latter he did catch.

Whirling around to the General, he let loose a barrage of interrogative resonance, just rumbles and echoes to the Hive officer, who shrugged his shoulders in reply.

This further infuriated Marr, who turned to a Usurper guard and ordered:

"Arrest this man"

As the guard unslung his weapon and advanced to General Peake, he suddenly stopped, aware that all around, the Hive troopers were likewise readying their weapons in defense of their officer. Seng Hsui's was trained on Judaa Marr himself.

Peake defused the situation:

"Hand me a translation yoke," he said, and took it from the hands of his aide, settling it over his shoulders and neck, and adjusting the transmitter by his throat.

"Conqueror Marr, if you will but listen, we can explain."

Marr glowered at him, but assented to an explanation

"We had been contacted by a Morgan newscrew to do a piece on the base capture and the treatment of the Gaian prisoners - a not unimportant propaganda boost in our chairman's estimation. They arrived with what seemed to be Haraad Ashaandi, but who was in fact an empath of no mean power - a Spartan - who for a brief time had the base under mind-control. During this time the prisoners were freed and loaded, and around the time that your deputy, Canla" - and here Peake nodded in her direction - "saw thgough the deception they took off. Not before she personally killed the empath. He is over there."

Peake indicated with a nod the direction where Miles body lay, guarded by two Hive troopers.

Marr looked at Canla:

"Is this so?" he resonated.

She altered assent.

He strode over to the area where Miles' body lay, and stopped short.

"But this is a Spartan General," he snorted. "How could you so easily be deceived?"

Peake just shrugged again. Canla averted her gaze, resuming the submissive posture.

Marr turned back to her

"And what of the submarine pick-up?" he queried.

She looked blank, and altered:

"I know nothing of a submarine. What is this?"

Marr turned to Peake.

"Are you aware of what I say?"

Peake shrugged again.

"I heard rumors. A bunch of children lost in the fungus, picked up by a Spartan vessel. I believe."

Marr regarded him.

"Not Spartan. Peacekeeper. Our satellites detected it. A large number of refugees and an abandoned Rover. Why were the search flights discontinued?"

Peake shrugged again:

"Better things for the aircraft to do than search for kids. How goes the battle for Velvetgrass Point?" he asked.

Marr turned away without answering, and strode to the small command center, with Canla shuffling after him.

"Let us go and see this wonder of the Manifolds" he snorted.

Peake looked over at Hsui, and winked.

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

Free Drone Central

Scott Allardyce leaned back in his chair with an air of quiet satisfaction.

The coded reports had just come in. The Temple prisoners had been rescued, although with the loss of Miles Cavanaugh, and the children were on their way to safety, albeit somewhat cramped, in the PK submarine.

He tapped out a series of messages;

To Lady Deidre Skye, advising of the 2 missions' successes, and of the successful rescue of Julia;

To Pravin Lal, thanking him for the co-operation of the Peacekeepers in the rescue mission;

To Nwabudike Morgan, again thanking him for the assistance of the Morganites in the evacuation of the prisoners;

To Trixie Potter, advising of the rescue of her brother;

And paused, wondering if the olive branch would be rebuffed, or accepted, then decided to send it anyway:

To Corazon Santiago, advising that Julia had been rescued, but Miles Cavanaugh lost.

Now it was time to plan some offensive strategy. Too long the Axis had sat idle, allowing Sparta to bear the brunt of the Progenitor attack.

He pondered.

[Hydro]

Velvetgrass Point

The fungal stalks in this area of the forest were well over seven meters high, and they were thick and robust. The top portion continued to branch from the trunk until the fungi looked almost like naked trees from Earth. Each main stem was generally a meter in diameter, with the first limbs spiking off from the trunk at about half way up, which left an easy three meters of relatively open understory. Their top limbs were severely inter-grown, weaving in and around each other as they seemed to reach for the sky. Stems and branches varied in color from vibrant pink to a deep russet purple, and there were dark blue undertones where the limbs were shaded, creating a natural camouflage of color and shape. The basal fungal mat was fairly even and the watchful Gaian fungal tenders had opened passable and clear paths. This locale was a favorite Gaian example of a mid-range fungal forest, and students, gatherers, and scientists had carefully studied and tended to it over the last few decades. Each path was well known to almost all the Gaians of Velvetgrass Point. In short, it was a perfect staging area for a vengeful Gaian native army, with abundant cover and easy egress toward their objective: Velvetgrass Point.

Standing in the fungal gloom was Kirsten, and the shadows suited her mood quite well. Jay was standing beside her. As usual, Fluffy was darting around and getting in everyone's way.

Kirsten gave a mental yank "Fluff!", but, as it had for the last several days, there was no effect. Fluffy was now, officially, out of control. He was a small whirling tornado of barely contained fury, and his component wormlets were whizzing about each other so fast he truly looked 'fluffy', for once, instead of vaguely shapeless. He flew by, and he was gone in a second, disappearing into the fungal mat. He was moving fast even for Fluffy.

Kirsten sighed, looked up toward the fungal canopy to watch the last dregs of daylight slip away. She had been waiting for the right time. Now was that time.

