Ch. 11/THEN CFA Washington CFA-1028 May 9, 2300 Dress uniform neatly pressed, hair and beard trimmed, Rear Admiral Kristan Overstreet strode triumphantly into his new office. Not that he expected to use it much; he would leave within the day to attempt- no, he thought grimly, no attempt about it, I damn well better DO- to bring back the mutineers gathered with the Salusian Navy. First things first, though; he had to organize his staff, which at the moment consisted of Washuu and Gina. The office's reception room held two beings. A young lady with a bow in her shoulder-length purple hair, wearing the duty uniform of a full lieutenant, filled out paperwork at the receptionist's desk. Beside the desk sat a battered-looking R5 astromech droid, who swiveled its red-and-silver head to face Kris. "Boss!" it said in a cheery voice, only a hint of static from the speaker. "Long time no see!" "Nice to see you, too, Sparky," Kris said. "How's life treating you?" "Been better, boss," Sparky admitted. "Engineering work's okay, but I missed the old thrill of combat, you know?" "Suuuure you did," Kris said. "Listen, you just got attached to my personal staff, okay? I want you to go down to Quartermaster and pull a decent fighter for me, top-line stuff. I'll verify it from here." "You got it, boss!" Sparky said, and he rolled out of the room, humming a tune through his speaker. Kris strolled over to the desk and placed a hand over the secretary's papers. "Good morning, Lieutenant, how are you this morning?" The lieutenant looked up at the intruder. "Admiral Overstreet!" She stood to attention and saluted. "Lieutenant May Azland, reporting for duty, sir!"

May paused for a moment, and then resumed, "I've downloaded and assimilated your military record, sir, and I have to say I'm impressed!" "Downloaded?" Kris's eyebrows rose. "You have a cyber plug?" "Not exactly," May admitted. "I'm a GENOM Type 45 experimental replicant. I ran away from my makers not long before they attacked the WDF. Ever since, I've served with the CFMF... and enjoyed every minute of it!" Kris smiled. "First time I ever approved of anything coming out of GENOM," he said. <*ERROR!* PROTOCOL CORRUPTED- THROTTLING>

May's face froze again, then thawed, then went red-hot with passion. "Admiral," she said, "you don't know the half of it!" She strutted around the desk, reached up and pulled Kris' head down to her level, and kissed him passionately. Kris broke the kiss, gasping. "Lieutenant, you really don't need to-" "Don't worry, Admiral," May grinned. "I'm fully functional and educated in multiple techniques..." Her hand began running up the inside of Kris' thigh. Kris broke the embrace, grabbing May's arms and holding them to her sides. She struggled to lift them, found she couldn't. "Lieutenant," he said severely, "as you were!" May stared, stupefied, at the Redneck. Confusion turned to shame and regret, and the eagerness faded from her eyes. "Yes, sir," she said, standing to attention. "Now then," Kris continued, "I don't mind my subordinates having affairs so long as it doesn't interfere with their duties. However, I am not interested in a relationship at this time. Maybe when I know you better, but not now." May watched him blankly as he said, "We'll just forget this incident happened, for now. Now, then, let's get the office organized, shall we?"

