Announcement

**Velociryx** · July 3, 2001, 12:45

The plan worked exactly as he anticipated.

Two years earlier, three massive colony pods were constructed in secret, financed with money from the Covert Operations “slush fund.”

And while Chairman Yang’s best troops were busy putting an abrupt end to General Cho’s rebellion, those three pods were manned, fueled, and brought to life like great, lumbering beasts.

Transport planes were commandeered in no less than eight Hivean bases, and Ashaandi’s followers were shuffled onto them and flown to one of three departure points. From there, they were loaded onto the main colony vessels, or in any number of convoy vehicles accompanying them.

While the civilians were being moved out, the operatives in place at every Hivean base took care to disable communications and military navigational systems, ensuring that bases could not communicate with each other, and effectively grounding the war planes not already in the air (and the ones currently in the air were all occupied with General Cho anyway, and now flying by “dead reckoning” as well, which was undoubtedly making things both messy and amusing).

Simultaneously, the two divisions of troops loyal to his cause, along with the entire Internal Security Force then sprang into action using a list drawn up by Ashaandi himself. The names of people in key positions all over the Hive. The troops descended on the homes of those people, and they were given a simple choice….join or die.

Many joined, some died, and some could not be located. That bothered the assassin, for it hinted that perhaps his abrupt departure was not as complete a surprise as he thought, but there was no time to dwell on it. Plans were in motion and there was no going back now.

The troops had exactly two hours to find as many people on the list as they could, and then they too boarded transports (with their “charges” in tow) bound for one of the three departure points.

In all, the exquisitely planned operation took eleven hours to complete. Eleven hours, and an astounding forty-five thousand-odd people were spirited to the fringes of Hivean territory, ready to strike out on their own.

Harrand Ashaandi stood on the observation platform of his mobile command center and surveyed the progress of his followers. Order was being strictly kept by virtue of the presence of his columns of armed troops, and more subtly by the less conspicuous and all-the-more terrifying presence of his black-clad ISF troopers, who flitted constantly on the fringes of the crowd, watching for even the slightest hint of disobedience or dissention.

One key advantage though, was the fact that Yang’s followers were a highly disciplined people. Give them a strong leader, and they would comply for the most part. Oh, certainly there would be a rabble-rouser here and there, but his troops stood ready to bring swift, terrible justice to anyone who even appeared vaguely interested in causing trouble. Still, the fact that they were able to carry out such a massive operation in so few hours was a proud tribute to the discipline and character of the former Hivean citizens, and Ashaandi found himself nearly bursting with pride.

Former Hivean citizens. His people.

The madness danced once more behind his violet eyes, and he held his arms skyward, peering into the heavens. “I am a god.” He said to the night, and the fungal stalks nearby seemed to rustle as he spoke. Whether it was a sign of agreement, or Planet recoiling from him in disgust he wasn’t sure and didn’t care. He had read a great many of Lady Skye’s essays on the topic of Chiron, and although most people wrote her off as being a “tree-crazy witch” he found the work to be insightful and wise. Planet was alive, and the signs were everywhere for those who opened themselves up to it.

He scanned the horizon, eyes fixing on a patch of fungus. “Don’t cross me.” He told the stalks in a quiet, sinister tone. “I don’t want to fight you but I am not afraid. Cross me and I’ll bring you down.”

He could have sworn he heard the stalks rustling again, and it amused him to imagine them trembling in fear.

Fear of him.

The god of pleasure and pain. Release and death.

He held his hand up, fingers in the likeness of a gun and pointed it at the fungal barrier in the distance.

“Bang.” He said more loudly than he had intended, and then blew imaginary smoke from his fingertips.

OoO

They made good time, considering the bulky nature of the equipment with them, and vast number of people involved. He wasn’t sure who had arranged it, but apparently one of his more forward thinking operatives had seen to it that a pair of Terraformers got requisitioned to make the trip with them, along with at least three Supply Crawlers. Borderline psychotic or not, there was no denying their talent, and it made him swell with pride.

He thumbed the conference button on the portable comm console in his command center, and in seconds, all six of his subordinates had reported in and were standing by.

“Well done so far.” He told them. “We’re safely across the border and there have been no signs of pursuit, but we can’t expect that to hold.”

He punched a few more buttons, and a topographical map of the terrain they were moving through came up on the screen holographically. He rotated it and used a pin-light laser pointer to show their current position. “I figure if we strike north west from here, we can skirt the edges of Spartan territory and buy a measure of safety from Yang.”

“Violate Spartan borders?” Sand asked, eyebrows raised.

Ashaandi only smiled in response. “You forget, Brother Sand….we are no longer members of Chairman Yang’s Human Hive, but representatives of an entirely new faction….the Circle of Ashaandi. We have no formal diplomatic status with the Spartans as yet, and if stopped and questioned, we’ll tell them we are precisely that….a diplomatic envoy. And….considering the current lack of love and trust between the Spartans and the Hive, I think that using them as something of a shield will prevent the good Chairman from making too many hostile moves in our direction.”