"Jay," she said, "time to corral the troops."

Jay turned and looked at her. He had been expecting this for the last few days as tensions had risen to a fever pitch, and all the emotions surging from the surrounding humans and the multitude of mindworm boils were wearing on him. He could only imagine what it was doing to the more sensitive or new empaths and brood trainers, or the newer native additions to the Gaian mindworm army.

"Call Leonardo," she continued. "I need to talk to him."

"Anything specific you want to discuss with him?" he asked.

"Just summon him," she retorted. "And the senior brood handlers, too. We need to get this over with. Velv is burning and has been for weeks. Our people are dying, and our worms need feeding. Is that enough?"

Jay was about to comment on that, but then thought better of it. Kirsten had not been in a talkative mood lately, and she was as prone to a minor blow up as an explanation. Every time he looked at her he saw that the muscles in her neck were bulging, and that there was tightness in her lower jaw. She seemed to be standing stiffly and walking deliberately, almost as if it that simple act required a singular effort. The worst part was her eyes, though. Jay thought they looked lifeless again - lifeless with a grim focus.

There was nothing to be done. Jay focused and projected: Leonardo?

A bare moment passed. Yes, Jay.

Kirsten wishes to talk to you. Can you come?

Another pause. Yes, but not for long. Some of ours are going feral and I must to attend to them. Do you understand?

Jay knew all too well the damage a feral could do the them, and to their plans. Yes, Leonardo. Just come when you can. Bring the trainers, too.

Jay felt a mental and non-verbal affirmative from Leonardo, and he knew he would come. For a daemon boil he was quite prompt and courteous, after all.

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

Sub-Conqueror Maler processed his latest battle report. He had suffered the loss of a squad, and a few more had taken minor damage. Overall none of his units was seriously under strength, and the Invaders were beaten. Even their pathetic projectile weapon fire had decreased after the last assault, and even now the siege cannon were being set up to fire on the last holdouts in their tall, sickly gray-green towers. These Invaders, and, indeed, none of the invaders, possessed the ability to withstand the penetrating fire of his infantry. The strangely shaped Invader towers would soon be reduced to dust.

He had other worries besides the advance of his infantry, however. The logistical support of his armies was a never-ending concern, but it was never really a problem. His Progenitor troops were somewhat self-sufficient and could fight for days on their internal resources, but they still required resupply from the captured city of Temple of Chiron. The cloudbase, which used be a great interstellar starship that was now the space tether for the space elevator, proved invaluable in this respect. Goods could be ferried up the space elevator at Spires: Ascendant and then dropped to this base or, if necessary, to his position in the field. The only worrying area was where the bothersome fungus which surrounded the Invader city. Maler had never liked the fungus; it was like a vague and unyielding threat. All Progenitors were required to train in the fungus, but killing the native life had always been difficult for his Progenitor troops. Many had died and they invariably sustained losses, but those that had lived were stronger for it. And Conqueror Marr was always hungry for the energy the destroyed native lifeforms provided. Mercifully, though, there was a clear corridor the captured base and his target, although it did narrow alarmingly halfway between Temple of Chiron and his objective, the Invader city. His troops were now all along in the assault. Although he couldn't see them, he knew the cowardly armies of the Invader Yang had withdrawn well back of this bottleneck, and they were currently hiding at the captured base. So much the better: their absence would then leave his victory unmarred and unsullied.

Maler let a deep-throated rumble resonate in his abdomen. All was going well, and he would be able to give a victory to the great Conqueror Marr. It was clear that, as always, the Progenitor would prevail. There was no other possible outcome.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*`*~*~*~

Redwood Tower, Velvetgrass Point

Julie dipped the rag in the gray, sooty water and gave it a hard squeeze. After another squeeze she lifted the rag out of the water, and squeezed again to remove the excess water, which trickled back into the bowl through her clenched fist. The bowl tipped slightly as her wrist sagged against the rim, allowing a little water to spill onto the floor. Lying prone on the floor, she had to go by feel.

With one hand she unfurled her rag, looked at it, and noted with dull satisfaction that most of the dust and grime was gone and that it was moist again. Slowly and deliberately she brought the rag back and she laid it over the nose and mouth of her son Ricky. He groaned and weakly tried to force the cloth away as he whimpered.

"It's OK honey," she whispered. "It's OK." He put up his chubby little arm to ward off the rag.

"It's yucky," he moaned.

Brushing his arm aside, she forced the cloth over his face so he could breathe.

"Mommy, no," he pleaded, his soft, high pitched voice muffled by the rag.

Julie hated doing this, but she knew she had to. The smoke was so thick now, even here on the floor of her apartment. Ricky wiggled a few times as she held him to her body, and that was a small comfort to both of them. But mostly he was limp and listless, and she felt so helpless. He was all sweaty from the heat. She could feel the damp, kinky curls of his head as it rested on her other arm, and she could barely see his beautiful chocolate skin through the swirling smoke.

"It's OK, honey," she lied again. "Mommy loves you. It'll be OK." He quieted a little. She wasn't sure if he felt reassured or if he just didn't have any more fight left in him.