May's eyes returned to life, and she stared incredulously at Kris. "You mean you don't want to replace me?" she asked. "No reason why I should," Kris shrugged. "Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Understood, sir," May said. "Just don't expect me to give up completely, eh?" "The story of my life," Kris mumbled, but he smiled as he said it. In a louder voice he continued, "First, let's arrange for supply for my command." "You certainly are confident," May said. "What makes you think you'll have a command?" "Simple," Kris said. "I just won't take no for an answer." By the time the CFMF Evita (CFF-58) reached the Salusian Second Fleet, Kris had made up his mind: the Broadway class of corvette had degenerated from a swift, warp-capable courier and patrol ship to a flying deathtrap. In two days of nervewracking travel, the warp core destabilized for seven incredibly tense minutes, a bulkhead came within an inch of flattening him just outside his stateroom, two consoles and a Corellian food processor exploded in his face, and all the toilets had backed up. Kris was in the command chair composing a long, stern letter to whoever was in charge at the Evita's last refit as the ship cruised into the flight formation near the knot of white angular ships at one end of the mostly grey, naval-cut Salusian-make vessels. According to reports, the 'renegade' Freespacer forces, two entire carrier task forces and large numbers of unassigned ships, had cut a lucrative contract with the Salusians to provide extra muscle and logistical support for the Second Fleet. Kris had arrived to cut that contract short. Of course, he hadn't come in without doing his homework. After talking with Queen Asrial and personally guaranteeing the entire Freespacer Tactical Fleet to her disposal within the month (he'd had to pledge his word as a Knight, something he really didn't like being reminded of), he'd gotten the Freespacer defectors released from their contract. He'd followed up by checking his financial situation, and discovered that, despite a host of stock collapses after 2288, he was filthy, nay sinfully, rich. If he wanted to, he could hire the defectors for five years just to sit on a lawn somewhere with the pink flamingoes and ceramic gnomes. He only needed three weeks, maximum. The Evita cut its way into the Freespacer wing of the fleet, past other Broadways, Plymouth Mk. III destroyers, Emperor cruisers and Liberator guncruisers, and swarms of patrolling Headhunters and Myrmidons- more Y-wings, Kris noticed with curiosity, than Headhunters. At the core of the formation cruised two carriers, the older and smaller CFMF Camelot and the newer, much larger CFMF Enterprise- the latter of which served as flagship for the renegade force. "Fleet ATC, ATC, this is CFMF Evita, registration Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Five Eight, requesting permission to dock with CFMF Enterprise, Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Eight Seven, over," the Evita's comm officer murmured into his headset, just behind Kris' left elbow. "Welcome to the Condorcet Freelancing Mercenary Fleet, Evita," a too-cheerful voice chirped over the headphones, the gain loud enough for Kris to hear. "Come to course three-one-two mark two-nine-nine and cut drive and prepare for tractor lock." "-Condorcet- mercenary fleet?" Kris blinked. "Captain, if you would, bring main viewer on the Enterprise, mag factor two." "Do it." The captain, Something Fujisomethingorother - Kris hadn't yet memorized the gray-haired Japanese woman's name yet- nodded to the helmsman, who keyed up a close-up view of the upper section of the Enterprise's alpha hull. There, where the Freespacer flag should have been, a portrait of a Condorcet smiled back in all its handsome, mustachioed, arrogant glory. "Oh, God," he moaned miserably. "May?" "Yes, Admiral?" Lieutenant Azland stepped over to his side and looked up at him expectantly. "Aspirin, please," Kris grumbled. "And water." "Aye, sir," May walked off the bridge to fetch the painkillers, leaving Kris and the bridge crew to contemplate the intricate process of sitting in position while the Enterprise's tractor beams guided them into the hangar deck- which would have to be cleared so the Evita could fit inside the carrier. When May returned, the corvette had finally begun to move towards the giant bay doors to the aft of the ship. "Your aspirin, sir," May mumbled, holding up a pair of pills and a glass of water. "Thanks," Kris took the pills and bounced them a couple times in his palm. As he raised the pills to his mouth, the ship bucked and shuddered in the Enterprise's tractor