“Or, it could bring both the Spartans and the Hive down on our backs.” Angel said with a sneer. “Great thinking, Ashaandi….just great.”

His eyes narrowed as he glared at her and lashed out with a moderate dose of Psi energy. In a moment she bowed her head and put a delicate, ivory hand up to wipe the blood from her nose. The fight and defiance gone from her entirely.

“Just pointing out another possibility.” She mumbled weakly, still not looking at the view screen.

“Much better, my beautiful pet.” He said in response. “Demure suits you well.”

No one said a word, or even as much as breathed for a long moment, and two of his makeshift cabinet jumped when he clapped his hands sharply, bringing the impromptu meeting back into focus.

“Now….as I was saying….the plan is to use Spartan territory as a shield to blunt any attempt by Yang to strike at us, pleading for diplomatic immunity as an independent faction should the Spartan military come calling. A few days should put us north of Spartan territory, in an area toward the polar region which has not yet been claimed or colonized.”

“Intelligence reports that the area in question will support approximately eight bases, and give us a border with the Spartan Federation of approximately 1140 kilometers.” Malachai intoned in his deep, gravelly voice.

“Indeed and again, considering that there’s no love lost between our former masters and the Spartans, I think we could thrive there simply by playing one against the other….plus, there’s always the sea. Long term, I see us ringing the entire continent with sea bases and choking the life out of both of them.”

Again, total silence. They had not even gotten to their proposed new homeland, and their leader was already thinking in terms of conquest. No one was brave enough to mention the fact that there were no guarantees that they would survive the trip, let alone convince the Spartans to give up any future ambitions they might have toward colonizing the northern portion of the continent they shared with Chairman Yang. And despite having been harshly silenced, the fact was that Angel had a point. Santiago was somewhat unpredictable at times, and the Spartan military was fearsome indeed. The two divisions they had under their command were loyal and highly trained, but if it came to a stand-up fight, there was little doubt about what the outcome would be. The Spartan military could crush them like insects without even breaking a sweat.

Needless to say, there was an electric undercurrent running through the remainder of the meeting, but a great many things went unsaid. Angel could get away with more than anyone else in the circle, and she had been brutally silenced, so no one else even dared speak, unless it was to agree completely with their leader.

The meeting ended as soon as Ashaandi had made his intentions and plans known, but as soon as the comm-link was terminated and the last of the images faded out, he ran tired fingers through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh.

Something was….not right.

There were problems, and he could not see quite make out what they were. First, there was the mysterious and timely disappearance of some of the people on his list. People that were simply nowhere to be found when his troops had come to pick them up.

That spoke volumes, and he did not particularly like what it said.

Mole.

The word floated in his mind’s eye. Taunting him.

Challenging him to think further along those lines. Daring him to accuse or even suspect one of his Inner Circle leaders of being a traitor.

It was unthinkable.

They alternately feared and revered him, which made them incapable of betrayal….didn’t it?

Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure.

But it was more than just that, it was….well, truthfully, he didn’t know what it was….couldn’t quite put it into words.

On the one hand, he was very glad that his minions and underlings were terrified of him. That made them easier to control, but this….habit of constantly lashing out at those close to him for offering up a different or dissenting opinion….it was destructive.

He made it a point to watch that more closely in the future so as not to stifle creative thinking in his group. In the absence of brute strength (and they clearly did not have that) they’d need a healthy dose of creative thinking if they were to survive.

Carefully then.

He nodded to himself, satisfied.

OoO

First Night

Twenty miles inside Spartan territory they stopped for the night. The command vehicles of his subordinates were arranged in a roughly circular pattern around his own vehicle, with the support personnel arrayed in a circle around that, and the troops serving as pickets and look-outs on the periphery. An even dozen hand picked ISF troopers served as Ashaandi’s personal guard, and each of his subordinates hand picked half that number to serve as their personal guard.

Thus, when Ashaandi went to sleep that first night, it was deep and restful. The slumber of a completely confident man. The sheer size of their encampment, with him tucked safely at the core, personal guards lurking about just outside, and his own Psi-awareness to warn him in advance of approaching trouble.

By any reckoning, the camp was a mobile, impenetrable fortress, and Ashaandi had no difficulty drifting off to sleep despite the fact that he had just betrayed one of the most powerful factions on Chiron.

OoO

Hours Later

He awoke with a start, and looked frantically around the chamber.

Silence and shadow greeted him, and he swallowed hard.

It hadn’t been his imagination….something had been there….in the room with him! He was sure of it. He was….

Not quite trusting his night senses, he flipped on the lamp beside his bed and scanned the room carefully.

Nothing.

Reached out to flip the lamp back off, fingers only inches from the switch when he heard it again.

A faint clinking sound coming from the far end of the command vehicle. The living quarters.

His eyes narrowed hatefully.

How dare one of his guards take such liberties as to come into his living quarters!

Rising from the bed and taking absolutely no notice of his nakedness, he strode from the room intent on boiling some unfortunate soul’s brains out.

The sight that greeted his eyes, however, took him completely by surprise, and suddenly the most deadly assassin Chiron had ever known found himself stark naked in his own command vehicle, staring at someone who shouldn’t have been there….coulndn’t have been there, but was there nonetheless.

His mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came to mind for a long moment.

He stared silently….hatefully.

The person across the room from him stared back, trying hard to suppress a grin, apparently unfazed by the danger Ashaandi represented.

(to be continued….)

-=Vel=-

**Velociryx** · July 5, 2001, 12:35

Hologram….it has to be. He told himself as he regarded the vaguely amused expression on Chairman Yang’s face. Which means trap….

Before the thought had even fully formed in his mind, a pair of strong arms grabbed him from behind and he found himself in a vice-like headlock, a thin, cold steel blade gently pressed against his spine.

He groaned inwardly, furious with himself for having been taken so easily, and lashed out with a blast of Psi energy, intent on turning his as yet unseen opponent into a drooling vegetable.

He felt a curious resistance and flinched in recognition. His assailant was wearing a Feedback Emitter, which not only blocked Psi Energies, but it also….

As if keeping pace with his thoughts, the sense of resistance increased, and then the flow of Psi energy reversed itself and began heading back toward its point of origin. Ashaandi braced for what was next, but there was no time to mount more than a token mental defense. Twice back to back, he had been taken by surprise.

The wave of energy blasted through his still-forming defenses and he hissed in pain, refusing to cry out lest he let his assailant know how bad it hurt. Also, he made a quick mental note not to try that again.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” He demanded, although his voice was somewhat muffled, being that he was in a smothering headlock.

He got a thickly accented chuckle in response. “It would appear that you are in a poor position to be making demands.” Another chuckle. “So….this is the great Harrand Ashaandi everyone’s so afraid of.”

The man loosed his grip and Ashaandi spun around to face whomever it was who had gotten the better of him.

The real person before him was only slightly less of a surprise than the holo of Yang.

“The elusive General Honshu.” He said in amazement. Despite the fact that none of his operatives had ever been able to obtain a photograph of him, he recognized him at once from the detailed verbal description Sand had given him two years ago….the one and only time one of his agents had even gotten close.

The man before him nodded slightly, as Ashaandi sized him up.

One question was answered right off by looking at the clothes the General was wearing. A one-piece camouflage jumper. Computer controlled, it could mimic almost any color or texture, block body heat, and so forth. Very handy, but that was the only thing about the man before him that “fit” with the situation at hand. He was a smallish, wiry fellow, with a blending of features both middle-eastern and oriental. Delicate bone structure, honey-brown skin tone, thick curly hair and a full moustache, both jet-black. Piercing brown eyes. Somewhat menacing yes, but certainly not the sort of person you’d expect to see sneaking into an Assassin’s den and succeeding at getting to their leader, and certainly not the sort you’d expect to see overpowering anyone….he just didn’t have the physique for it, but there it was just the same.

“How did you….” Ashaandi began.

“My apologies in advance, but you’ll find two of your guards dead. A good bunch, at least the ones wearing black pajamas. The regular troops were easy to slip past, but the Men In Black certainly lived up to their reputation. Stayed together, stayed alert….the only way past them was a blitz, and two of them died.”

Ashaandi shook his head, dismissing the deaths but still amazed that this little runt of a man had managed to do it. “What do you….”

Again, Honshu cut him off. “Want?” He smiled. “We want to know what the Hell a large, somewhat motley collection of Hivean forces are doing inside Spartan borders.”

The assassin glared at him. “Hold that thought a second.” He said harshly. “Let’s get one thing out of the way right now….do not cut me off again.” It was clear that the man had no breeding and even less good sense, cutting him off in mid-sentence as though he were some commoner.

The swarthy man before him clicked his tongue mockingly. “What’s the matter? Did the spoiled little rich boy get his feathers ruffled?”

Ashaandi roared in pure hatred and lunged at the wiry little man before him. The nerve! He had more than half a mind to….

Suddenly, the man he was attempting to grapple with was no longer occupying the same space he had been a fraction of a second before, and Ashaandi found himself oddly off balance, and then tumbling roughly to the floor.

Nobody can be that fast! He thought in frustration as he started to pick himself up off the floor. This was not working out according to plan. The man shouldn’t even be here, and he certainly shouldn’t be able to one-up even the least member of his circle of assassins, much less its leader! Suddenly, an unfamiliar feeling washed over Ashaandi….the gentle tickle of a tendril of fear. Not only had this man, this….stupid, wiry jar-head of a Spartan soldier slipped past his hand-picked guards, but he was also clearly superior in hand-to-hand combat.

Ahhh, but that was the rub, wasn’t it? Ashaandi, for all his skill at assassination, rarely had to call on martial prowess at all. One quick strike at the unsuspecting target, and it was all over. There simply was no retaliation to worry about. But this…this was new.

Different.

Terrifying to him.

The tendril of fear tickled his belly again, and his hatred for the General burned higher and higher, until it was all but blinding.

I’ll kill him….I swear on both of Chiron’s suns I’ll kill this cocky bastard if it’s the last thing I do! He thought as he continued to pick himself up off the floor.