The rag she had over her own mouth was already caked with dust, and it was dry from the rising heat. Julie didn't care anymore, though. All that mattered was her Ricky, and that he was close.

"I love you, Ricky," she whispered as she kissed the back of his head. The few tears she had left sooty streaks down her dark cheeks as they disappeared into Ricky's hair.

In back of her there was a dull and penetrating boom, a roar, and rush of air. She felt the tower sway and tilt crazily, and dust seemed to explode from everywhere. Then there was a roar and a wash of air, heat and light. She clutched at her Ricky, and tried stifled a scream. The room went sideways and she was falling. Falling.

[Hydro]

Outside Velvetgrass Point

Leonardo could feel them begin. Even though he wasn't directly linked to the fungal net right now he could feel it pulse with energy. Initially there was resistance, which built like floodwaters as they flowed through a narrow canyon. The pulses and counter-pulses rose, and became more turbulent with each passing moment. He could feel crests and waves, eddies and strong undertows that tugged and clutched at the empaths. One, who he recognized as Malra, was overwhelmed and was clearly drowning. Her thoughts were becoming less coherent, and her strength was dropping.

Leo knew it was his time. He sank his tendrils into the fungal mat and instantly connected. He flavored the pulses, and tasted them in turn. Stilled them. He reached out to Malra and touched her. She was panicked, with wild thoughts and turbulent emotions were radiating from her. In her fear she tried to force him away but Leo wouldn't let her. He buoyed her, supported her, and enveloped her. Her thoughts calmed a little as she could feel herself being bouyed. Suddenly she latched on to Leo, hard and fast, like a drowning swimmer might clutch at a rescuer. Leo reeled, his thoughts infected by her panic. He was not shocked for long and a moment later he infected her with his calm. She reeled again, and then succumbed, willingly after a moment.

Together they rose.

Malra was calm again, even if she was a bit shaken. She didn't take the time to thank Leo but got to work again and Leo stood back to watch. Gradually the chaotic energy in the net lessened and was focused and directed, and it seemed that the dam of resistance broke. Lines of connection were formed and the backsurge from Planet was co-opted.

Now the empath's call was clear and unopposed. It rang through the fungal net, and Leo could feel the response from Planet. The massive dam of energy was redirected, and it now flowed in a tidal wave where the empaths desired. To Leo this was mystifying. He knew he understood his net, but he would never be able to call upon Planet the way the empaths could, the way they were doing now. All he could do was watch, admire, and assist where he could.

The massive pulse radiated through the net, and the lines of energy merged from four directions at the edges of the fungus both north and south of Velvetgrass Point. At these focuses the fungus reacted, drinking in the energy - growing, and reforming, mutating. Already nodes were growing, drawing in resources and expanding. Spores ripened as the empath's surges of energy nourished them. They heard the empath's call. Fungal blooms erupted to foster the ripening spoors, and these bloom rose as a trunk with tubules - a cooperative fungal community with one goal: reproduce, and spread their invasive spoors.

Something akin to joy pulsed through the net as the spoor launchers first spasmed. The spoors were encapsulated in a caustic fluid, and wrapped in a self-sustaining resonance field as they were ejected from the spoor launchers. This would allow them to survive the aerial transit, and make the land or sea they would fall on responsive and fertile for their growth. Any foreign matter would be seared, cauterized, and consumed.

Spoors were falling. Leo could feel them.

In a small way Leo felt a small sorrow as the spoor launchers directed their spoors at the unsuspecting Progenitors that were destroying Velvetgrass Point. They were not fungus, which would welcome the spoors and accept them as they descended. The Progenitors were the foreign matter that would serve as food. The spoors would sear them and envelop them in a hostile resonance field. Then they would infect them, using them as raw material for their growth.

Already he could feel the battle. Energy continued to ripple, and even more spoor launchers coalesced.

Leo prepared himself. He knew that the launchers were but the vanguard of the attack. Leo felt the rage crest, and gave himself to the rage.

It was beautiful.

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

"Aerial report in, Sir," the runner said as he handed his superior office a data crystal.

The officer took it without comment and dismissed him with a wave. After he was gone he went back to his personal rover. There were advantages to being the Political Officer, after all, and Captain Wang took advantage of these privileges, when prudent. Standing at the airlock to the rover, he submitted to a DNA and retinal scan and then typed in his command code. The airlock at the rover base opened, and he stepped inside. It automatically cycled, and in a few moments he could hear the air exchangers hiss. He did not take off his breather, however. Oh no, he was far too careful for that. He tapped a few commands on his wristpad, and a second later got a green light, indicating that the air was not adulterated. Then he jacked into the command port and did a brief scan of the interior of his rover. After all, one could never be too careful. One of the prime means of advancement was the acquisition of compromising information on a superior officer or key underling, either real or manufactured, or an 'unfortunate accident' to those that stood in your way.

His predecessor had found out the hard way about her lack of security precautions, and the dangers of trusting a subordinate. Wang smiled inwardly since he was much too controlled to do anything so overt as to show his emotions.