beam. The pills bounced to the floor, vanishing into the carpet. "DAMN!" Kris tried to wipe the spilled water off his sleeve. "Where'd the pills go?" Kris looked around his feet, muttering, "And whose bright idea was it to carpet a starship anyway?" "Sorry, Evita," a nasal voice replied over the radio, "minor tractor beam malfunction, we should have it fixed now..." "Whatever," Kris sighed. "May, please fetch me a dry uniform tunic." "Aye, sir," May nodded, walking away with slightly more speed than necessary. Kris raised an eyebrow as she left. What's gotten into her? he wondered. She seems awfully jumpy lately. May released a long, slow breath of relief as she left the bridge. She'd had another blackout, right there in the middle of the errand. Somehow she'd gotten the aspirin to Admiral Overstreet despite her fugue, but the fact that she had those blackouts at all terrified her beyond belief. She hadn't been so scared since the day she smashed the fence at GENOM's testing facility. The blackouts had begun with the Admiral's tour of Engineering. One moment, she was walking along behind the Admiral looking at the well-maintained warp conduits, and the next her internal timer had advanced twenty-seven minutes with no conscious thought. It happened again and again, unpredictably, at the strangest times- while working at the terminal in the Admiral's quarters, while assisting an engineer with the waste recycling plant, while fetching a sandwich from the ship's mess. This fugue had been shorter than most- three and a half minutes- but for a cybernetic organism that is an age and a half. Maybe, May thought to herself, I ought to put in a request for leave time and see a cyberneticist. Or at least report these blackouts to -someone-, what if I were in a really important situation and- <*** SHIP ACCIDENT: FAILED> <*** BULKHEAD FAILURE: FAILED> <*** COMMISSARY MALFUNCTION: FAILED> <*** DATATERM MALFUNCTION(1): FAILED> <*** WASTE RECLAMATION EXPLOSION: FAILED> <*** DATATERM MALFUNCTION(2): FAILED> <*** POISONING: FAILED> <*** EVALUATION: DIRECT ACTION NECESSARY>

May stumbled as her neural net returned to life. A quick internal check- twenty-eight seconds. She'd been out for twenty-eight seconds. Yes, she definitely needed to see a- <***NO.***> No, she couldn't tell a medic about this. Something would happen if she did... she didn't know what, but she knew something would definitely happen. The Buma's hands shook as she walked down the corridor to get the Admiral's spare uniform. Ch. 11/NOW WDF Wandering Child SDF-23 August 11, 2388 Doubledealer worked his way down the oversized corridors of the Wandering Child- the only ship in the WDF allied fleet large enough to allow him to function as a actual crewmember- towards one of the hundreds of auxiliary ports lining the outer regions of the hull. Under one enormous metal arm he carried something that resembled a jetpack- much, much larger than any normal jetpack, and without air vents or straps. Nobody even thought about stopping him- you don't stop an eighty-foot robot in the hallway, especially not one with as grim an expression on their faceplate as Doubledealer. He was left to himself and his thoughts, as the crew of the Wandering Child made room for him and went on to their other duties. Those thoughts, in general, revolved around this: I'm sick of being a forklift with legs here. It's time I got into the -real- action... where I'm supposed to be. "Commodore, orders coming down from WDF command," the comm-tech of the CFA Roarke's Dream II called up from his cubbyhole on the old Corellian corvette's bridge. The lighting system was down, not for any combat purpose, but due to a shorted power lead the damage control crew hadn't been able to isolate. In the dim light of the bridge's still-operable displays, the tech's wild, spiked hair cast long shadows from his little nook. "On main display," Commodore Platt O'Keefe barked. The successful smuggler, author, and Freespacer politician leaned comfortably back in the center seat, her braid gone from its youthful silver to snow white now after over a century of serving the Freespace Mark first, the Federation Credit second, and the Freespacer Alliance somewhere back in the pack. The lines of her face gave her an air of dignity instead of age; a lifetime of hard living and close calls had kept her from putting on much weight anywhere, and even if her skin wasn't as smooth as it once was, she looked a full thirty years younger than her actual age of 124. The main display flickered to life, occasionally losing its vertical hold as the short, sweet text message gleamed out onto the bridge: MAINTAIN RED ALERT