His upward progress was halted by a black leather boot, planted firmly at the base of his neck, forcing him back to the floor.

“Sorry,” the Spartan General told him, clearly enjoying himself. “I don’t dance with naked men.”

He waited until Ashaandi stopped squirming, and then continued. “I have a proposal to make….why don’t you go put some clothes on and we shall begin again. Perhaps have a proper conversation this time?”

No response, so Honshu pressed his boot a bit harder against Ashaandi’s neck. “It should be clear to you that I could have killed you at least twice already, and my patience is wearing thin. Kindly nod if you accept my proposal.”

After a pregnant pause, the assassin nodded, and Honshu let him up.

Retreating back into his bed chamber, he donned a robe, and then returned to his living quarters to find the General reclined back in his chair, feet propped unceremoniously up on a hand-crafted table that probably cost more than Honshu made in an entire year.

Wordlessly he swept the smaller man’s feet off the table. “And that’s my chair.” He said with authority.

Honshu nodded. “Very comfortable. Thank you.”

When it was clear that he wasn’t moving, Ashaandi reluctantly moved off to the other chair in the small room, glaring the entire time. Never in his life had anyone gotten so totally under his skin! The man was infuriating! Apparently capable of sending him into a blind rage which tossed all sense of logic and reason right out the window.

That wasn’t like him at all, he realized, and tried to compose himself.

In with the good, out with the bad…deep breaths.

Honshu waited patiently, watching him closely with a half-amused expression that threatened to ignite his rage all over again. Only the tickle of fear in his gut kept the rage at bay.

When he was calm, Honshu spoke. “You no doubt have questions? In the spirit of fairness and goodwill, I will answer yours first. How would that be?”

Ashaandi nodded, suddenly unsure where to begin. He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Okay….for starters, how did you zero in on us so quickly? And how did you get into the heart of my camp? Past all my guards?”

The General let loose a full-blown belly laugh and shook his head. “Find you? Find you?? How could we avoid finding you? You’re traveling through a heavily patrolled border region with not one, but three colony pods, two full divisions of troops, a whole host of support personnel, and God-knows how much heavy equipment. All that, and you’re actually surprised we found you quickly? What, do you actually believe Chairman Yang’s propaganda that we are woefully unprepared for battle? You think we’re napping over here on our side of the border?”

Ashaandi’s brooding silence was answer enough, so he continued. “As to the other part….chalk it up to Spartan training and a lifetime of experience.” He thumped his chest to add accent to his point. “And I take it by the look on your face that you’re now thinking your own faction’s military training might not be quite up to par?”

His violet eyes narrowed, but he kept control of his temper this time. “Former Hive troops and citizens.”

“Defectors….perhaps seeking asylum inside the Spartan Federation?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“On the run then?”

“Yes.”

“Ahhhh.” The General said, as though that cleared everything right up. “So you’re….what? Out sight-seeing?”

“We’re escaping….I’m leading these people off to unsettled territory to start fresh. A new faction entirely.”

“Then perhaps we should take this opportunity to discuss your group’s diplomatic status with us? I’m fully authorized to hold such talks with you, if you’re interested.”

“For now, all we want is safe passage through your lands to the unclaimed territory north of the Spartan border.”

“And what makes you think that we’re not interested in eventually colonizing that region ourselves?”

“I didn’t come empty handed. We made off with the full body of Yang’s proprietary research. Perhaps there’s something in the datafiles which might be of interest.”

“What are you offering, exactly?”

“Detailed files on the Mind-Machine Interface that Hivean scientists have been working on for the past ten years. Construction plans for the assault chopper the Chairman plans to use against you in his coming attack of Spartan bases, and blueprints for the as yet theoretical Cyborg Factory and Cloudbase Academy that Yang has on the drawing board.”

The General considered for a long moment, but was clearly impressed with the offer. “I’ll need to call a conference of Junta leaders to discuss the details, but based on the strength of your offer, I give you tentative approval here and now, and a grant of safe passage through Spartan Territory along a route set by me. Deviate from the route, and it will be seen as an act of aggression, and dealt with accordingly.”

The assassin nodded. “That sounds reasonable to me.”

“Excellent. Then I shall transmit the route you are to take before sunrise.”

Silence ruled the room for a long moment, and Honshu leaned across the space separating him from Ashaandi. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Let me be plain with you….I don’t really care what you did or why you ran away….just know that if you intend to stir up any trouble here, I’ll personally lead the attack against this little traveling circus of yours and make sure that none of you leave this place alive.”

Having calmed down considerably, Ashaandi was much more clear-headed, and could not resist playing the game. He smiled his most vicious smile as he matched the same whispered tone as Honshu. “General….I now know how you were able to resist my Psi-attack. In fact, I helped test the Feedback Emitter you’re wearing right now, or a model very like it….now, I have no idea where you got one, but I do know that they can only be worn for a limited time before they must be removed for re-calibration.”

He paused to let that sink in.

“I’d be very careful about just when and where I removed it General….very careful indeed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Honshu said with a grin. “But perhaps before you get too wrapped up in making threats, you should remember just how easily I slipped into your dreams….right past all that security you were so proud of…..Had our situations been reversed, I doubt you would have found your way to me quite so effortlessly.”