Finally, he was satisfied that it was as safe as possible and he cycled the airlock to the rover's interior. Even so, he advanced with a sleeve gun activated and ready, just in case. Outwardly he seemed perfectly calm and casual. More that one opponent had thought they would catch him and unawares, and they were now all dead.

No one was lurking in the shadows. In a way Wang was disappointed, since he no longer had anyone to test his mettle. He was also satisfied. He had gained his position through a combination of ruthlessness and hard work; he knew he was no political hack, and he knew was a true asset to the Hive and its goals. He was Yang's man, and he would remain so. In a way that was a given, since no one in his position could have any doubts about their ability and loyalty - all others would have been culled long ago.

Wang sat down and his modest comm port, activated it, and slapped on his encryption sequences, and his newest toy: a resonance blinder. That fool Zakharov had provided some value to the Hive before he had escaped from the Ashaandi circle of idiots, at least.

He did a second series of tests, and he was finally sure he was a secure as he could be. Wang slipped the crystal he had received from the runner into the reader and a series of images emerged from the stealth flyeye he had observing the battle at Velvetgrass Point.

The sky was clear, with a few white cirrus clouds at the horizon. In the center of the view was the city of Velvetgrass Point, with it gray-green rounded towers, high balconies, and flying skyways. Great plumes of black smoke rose from a dozen places, and the plumes rose and then bent as the winds carried the soot toward the east. The haze of smoke hid many towers on the east end of the town, and others were mere stumps amid the debris. The center of the city was partially intact, although the main towers had taken a few direct hits from the artillery and the siege guns. On the east side of the city was the Progenitor encampments, reserves forces, and artillery emplacements, which were constantly pounding the city. A few electronic tags appeared in the image, identifying Progenitor units as they advanced. There were no tags for Gaian defenders.

North and south of the city was an endless expanse of pink xenofungus. At this intermediate distance appeared that the hills that rose to the north and south were covered by a spiky pink and gray mat, with occasional fungal stalks rising above to show the true size of the fungal forest. Velvetgrass Point itself was in the shallow valley in between the fungal ridges. It looked that the fungus went on forever to the north and south, and it eventually even closed in at the horizon. Velvetgrass Point was almost completely surrounded by fungus.

Motion caught the attention of the flyeye, which zoomed in toward the focus of the new activity. There was a disturbance in the fungus, and the flyeye's view shifted sickeningly fast between the four or five areas. After darting between the images the flyeye finally split its images, and all five were shown in separate panels.

In five areas around Velvetgrass Point the fungus seemed to heave upward. Some chunks of fungus were thrown into the air in the convulsion, but the disturbance was clearly fungal growth on a massive scale. Individual strands of fungus, which would be the size of tree trunks, were weaving themselves together and then, in some cases, merging to form an almost smooth trunk. More growth occurred from this newly formed trunk, and these appeared to be similar to the waving, flexible arms on the fungal tower. As they grew the arms seemed to quiver, pulsing and flexing, reforming themselves. Gradually the centers of the arms darkened, and they now looked more like tubes than arms. Each of the six arms flexed a few more times and then seemed to straighten slightly, pointing up and away from the main trunk of the fungal mass.

Wang watched with great interest. He knew what these objects were - spoor launchers. But he had never seen them so big. Most spoor launchers he had heard of only three launchers off the main trunk, but these had five or six! Moreover, they generally only occurred singly and he had never heard of more than two forming together. Yes, he thought. This will be interesting.

Each of the spoor launchers seemed to pulse, with the flexing starting at the base, working upward, and then extending out through the hollow arm launchers. The pulsing increased in rate, and as the rhythm increased the arms reoriented themselves. They move slowly, but inexorably, to point in one direction: toward the city and the Progenitors that surrounded it.

The spoor launchers started firing in unison. Each gave one huge convulsion, and then the air around them seemed to shimmer like a heat mirage above the desert. Within the rippling air were dark swirls, which moved on their own within the shimmering air. When the light hit them the glinted pink, blue, and red, and some even shimmered a brilliant yellow. The rippling effect increased and expanded, then arced upward from the launchers.

The launches form two of the spoor launches formed together and coalesced, and then arced toward the Progenitor troops outside of the city. There was massive movement from the Progenitor troops as the spoors descended. The spyeye tried to zoom in on the movement, but it was hampered by the atmospheric distortion. What it could see was a little confusion, but more re-ordering. Shelling of the city stopped immediately, and the Usurper gunners, which had previously been leisurely pulling down the city in a methodical fashion now re-targeted the closest spoor launcher, which as in the southern expanses of fungus. Its ordinance met the spoors, and exploded above the army's heads. Spoor pods within the protective resonance field burst, and as they burst the energy they had absorbed from the fungal net was released and traveled within the resonance field. Briefly, the sky was masked in bright light from a thousand points, and this energy boiled, consuming more spoors. More artillery intersected the spoors, and there were more explosions. The spoor launchers belched again, and another volley was set loose. Fingers of energy built, and expanded, and the spoor launcher's resonance field contained the energy. More and more spoors and artillery met, and annihilated each other, until the sky above Velvetgrass Point was a maelstrom of white-hot plasma, barely contained by the resonance field.