STATUS. ENGAGEMENT AGAINST GENOM BATTLE STATION IMMINENT. HOLD STATION AND MAINTAIN ESCORT OF REFUGEE VESSELS. EOF - BENJAMIN HUTCHINS CPT 2INC WDF ALLIED FLEET/VISION LTCDR COMMAND STAFF "In other words," a voice from behind the center seat grumbled, "we do nothing." "You're on this bridge as a courtesy, Captain Nakajima," O'Keefe said. "That courtesy could be revoked at any time..." A few lines had taken up residence on the commodore's face since the WDF dumped the survivors of the Defiant on her. "I don't like this," Nakajima replied, walking across the bridge so she could face O'Keefe. "The main GENOM fleet is out of gun range of the AT&T, but not out of starfighter range. Tactical!" Before O'Keefe could object, the weapons officer had blipped a tactical map of the fleets onto the main viewer; the WDF fleet in the lower left corner, the refugee fleets and their guard in the lower right, the AT&T just south of center, and the main GENOM fleet near the top of the screen, twice as far as any other force from the AT&T... but clearly not all that far off. "Now, it'd take the GENOM main fleet over half an hour to get within fire-support range of the AT&T," Aya pointed out, "but TIE Interceptors can cover the distance in under fifteen minutes. The only way I can think of to pull off a swift attack on the AT&T is with a starfighter force, but that force will leave the main fleet badly exposed -and- risk the starfighters to counterattack." "That's why we have screening forces to break up those counterattacks," O'Keefe said. "Drop five Valkyrie, Rapier or X-Wing squadrons between the station and the enemy fleet-" "No way they could be spared," Aya shook her head negatively. "Even after the mauling we gave them, GENOM's starfighter force must outnumber ours by three to one or better... and the AT&T didn't get to launch any of its own. No, it's going to be an all or nothing gamble... " "And you want the Support Fleet to cover the attack?" O'Keefe sighed. "Nakajima, this fleet has its orders. We stand escort over the refugee ships against-" The forward portholes flooded with light as the Roarke's Dream II's shields overloaded, lighting the bridge up brighter than a phosphorus fire. The ship rocked and bucked with impact as two more shots cut through the shields and struck the ship. Debris fell all over the bridge, crewmen fell from their standing stations, control panels shorted out all around. As Aya's eyesight returned to normal, she looked around the smoke-filled bridge. Two-thirds of the bridge's stations were knocked out. Three crewmen lay writhing beside her, limbs broken in the confusion. Through the darkness and haze, Aya could barely make out the thick layer of bulkhead which had come away from the ceiling and fallen over most of the rear half of the bridge.... and lying over the center seat... and Platt O'Keefe's body. Oh Gods. Aya gaped for a moment or two, then shouted, "STATUS!" "Cloakship... sir...." the weapons officer coughed loudly, holding his side as he worked his way back to the still functional panel. "Dropped into the clear and fired torpedoes... direct hit to bridge and reactor section..." "Do we still have power?" The weapons officer shrugged helplessly with his free hand. Nobody else seemed in any condition to help. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," Aya grumbled, picking her way over the debris to a comm panel by the bridge doors. "Bridge to crew of CFMF Defiant, get up here on the double. Damage control and medstaff to the bridge." Thumbing off the intercom, she picked her way back across the debris to the helm console, which for a wonder was still intact. With a few keystrokes she sent the corvette into a slow dead-fish roll. There, she thought, hopefully that'll fool the stealthship into thinking he took us out. As Aya tried to coax the scanning console back to life, the bridge doors opened to admit Homare, followed closely by two engineers and the rest of the Defiant bridge crew. "Maaan... what a mess," Homare sighed as he moved over to the helm console. "Dead fish gambit? Good move, sis," he nodded, leaving the controls alone for the moment. Shran grabbed a fallen support beam and heaved it away from a multipurpose console, keying up an Engineering status report. "Good news, Captain," he said, "Commodore O'Keefe reinforced the hull over the main reactor. Engineering took a beating, but we still have main power." "We do?" Aya scrambled back over the debris, shouting, "Shut it DOWN! Dammit, shut main power down NOW!!" "But-" Another impact cut Shran's response short, knocking everyone off their feet and wringing loud, heartstopping groans from the thin outer