Before Ashaandi could respond, General Honshu patted him on the head like a lap dog and stood to go. “It goes against my better judgement, but I like you Ashaandi. If that hot head and moon-sized ego doesn’t get you killed, I think things will be a lot more interesting with you around.”

The assassin flushed crimson in his rage and opened his mouth to speak, but Honshu cut him off again (intentionally, he realized, which only added more fuel to his rage). “See….there it goes again….that nasty temper of yours. It made you a lot easier to beat, you know. Control, Ashaandi….control. That’s the name of the game. Live it. Learn it. One day, your life may depend on it.

He reached the door and turned, pointed to his own eyes, and then to the assassin. One final grin, accompanied by an almost conspiratorial wink, and General Honshu of the Spartan Federation disappeared in the night.

Ashaandi tried, but failed to fight off the shiver building up in him.

Humiliated.

Utterly and completely humiliated….and by a Spartan, no less!

His face still flushed, he buried his head in his hands for several long moments.

Not only that, but Honshu was right, he realized.

On many, if not all counts.

The General could have killed him easily. that was food for thought, and he mentally chewed on it awhile.

Now separated from the Hive, he suddenly realized how much more vulnerable he truly was. No longer was the massive industrial might and raw manpower of Yang’s faction at his disposal. He was on his own….exposed.

Vulnerable.

Given his precarious position, an expression of outrage at the wrong moment could get him killed. An outburst of any kind could set his plans back years.

Carefully then, oh yes. Very carefully indeed from here on.

Honshu had, infuriating as he was and as short as their meeting was, taught him a great many things. “And one day, I will return the favor General….I promise you that.” He whispered to the now empty room.

He did not sleep for the rest of the night. Too much to think about…too much to worry about.

And when he called his staff together the next morning, he was much more subdued than he had been the day before. His cabinet members voiced their opinions and did not get blasted for it (literally, as Angel knew firsthand). He was cautious, and twice he even bordered on being courteous to those reporting to him.

It was a remarkable change, and the camp was all abuzz for the entire second day.

He was, of course, still Harrand Ashaandi. Greatly feared by those who followed him, and that fear, combined with the ever-present, ever-watchful ISF troopers kept dissention at absolute zero.

The sun was rising on a new faction. A faction unlike any other. Its followers not bound together by a common sense of ideology, but solely on the strength of one man’s eerily magnetic personality and his unyielding ambition. A group held together by fear and the promise of vast personal gain by proving oneself useful to the leader.

He had no plans for building a utopian society, and no interest in running a corporate empire, or spending his precious time and energy preaching the virtues of a kind-hearted God, a sentient planet, or the UN Charter for that matter. His only goal was to build an empire centered around himself and his personal desires. Any who helped him achieve that goal would be lavishly rewarded. Any who got in the way would be removed in the most painful way he could imagine.

And despite last night’s humiliation (which he never mentioned to any of his cabinet), he was now several steps closer to achieving his goals.

The eerie light which sometimes burned in Ashaandi’s eyes glowed fiercely as his minions sorted themselves out and slowly got underway.

(to be continued….)

-=Vel=-

**Velociryx** · July 6, 2001, 11:55

Field Journal

Met with the assassin Harrand Ashaandi last evening, and it was a most colorful conversation! I think helped clear up a number of misconceptions he held about our people, and perhaps taught him a thing or two about the dangers of arrogance. I have no illusions about him though. He’s a viper I’m sure, but an interesting enough fellow to warrant keeping around for a while yet, which is at least part of the reason I granted he and his group safe passage. Well, that and the fact that his offer was actually quite generous, and it will cut years of time from our own research efforts.

Besides that, I have been to the vast northern wastes, and they’re just that. Cold…well, as cold as it gets on Chiron anyway, and so far, the only earth plants we’ve found to thrive there have been tumbleweeds and some really pathetically scrawny oaks. My guess is that the place just doesn’t get enough moisture to support and sustain healthy forest growth, and what moisture it does get is taken up by the massive fungal bed that covers roughly a third of the region. If you ask me, we got the better end of the deal, and I pity the crews on the two formers that Ashaandi has with him. It’ll take years to make any significant headway against all that blasted fungus.

So, there’s that. The young upstart is on his way through our territory, slowly winding his way to the north country, and as soon as I finish this entry in my journal, I’m leading my men on a practice assault against general Vargass’ position in the bunker north of Blast Rifle Crag. Our objective is simply to clear the bunker, but I’m cooking up a surprise or two for the old fellow. I think I’ll press him until he’s forced to cede the base as well. It’ll be good practice for the men, and what's more, I’m confident they can do it.

After that, I’m leaving most of the troops in command of Colonel Jacobs and marching my Command Division to the coast. We’ll board the SFS Nantucket and make a little journey to visit Pravin Lal’s Peace Keeping forces to do a little Peace Keeping of our own. We’re on good terms with Lal’s group in general, but he can be persnickety when he gets his dander up, so the boys and I will be there to make sure everything goes smooth as silk. Besides, I’ve got a promise to keep and even though I doubt there’ll be any trouble, I promised I’d be there.