Then, there was a pause. Neither the spoor launcher nor the artillery fired, and the ball of plasma suspended within the resonance field above the Progenitor army flattened as if squeezed by the resonance field, and then traveled back toward the spoor launcher and the artillery emplacement. It looked like a white arch. Each leg of the arch impacted, blasting the spoor launcher and the artillery. The spoor launcher at first absorbed the raw energy, and the fungus around it seemed to shimmer as it drank it in. Then its surface started to boil, and the arms started to writhe. It tried to give off another burst of spoors, but the energy lanced it and it exploded within the trunk of the launcher. Entire arms were shorn, and part of the launcher seemed to turn inside out. More energy descended and the launcher sagged, then it suffered a series of muffled explosions that rippled across its bulk. Energy that descended to the other side of the white arch impacted the artillery emplacement before it could fire its third volley. The artillery disappeared for a moment, and more white light fell upon it. There was no movement for a moment: just light. Then there was a rumble, and a fireball expanded outward from the artillery had been. This blast traveled horizontally, and it caught all the nearby Progenitor troops as it expanded. Part of the plasma joined the horizontal blast, and a second wave of energy washed over the Progenitor troops.

While the artillery exploded, the second spoor launcher was showering the transfixed Usurpers with more destruction. The troops were armored, and many of the infantry seemed to hunker down, but the spoors still found their mark. Some of the troops found some cover from the blast and the spoors, but others were not so fortunate. There were a series of small explosions, miniscule by comparison, as portions of the units succumbed.

The other three launchers showered their spoors on the invaders at the outskirts and within the city. Wet, caustic resonance fields fell and enveloped the attackers and, where they were not destroyed, they started their life cycle. The spoors worked quickly, digging into the damaged surfaces leached by the acid and from the resonance field they had traveled in. As infantry, the Progenitors responded defensively. The launch was short lived, and the Progenitors had survived.

Then it was done. Ther rippling atmospheric resonance fields dissipated, and the last of the spoors fell, and either consumed or were consumed. The spyeye got a clearer view as the distortion decreased, and it appeared that the reserves outside of the city had taken the brunt of the attack. Only a crater remained of where the artillery had once been. At the city there was more movement as the squads regrouped.

After a few moments the images in the skyeye shifted again back toward the fungus. The spoor launchers were still there, but they were apparently inactive. More movement registered all around the city. Instead of heaving, like when the spoor launchers had formed, it looked as if drops of fungus were dripping from the edge of the xenofungus toward the Progenitor troops. There were at least a dozen of these pink drops, and they fell from both the north and south of the city. The spyeye zoomed further in on several of these drops and it was clear that these were enormous mindworm boils.

Wang involuntarily sat back from the monitor, and his normally perfectly composed face showed some strain. Look at the size of those mindworms! And the numbers!

The mindworms flowed almost too fast for the eye to follow, but to the flyeye it looked like drops of pink water falling downward, gaining speed as they descended downward, which in this case was toward the recovering Usurper reserve and assault troops. As they neared their prey the mindworms ballooned out, forming a wall, which enveloped the outermost troops. There were flashes of light as defensive fire went up, and a few holes appeared in the flanks of the mindworm attack. In other areas there were no counterattacks or the attacks had no appreciative effect, and the wave rolled on. Then there was another lateral explosion, evidently from a siege cannon rupturing. The wall of destruction preceded the mindworm advance, wreaking destruction to the remaining infantry. Moments later the mindworms flowed over these stunned infantry, too. There were more explosions as one, then two and three siege guns erupted. Light faded, and movement lessened.

In the city the mindworms flowed down the rubble-filled roads, and over the smaller buildings. The Progenitors, having been in direct combat and not having suffered from the artillery's collateral damage, were better prepared and started to fire into the mindworms as they advanced. Bursts of light impacted the pink, flowing drops, and parts of them simply disintegrated. However effective their fire might be against humans, it was not nearly as effective against the mindworm boils. After parts of their mass had sloughed off, the boils simply morphed and reformed. And they kept coming. The first boils crested, and surged over the nearest Progenitor infantry unit. The flyeye assigned an electronic tag to the infantry units: neutronium armor with resonance ability, with likely trance training. Mindworm pseudopods leapt from the main boils of the mindworms dove in toward the defenders. Some of the pseudopods blew apart, and others disintegrated under the strain. However, one by one the Progenitors fell, even if the mindworms were weakened. Finally the siege gun was overrun and there was a massive horizontal explosion, which wreaked havoc on the remaining buildings, and the remaining defenders. The energy release did not seem to affect the mindworms, or slow them down. As soon as they were done consuming one infantry unit they reformed and flowed toward the next.

In a few minutes it was over. A few muffled explosions heralded the extinction of the last Progenitors in Velvetgrass Point. A few mindworms had collapsed under the strain, or the defensive fire, and more were damaged. At least six mindworms were largely undamaged, and the flyeye detected a few more that were likely moving in the fungus. After a few more minutes these, too, were lost in the maze of the xenofungus undergrowth.