bulkhead above their heads. As the various crewmembers picked themselves up, Shran typed out an order into the console, and a few seconds later the subliminal hum of the fusion reactor faded out. "Is... is everyone all right?" Aya gasped, wincing as she stood back up. Blood dripped from her right palm from a shallow cut. "And can I have a bandage here? I cut myself on this crap." "Just a second, sis," Homare said, helping one of the medics to her feet. "Looks like they wanted to make sure, huh?" "Dorsal gun turret and main guns inoperative, ventral gun turret fully operational, torpedo tubes operational," Shwarz dropped into the weapons station and began checking out the area about the ship. "Microscopic fractures in the outer bulkhead above us, otherwise no serious damage to the hull," T'Pall's fingers ran over Shran's console as she called up readout after readout. "Port and aft shields down but operable, starboard shield projector shorted out, forward shield projector destroyed." "But this ship can still fight, right?" Aya asked eagerly. "Only if we're feeling suicidal," Shran sighed. "One hit to the front and the bridge loses integrity. I don't know how soon we can put a temporary bulkhead in, but-" "You have five minutes," Aya snapped. "Claire, communications check?" "All comm systems down, Captain," Lieutenant Lemno sighed, pulling open an access hatch and crawling underneath the console. "Give me a few minutes to check out the damage." "Get them working, Claire, but maintain radio silence," Aya nodded. "Let 'em think we're dead in the water." "That's not far from the truth," Claire muttered. Aya sighed and looked out the porthole at the slowly whirling stars. "Homare," she said quietly, "I need some ideas..." "T'Pall, do you detect any ion emissions that might be coming from a Klingon ship under cloak?" Homare asked. "Do you think it's an Imperial Klingon ship?" "It's possible. After on, the Republican Klingons are on our side with Celine's force." T'Pall shook her head. "Negative, Commander. The only ion emissions indicated by passive scanners are consistent with our own fleet." "Well, so much for that idea," Aya sighed. "Hm...." Homare thought carefully... "No ion thrust means either the ship is working on some sort of reactionless drive..." "Which would be detectable and highly energy-consumptive..." "...or the ship is moving entirely on thrusters." "Which would mean a very small, very very stealthy ship," Aya nodded. "One which probably doesn't have any weapons other than a torpedo tube... one with just enough power to cloak or launch weapons, but not both... " Aya dashed over to the weapons console and leaned over Shwarz's shoulder. "Replay forward sensor logs last five minutes." "On it." The console screen lit up with a false-color image of the space immediately in front of the Roarke's Dream. The readings flickered through a fast-forward scan, slight fluctuations in temperature enhanced the darkness, leaving a psychedelic canvas of purples and blues shifting across the screen. Then the frame froze as the nose, and then hull, of a very nasty looking little ship appeared out of nowhere, lighting up the scan with oranges and reds. As a white glow appeared from the maw just beneath the little ship's fuselage, Aya muttered, "Stop. What distance was the stealthship from us when it fired?" "Ah... point oh one kilometers," Shwarz said. "Point blank range, three shots fired.... bridge low, bridge high, Engineering high." He called up a smaller window inside the sensor log and pointed out the points of impact on a wire model of the corvette. "Forward to five seconds before the fourth impact," Aya said. The screen flickered again, the tiny stealthship fading out again, leaving the screen frozen on an image of cool space once more. "Shift point of view around the Y axis," Aya said. The cool purples shifted slightly as the point of view crept upward across the spine of the Roarke's Dream. At about forty degrees, a splotch of red crept onto the lower righthand side of the view; it hung to the edge of the screen, creeping slowly down the side. When it reached the halfway mark, Aya said. "Stop. Track across the Z axis and center on the heat." The heat was, indeed, the stealthship, plus a clear view of the missile bearing down on the corvette amidships. "Hm.... GENOM issue Class 77-K advanced proton torpedo. Top of the line." Shran peeked over Shwarz's other shoulder. "If that torpedo tube is the ship's only armament, and it has no propulsion other than thrusters, I estimate that hull could hold some twenty-four to thirty-six warheads... depends on the type of cloaking tech used." "The