Okay, all this writing is starting to hurt my hands, so I’m going to sign off for now, and spend some time star gazing and dreaming of home. The camp is quiet, the ground is warm and firm, and there is great strength here.

It’s good to be a Spartan.

Honshu
OoO

Two Days Later

Explosions seemed to boom from everywhere at once, and Honshu sat in his Command Rover, surveying the results of the attack so far.

Despite a forced march to get to the practice run early, his men were performing with their usual stunning accuracy. Infantry forming up on the right flank, preparing to deal a crushing blow to Vargass’ defenders in the field and drive a wedge between the bunker from the base itself while the rover brigades were steadily approaching the bunker itself, artillery hammering away in support, keeping the bunker defenders hunkered low and unable to do anything but wait.

“Jacobs, swing the entire second division around….looks like his line is starting to buckle!”

“Already on it sir!” Came the Colonel’s reply.

The attack was less than two hours underway, and already the smell of victory was in the air. With any luck at all, both sides participating in the training exercise would be having dinner together in Blast Rifle Crag before the sun set, goading General Vargass about how easily he was taken unaware by the attack force arriving almost a full day before they were expected.

Another explosion, this one closer. It seemed that not all of Vargass’ artillery had been dealt with yet.

Without missing a beat, he casually thumbed the comm switch that connected him with his own artillery units. “Captain Hanley, your CO just got shot at by some artillery up on Weston’s Ridge.”

“Sorry sir, we’re dealing with it now!”

Honshu chuckled and shook the dirt and a few random fungal stalks off of his combat jumper. Poor Hanley would fret for a solid week about that!

A smile lighting up his eyes as he watched his men moving with almost spooky precision toward their objectives, the rumbling thunder of guns pounding in his ears, Honshu tilted his head skyward and took a moment to revel in the feel of the light from Chiron’s twin suns on his face.

It was a good day to be alive, and it was good to be a Spartan.

OoO

Vargass was usually a pompous ass of a man, but not tonight. No….tonight he was eating a healthy serving of humble pie, quietly grumbling about not having enough time to prepare for the assault which came very nearly a day before it was expected.

Honshu edged back from the table a few inches, patted his belly (pleasantly full after he had devoured a well-cooked steak) and threw back a shot of whiskey. “Come now General Vargass….we must all strive to expect the unexpected. Do you suppose Chairman Yang would advertise the exact date and time of his attacks against us, then politely wait until we were fully prepared before beginning?”

Vargass muttered an unintelligible reply as he intently focused on his own whiskey, which caused a ripple of laughter from Honshu’s war captains.

The evening wore on and found the revelry increasing in its intensity, with the troops on both sides congratulating each other for the multitude of excellent tactical maneuvers, and boasting about past accomplishments, and that was as it should have been. The fact was, Vargass’ men were reliable veterans, solid troops by any definition, and despite having been taken by surprise, the defenders had performed admirably, and in a few cases very nearly turned the tide.

So the drinking and bragging continued late into the night, and eventually, as always seemed to happen after Spartan battle drills, the two commanders found themselves on a quiet patio some distance from the rest of the troops, the silence of the night broken only by the occasional clinking of ice against glass, and the murmured comments back and forth as men not accustomed to idle conversation made an honest effort at it.

“Your men really did give us a few close shaves you know?”

Vargass nodded and raised his glass in Honshu’s direction. “Aye, and I understand that our artillery gave you a bit of a jolt.”

“That it did…that it did. Took me by surprise. I thought when I moved closer to the battlefield that all your guns had been silenced.”

Vargass smiled. “You see…I have been paying attention to your publishing career. Your book on the value of artillery reserves was a brilliant piece. An excellent addition to the Spartan Battle Manual.”

Honshu blushed at the compliment. “Yes well….it seems I should have remembered that myself before I moved closer.”

Both men chuckled, and then silence claimed the night for a lingering moment.

“So…where to next for you, General? What grave and solemn duty next calls the great Lion of Sparta?”

Honshu sighed heavily and shook his head. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that….it’s not true, you know. I’m no more a ‘Great Lion’ than you are.”

“Your men see things differently. Surely you see that.”

Honshu shook his head. “My men respect me because I don’t try and pretend I’m better than they are. When we are on maneuvers, I sleep on the same ground they do. No preferential treatment. We are brothers in arms, they and I.”

Another lingering silence.

“Santiago is worried, you know.”

Again Honshu shook his head. “She needn’t be. All I said was that, in my opinion she now spends far too much of her time dancing the dance of politics with the other members of the global council. It’s not bad it’s just not Spartan.”

“Yes, but your opinions carry vast weight with the People.”

“I can’t help how I feel. She’s changing, Vargass.”

“And you fear that the Federation is also changing?”

“I see it. Every day I see it. We’re getting fat and happy. Weak. More and more, I hear people in our bases talking about the latest gizmo and gadget to come out of a Morganite or University factory. About vacations and creature comforts.”