There was not longer any Progenitors or significant movement at Velvetgrass Point. A few mindworms stayed within the city, but more retreated into the fungus. The spoor launchers remained as sentinels, guarding the approach to the city along the bottleneck in the fungus that lead to Temple of Chiron. Any advancing forces would have to destroy them to advance, giving the defender advance warning of any attack.

The flyeye went into passive mode, and its view zoomed back.

(continued on next post)

[Hydro]

(continued from previous post, which was too long)

Captain Wang turned off the display and immediately started his encryption and scrambler for his comlink to Sea Hive. He sat up straight, and then activated the link.

"Honorable Chairman," he said, "I regret to inform you that our valiant allies have suffered a significant setback in their attack on our strategic objective Velvetgrass Point. Unforeseen Gaian defenders were apparently in the xenofungus that surrounds the city, and they attacked after the armies of Conqueror Marr were fully committed. Our best reports indicate that their loss was grievous, and I fear total. I await your orders. Wang, out."

Wang sat back. All his code words were in place, and Chairman Yang would understand the subtext of the message. The Progenitors had suffered their first catastrophic loss to what they viewed as one of the weakest factions on Planet, the Gaians.

His reserve finally broke and Wang smiled. Now the Hive was supreme on this continent. Should the Chairman decide, he could attack the Gaians at will since the Gaian's forces were concentrated, weakened, and flushed out. The Hive controlled the air, and even had a few empath needlejets, and their army of fast-attack rovers and infantry was ready on a moment's notice.

Truly, this had been a good day.

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

Sea Hive

Chairman Yang read the report from is Political Officer with his arm in the Gaian theatre and he was contented. The Gaians had been most useful, and this was the first time he was pleased that they had not been exterminated since they had proven to be a useful weapon against the Progenitors. As he replayed the battle in his head he was struck by how the Progenitors had fought well, but that they had still fallen. For all their strength they could be defeated. The salient lesson was this: their magnificent technology was no match for the native life of this planet, when that native life was sufficiently aroused and focused. It is even possible that the native life would prove useful in defense, since all human conventional forces were worse than useless against the Progenitor's massive offensive and defensive firepower.

There were other potentially more important lessons to be learned, however: could conventional forces prevail against the might of the Progenitors? Only the Gaians could effectively harness the might of Planet, although the all the factions had tried. Native life forms were difficult to nurture, and capture in from the wild was chancy, at best. In short, he and the other factions could not count on native life forms since they could not be efficiently controlled or constructed. To Yang it was clear that the Progenitors could not be defeated with native life alone.

As always, the question turned to conventional forces - that was the other salient lesson that must be understood. Who could teach him? There was one faction that excelled in all things military, his old foes the Spartans. The key to whether available human technology could stand against the Progenitors was to be learned from the Spartans, and the linchpin of this lesson was the battle for Sparta Command.

To Yang it was clear: Sparta Command was where the die would be cast.

[senatus]

Believing Drone Drop Transport, 236 km East of The Leader's Horde

"Approaching drop point Alpha, ETA 5 minutes."

Sven Alfredsson nodded at the navigator's warning, and turned to the
assembled covert missionary operations teams.

"Team Mark, final check stealth suits."

Sister Jessica McCollough and the six other members of team Mark squeezed
their left hands, activating the triggers for the their Spartan-supplied
stealth suits, and became almost invisible.  Normally, the suits looked
simply like an old Earth fireman's suit, covered entirely by a fine downy
fuzz.  The "fuzz" was actually a carpet of microfibres, each with
tiny optical receptors and transmitters.  What would have been visible
from any one side of the suit was retransmitted to the other, so that a
casual observer would've seen what was behind the suit, rather than
the suit itself and its owner.  There were limitations to the technology;
the microprocessors that manipulated the images had to contend with multiple
angles of view, and an alert observer could discern the occasional ripple
outline in the air, especially if the operative was moving quickly.

Jessica knew there were more sophisticated optical stealth suits available
- in fact, her old Morganic team leader Rider had offered the use of the
same advanced model types that Scott Allardyce and the late Anastasia Zakharov
had once possessed, but the Morganic suits were designed more for civilian
use.  The Spartan models possessed a much longer battery life, and
in addition, the microfibres were both radar and sonar absorbent, and could
also function as tiny heat pumps to spoof thermal detectors.  They
would be better suited for the fifty-kilometer trek that Sven and Team
Matthew would have to undergo, and Jessica's own Team Mark was planning
on blending in with the workers rather than relying purely on a technological
edge to reach their objective.

"Stealth suits check out," reported Jessica's second-in-command, Benjamin
Michaels.  Michaels had been assigned to Team Mark by Sven, probably
to keep her safe, Jessica suspected.  She hadn't worked with Michaels
before, but had heard only good things about him from that nasty business
with the Spartan Inquisition.  It had been gratifying start to the
Believers' probe operations to have ferreted out and shut down - violently
- the Circle of Ashaandi's backdoor into Sparta, and the data salvaged
by Sinder Roze had allowed her to track down and destroy their base of
operations.  It had cost the Circle precious energy and time investments,
but just as importantly, had shown everyone that Ashaandi and his "supermen"
were neither as invincible nor omnipotent as they had made themselves -
and perhaps believed themselves - out to be.

But for all that, the Believers had still been a junior partner in the
Axis probe hierarchy, and Operation Raging Mouse was their first chance
to prove that they could run a credible operation all by themselves. 
Their success or failure would have great symbolic implications, although
probably only Sister Miriam or Chairman Yang would truly appreciate the
consequences.

"Time on target, ninety seconds.  Shutting down internal lights."
the navigator reported tersely.

"Open pod bay doors.  Stand by to jump," Sven ordered.

Visible once again, Team Mark lined up in double file, facing inwards
from the sides of the fuselage.  The modified bomber's bay doors opened,
and wind and distant ground whipped by at just under the speed of sound.

Contrary to holodrama wisdom, the Believing-Drone drop probe teams were
inserting in broad daylight.  Given their stealth suits, they were
little more visible in day than night; and the Free Drones' Hammer squadron,
like most needlejet pens, normally did their bombing operations in daylight
- so the presence of the drop team's bomber - and the insertion itself
- was camouflaged by the squadron's operations.  Their only real danger
was interdiction by Hiverian interceptors, but Scott Allardyce had co-ordinated
the operation perfectly; Archangel squadron was flying in formation
above the clumsier pens, almost spoiling for a battle with any enemy interceptors. 
None had been forthcoming, however, and this phase of the operation seemed
to be going according to plan.

"Jump!"

At Sven's command, Jessica launched herself forward, feet first unlike
the classical paratroops of Sven's days.  Behind her, the other members
of Team Mark followed suit.  Their intent was to present the minimum
air resistance, landing as soon as possible.  The digital display
of Jessica's suit altimeter spun downwards, and she tensed, preparing to
activate the manual override to the jump jets if necessary.  But the
computer worked as programmed, and the nozzles on Jessica's jet pack ignited
on schedule.  A tremendous jolt shook the Believing minister's slim
frame, but it was no worse than she'd felt in the VR sims, and she was
prepared for the ten-second, four-point-eight gravity deceleration. 
As she touched the ground, the jets cut out, and she tucked herself into
a crouch to absorb the remaining impact, just as trained.  Jessica
smiled; when she'd studied the civilian martial art of Aikido a lifetime
of innocence ago at the U.N., she'd never anticipating doing a breakfall
after plummeting at terminal velocity.

Barely five seconds behind her, Benjamin Michaels also came out of his
crouch while the remaining five members of Team Mark were still in the
air above them.  He scanned about alertly, his shredder pistol at
ready.  If by incredible mischance Hiverian soldiers or workers had
been present and spotted the probes, he would have to gun them down, and
the whole team would have to clear the area quickly with their remaining
jumpjet fuel.  Fortunately, the rolling farm fields were temporarily
abandoned, the workers warned through the Hiverian defence network of the
incoming bombers.  Further to the West, Hammer squadron was dropping
real
bombs just as expected, and then they would turn about, releasing Sven
Alfredsson and his Team Matthew as they did so.  Team Matthew would
be literally jumping into the fire; as they were much closer to The Leader's
Horde, they wanted the actual cover of bombs to disguise their landing. 
It was much riskier of course, but Alfredsson's team all had more military
background then Team Mark, and Alfredsson himself was much better suited
to a commando-like infiltration than a civilian one.  The bombing
also was likely to cause civilian casualties, something Michaels knew Sister
Jessica was unhappy about; but the Believing Drones were at war
with the Human Hive, and while civilian lives might be lost, at least their
souls would be sheltered by a just and merciful God.  Certainly Yang
never showed any hesitation in sacrificing lives - even of his own
citizens - towards his twisted vision of Utopia.

"No hostiles," Michaels reported vocally once the last of Team Mark
was on the ground, and Jessica nodded.

"Everyone change as planned, then."

At Jessica's instruction, the seven members of Team Mark unsealed their
stealthsuits, revealing the simple utilitarian clothes of a Hiverian farm
worker.  Hive-issue shovels came out, and all but two of the stealthsuits,
the jumpjet packs, and shredder pistols were buried under the rich farm
soil.  Michaels placed a small sensor beacon on top of the cache;
the contents would be waiting for them on their return.

"Let's go.  Nearest shelter is about three kilometres east of here."

The probe team, now fully disguised as a simple agriculture workers
for the Hiverian Ministry of Ample Supply, trudged towards the ferroconcrete
block that served as the air raid shelter for the People's Farmers. 
The faces of two dozen drones looked up as the newcomers entered, as well
as single Shift Warden.

"Citizens, come inside.  Which unit are you with?" the shift warden
asked, a simple name tag identifying him as Henke.

"I am foreman Abigail MacBride, and this is the team assigned to my
supervision," Jessica replied, carefully avoiding the faux pass of referring
to her companions as "her" team.

"You're not part of this shift, how did you come to be in the area assigned
to me?"  Henke asked.