“Surely you are not against a few creature comforts though.”

“Not at all. I like them as much as the next person, but that’s just it! We’re….too comfortable now. We have forgotten where we came from….that not terribly many years ago it was a constant battle for survival. There was no time for creature comforts, and even if there had been, we lacked the production capacity to make anything but the essentials. Now it’s….too comfortable.”

“And you think that it is directly attributable to the time our leader spends with the Planetary Council.”

“Yes….the more time she spends there, the less time she spends here among her own people. The only way a leader can truly know the hearts and minds of her people is to be among them. We’re drifting, and I’ll not apologize for my opinion on the matter.”

“That our fearless leader has sold out?”

Honshu was quiet for a moment, but eventually nodded.

“And?”

He met Vargass’ inquisitive gaze. “If you are asking, ‘am I thinking of breaking with Santiago’ the answer is no. I am a loyal Spartan citizen. I am dissatisfied with the way things are running at present, but not so dissatisfied that I feel the need to leave.”

Neither man spoke for a very long time after that, and the normally comforting silence of the night suddenly felt thick and heavy indeed.
OoO

(to be continued….)

-=Vel=-

**Velociryx** · July 9, 2001, 11:33

The SFS Nantucket was a massive ship by any definition. Initially conceived as a mobile mining platform/repair bay for damaged sea formers, political winds changed about halfway through its construction and the ship was left dry-docked three quarters finished.

Political winds, Honshu said darkly to himself. Pah!

During a tour of coastal bases that seemed like ages ago, Honshu saw the massive ship and was so impressed by its size and magnificence that he made a few quiet inquiries, then later lobbied hard for funding to finish it out as a military vessel, capable of hauling vastly more cargo than any of the transports they had in operation at the time.

His peers thought he was insane, but he stuck with it, doggedly determined to win out and one day see the mighty ship prowling the waters of Chiron. Plus, he figured having the world’s biggest transport might have a few other advantages besides, not the least of which was the ability to move an entire division of troops and all their gear with lots of room to spare. Interestingly enough, shortly after the ship was launched, every other faction on Planet was suddenly scrambling to build comparable vessels. The Nantucket had long ago lost its title as the largest ship on the planet, but she was still rock solid, and the General felt a certain kinship with her.

Brow furrowed in thought, he stood gazing toward the horizon from the bow as the great beast beneath his feet churned steadily, relentlessly through the waters. The conversation with General Vargass had stayed with him. Gnawing hungrily like some living thing in his mind. Forcing him to confront it. Contemplate it. He was a loyal Spartan citizen, and precisely because of that loyalty, did he not have a sworn duty to do….something?

They would be docking in Amnesty Town sometime just before midnight, and despite the lateness of the hour, the General was fully expecting a crowd of onlookers. Apparently, the allies of the Spartans were as enthralled and intrigued by Spartan insistence of constant combat readiness as the enemies of the Federation were terrified of that same attribute. Those friendly to the Federation were always eager to watch the show the Spartan military put on when they unloaded. The snappy, precise movements of the leading elements as they secured a perimeter for the safe off-loading and setup of their gear. The CommTechs coming out next to get the mobile Command Post set up and resolve any equipment problems on the fly, and then the main body of the force arriving in full battle gear (whether it was needed or not). It was a show they never seemed to tire of, but Honshu wondered at how many of the onlookers actually appreciated all the effort that went into creating and maintaining such a fighting force.

Not many, he decided.

He turned and surveyed the fore deck, where perhaps two hundred of his troops were milling about, anxious to land. Knotted together in smallish groups, Honshu was not at all surprised to see that those groups tended to form up based on specialty, and further sub-divide by platoon. There was some mingling of course, but for the most part, Infantry stuck close to Infantry, Rover Drivers and support teams stuck with each other, and the CommTechs had their own little group as well.

He nodded in approval. As it should be.

Still, watching his men at rest, he suddenly realized how much they had already lost and it made him wince visibly. Three years ago, Santiago issued new combat fatigues to everyone. One piece jumpers like the one he was wearing now. On the surface, that was all well and good, but the jumpers were long sleeved.

Long sleeved.

Funny how something as innocent as that could have profound implications.

Of course, everyone on the Federation’s ruling council would have denied the claim, but Honshu knew better. The new long sleeved jumpers were issued for one purpose and one purpose alone. To hide the tattoos.

He hung his head and stared too intently at the deck.

Tattoos were as much a part of the Spartan Federation as the right of private citizens to bear arms. He remembered a day when the intricate spiral patterns were displayed with an almost ferocious pride. When special optic readers were in place at every base in Federation territory, and access to sensitive areas of the base was controlled not by retinal scan or DNA testing, but by reading the unique spiral patterns on every soldier’s arms.

Years ago, the optic scanners were done away with in favor of newer, more modern machines, and words like “impractical” and “non cost-effective” were cast about.

Honshu scowled. Since when did tradition have to be cost-effective? What about holidays and celebrations? No one dared suggest doing away with Christmas on the basis of cost-effectiveness.