"I'm a soil enrichment specialist.  Our rover was disabled by a
stray bomb, so we made our way here."

Henke frowned slightly as he waved a data wand over the bar code tattooed
on Jessica's forehead, and came up with the data that she'd downloaded
into the People's Census a week ago.

"You're a Gaian?" he asked.

"My mother was born in a liberated Gaian base, but she was a
productive member of the Hive.  As am I."  Jessica retorted,
with just the right amount of heat as befitted a loyal Hiverian worker
whose faithfulness to the Chairman was questioned.

"Of course, my apologies," Henke said quickly.  "We're waiting
for the all-clear signal ourselves, but we've just completed a harvest
collection and will be returning to the base afterwards.  You should
come with us and report your status to the Ministry officials on our return. 
Come, join our fellowship in the meantime."

Jessica's team joined the other drones watching broadcasts from the
Ministry of Education, extolling the virtues of hard work and self-sacrifice. 
The transmission was interrupted in due time by the all-clear signal, and
the drones came out of the bunker to finish loading their tractors with
the harvested vegetables and fruit.  Jessica joined in; there were
no such things as idle hands during Work Shift.

"Shift Warden, may we load our instruments in these tractors?" 
Jessica asked, and Henke of course agreed.  She nodded to Michaels
and the others, who began loading their specialized probe equipment - carefully
disguised and hidden amongst the various agricultural sensors and instruments
- onto the tractor.

Henke turned out to be an amiable companion on the trip back, proudly
pointing out the various crops as they passed by.  More inconveniently,
he frequently asked Jessica's opinion on this or that matter; fortunately
she'd crammed enough knowledge in advance to be able to answer convincingly. 
It didn't hurt that she'd spent time with real Gaias at Velvetgrass
Point, although she tried hard not to imagine what must be happening to
the priceless hybrid forests there even as they spoke.

Eventually the mixed group approached one of several large cargo elevators
leading deep into the bowels of The Leader's Horde.  Jessica didn't
bother looking for any of the old surface structures from the former Believer
base; almost everything would've been recycled into the Hive's industry
long ago, and anything else would've been levelled as a statement of assimilation. 
The Hiverian soldiers guarding the elevator didn't even look twice at Jessica's
group except to scan their bar codes; hundreds of drones used this elevator
every day, and the probe team was less visible in plain sight than if they'd
been in their stealth suits.  Still, she breathed an inner sigh of
relief as the doors closed and the elevator descended.  So did Henke
and his drones; although specially trained for surface work, no native-born
member of the Human Hive felt truly comfortable above-ground.  Many
never saw the light of day in their whole lives.  Only the least agoraphobic
were chosen for the most trying of duties, service in the Hiverian Navy. 
Jessica knew that the pride and joy of Yang's armed forces was co-ordinated
out of The Leader's Horde, due to the installation of the Maritime Control
Centre.  That made the outcome of Operation Raging Mouse doubly important,
if only from a symbolic perspective.

Jessica wondered how Sven and his team was faring.  The cyborg's
chosen method of infiltration was to go through the giant ducting system
that filtered the fungal spores and supplied air to the base.  Then
they were to proceed to their primary objective, destroying the abomination
of the genejack factory.

Once separated from Henke, it was child's play to stash their covert
equipment.  One of the quirks of Yang's society was no great loss
of efficiency that normally would've been expected of a centrally planned
police state; this was in part due to the unquestioning obedience the citizens
owed to the Hive.  That was a strength, but also a weakness Jessica
could exploit.  Simply leaving the equipment in a crate marked "Property
of the State: Ministry of Abundant Supply - do not touch without authority"
sufficed; since no-one legitimately in the Ministry of Abundant Supply
was responsible for the crate, no-one would touch it.  Blind, unthinking
obedience had its advantages, Jessica thought without irony.

Their work for the day complete, Jessica's team dispersed to their assigned
Sleeping Halls.  More than anything else, the giant sleeping halls
were perhaps the most chillingly casual statement of Yang's communal utopia. 
In each hall, hundreds of drones opened small, coffin-like cubicles - barely
lockers, really, and climbed in for their assigned rest break.  They
didn't even own the cubicles; they were assigned them.  But in a concession
for the regrettable nature of human individuality, at least they kept the
same cubicle each night, and even had a small shelf to store their meagre
personal belongings, before arising the next day to go to the communal
feeding vats.

Jessica knew that not all Hiverian citizens had to endure such cramped
quarters; the talents were even granted private rooms - necessary for the
creativity demanded of them - and state-sanctioned family units could share
a single-room apartment with as little as three residents.  
But Jessica had deliberately chosen to reside with the drone population,
for theirs were the hearts and souls that James Domai and Miriam Godwinson
wanted to reach.  So she opened the locker, and undressed without
self-consciousness, as did the hundreds of other drones in her hall, before
stashing her clothes and climbing into the cubicle.  She was pleased
to note that some of the male drones nearby cast appreciative glances her
way; for it proved that even within the teeming mass of uniformity that
Yang's society had created, still individual nature and desires remained. 
Her own friend Sharra was exceptional proof of that - as was Foreman Domai
himself.