His scowl deepening, the General strode to his quarters. So what if the appearance of the tattoos made members of the other factions uncomfortable. Wasn’t that at least part of the point? And since when did the Spartan Military have any obligation to any other faction, allied or no? Their first and only binding obligation was to see to the protection of the Federation. To that end, if the sight of several thousand howling Spartan warriors pouring off of a transport ship with weapons and tattoos proudly displayed gave their friends and foes alike a case of the willies, then good! They’d not soon forget the sight, either, and that meant greater security for the Spartans.

Besides, ritual body art had a proud history back on Earth. The Maori of New Zealand, for example, with their amazing facial tattoos. Stunning artwork, and filled up with meaning. It was easy to imagine the sheer terror that the enemies of the Maori warriors of old must have felt watching those impressive tribesmen come swarming over some gentle rise in the land.

We’re drifting. His own voice floated back to him in his mind, and it stopped him in his tracks. It was true, and it pained him to realize just how far they had fallen. Pained him more to imagine how much further they might fall if something wasn’t done, and soon.

I am a loyal Spartan! My first duty is to obey my superiors in service to the Federation! He shouted inside his head.

But that wasn’t quite right, was it.

Your first duty, soldier, is to defend Sparta from her enemies, no matter who they might be. A voice filled with righteous anger said gruffly. It took him a moment for him to recognize that voice as his own. Such anger. Such passion.

And it was right. They were drifting, and Sparta cried out for someone….anyone to come to her defense.

Drifting.

“Not on my watch, we’re not.” He said with steely determination.

And he knew just what to do, too. A small thing, but it would send a message, and perhaps that message would be heard by others with more political savvy. In any case, it would be a start.

OoO

Thirty minutes later, his entire division was assembled on deck, and he found himself before a makeshift podium, microphone before him and a hastily rigged loudspeaker system put together by his CommTech crew.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damned close, and the General was proud.

He looked out into the crowd and saw a sea of faces familiar to him. Friends, colleagues, brothers in arms.

He smiled as he drew in a deep breath and assaulted them with the booming thunder of his voice.

“Men, there has been a slight change in plans.”

No one on deck moved, and every eye in the division was riveted on their leader.

“You all know of my ‘disagreement’ with the Federation’s ruling council….my dissatisfaction with a number of recent decisions handed down by the people who govern us.”

He bowed his head and paused for a moment. Santiago would be furious, and her temper was well known. If he proceeded, there was no telling what might happen. Still, it was something he had to do. As a loyal Spartan citizen. As a warrior. As a soldier.

It was his duty. His honor.

He drew in another breath and continued.

“They’re pulling our teeth, men….civilizing us. Making us more and more like ‘everybody else’ in order to gain greater acceptance on the world stage. Now, on the surface of it, being more like ‘everybody else’ isn’t a bad thing, because our allies are not bad people, but….our allies are also not Spartans, and the fact is….the truth is that we are different. We should be proud of that. We should celebrate that. And if our differences give our friends and enemies alike a moment’s pause, then I say good! I don’t know about you, but I’m damned proud of all that Sparta has accomplished. I have personally fought beside many of you in all the old wars with Yang and in the short, unfortunate war with the Peace Keepers many years ago. We have bled together and grown stronger for it! Our Federation is home to the greatest warriors on all of Chiron! What are we men?”

“SPARTANS!” Came the unanimous, roaring reply from his troops.

“What are we?!”

“SPARTANS!!!” The answer thundered back at him again. Louder still this time. Loud enough to crack open the heavens.

“You’re damn right we’re Spartans!” He shouted back hoarsely at his men as he began ripping at the sleeve of his combat jumper. “And I for one refuse to hide my heritage! I earned each and every one of these tattoos. I paid for these with my life’s blood fighting for the nation that I love and she repaid me by granting me the solemn right to wear these markings!” He pointed to them so that everyone could see. “These markings, right here!….This one was for valor, for leading the charge into Cutter’s Canyon and rescuing an entire division of Spartan troops that had been cut off by Yang’s boys in blue….and this one,” he said, pointing to another intricate design. “This one marks my promotion to General. These are my history! My legacy of service to the Federation and I WILL HIDE THEM NO LONGER! If our allies are made uncomfortable by the way in which we honor our servicemen, Then how dare they call themselves allies to the Spartans at all! We are in no way beholden to them and I will not bow to their whims and desires. If that is their wish, then our allies be damned!”

He paused to draw in another ragged breath. “This ship docks soon at Amnesty Town, in the land of the Peace Keepers….our allies! You all know there will be a crowd lined up at the docks to watch us form up, and I say we give them a show they will NEVER forget!”

In his passion, he had forgotten entirely that he was standing before a vast crowd, and looked out at them as though he was seeing them for the first time. What he saw brought tears of pride to his eyes. A legion of loyal Spartan soldiers all ripping and cutting and tearing at the arms of their combat jumpers. Thousands of voices raw from shouting the same proud word over and over again.

“Sparta….Sparta….Sparta!”

It was good to be a Spartan.

OoO

-=Vel=-
(to be continued….)

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