submergence effect implies a Zardon-style U-boat cloak," T'Pall commented. "Very low energy consumption, but that small a ship couldn't sustain a cloak without draining heat buildup-" "Will you all please GET OFF ME?" Aya grunted as she was pressed into the back of Shwarz's chair. A moment later, everyone except Aya stood at a very discreet distance from the weapons console. "Anyway, it looks like he was on his way to score another kill, noticed our main engines still operable, and paused to finish us off." "Looks that way to me," Homare nodded. "Having finished us off, he would be on his way to his next target... Homare, bring tactical up on main viewer, project a straight line between the two sighting points and extend it on along the presumed path of travel. Presume that the stealthship is traveling on momentum from standard maneuvering thrusters." "Tracking now," Homare replied, stepping over one of the groaning bodies to the navigation console and coaxing it to life. The main viewer flickered on, plotting the triangle of Roarke's Dream and the two stealthship sightings, then tracking the presumed path of the stealthship on for about three quarters of a kilometer before lighting up as a bright red blip. Ahead of it, at less than 200 meters, lay the CFA Patrol Buster, a heavily armed YT-1500 freighter with a reputation for running blockades by destroying any blockade ship unfortunate enough to be near it. "I have short range communications operational, Captain," Claire crawled up onto the comm officer's chair and looked at the viewscreen. "Should we warn the Patrol Buster?" "Maintain radio silence, Lieutenant," Aya said. "Homare... stop our rotation as soon as the ventral gun turret can be brought to bear on the projected target. Irving...." Aya smiled and giggled a cheerful laugh. "Blow him up REAL good!" The Buma's serial number- that is, the Buma piloting the stealthship Jugular- is fairly unimportant. Its thoughts or feelings as the first laser bolts began flying past his canopy are also fairly unimportant. The important thing is, he had roughly five point three seconds to think and feel them before those laser bolts found their target. Aya's eyes twinkled merrily in the light from the distant fireball. "Shran, main power! Claire, break radio silence! 'Command ship to CFMF Support Fleet. Enemy cloaked ship destroyed. All ships to engage engines and follow our lead. CFA Roarke's Dream fully operational!' Homare, lay in an elliptical orbit around the AT&T to swing us around her and place us between it and the main GENOM fleet. Shwarz, you've got seven minutes to get the dorsal turret operational again, or forward shields, whichever is less impossible." As the various ex-Defiant crew members got to work, and the medics tended to the wounded, Aya shouted, "WHERE THE HELL IS MY DAMAGE CONTROL?!?" The motley swarms of starfighters, WDF and GENOM, met and mixed over the AT&T in a swarm of Brownian motion. A handful of quick victories went to the leading GENOM formations, even as the forward WDF ships knocked large holes through the TIE triads across the battlefield. Each side loosed a handful of missiles, then turned to avoid enemy fire, and then both sides entangled with each other, flying in and out of formation in the chaos of battle. As Kris flew in with the second wave, his mind stuck fast to the all-important third wave, Eight Ball and its escort. The fighters had to stay close to the slower transports- the Warpzone might be able to achieve fighter speeds, but the standard troop transport couldn't even hope to. Someone on the GENOM side of the battle ought to see them... now, where would the attackers come from? -There.- Kris flagged a group of TIEs breaking loose of the tangle of starfighters and bearing down on the troop transports. At the lead of the formation rode that strange prototype TIE, the one with the shields and long bent panels. Kris nodded with satisfaction as he keyed on the command channel. "Rebel One to Rebel squadron, break formation and follow me. Squadrons from WDF Hornet, proceed with attack run.' With a nudge of his stick, he bowed his X-wing out of the main flight path for the assault force and curled up beneath to bear his guns on the attacking TIEs. Kris checked the speed of his fighter wing, forming up behind, and then that of the TIEs ahead. At four clicks' distance, there just wasn't time to wait for a missile, especially since the TIEs with missiles would already be locking on the transports. "Rebel One to Rebel squadron, switch to guns, repeat switch to guns. Fire to disrupt, repeat fire to disrupt." Kris redirected his shield recharge into the engines, boosting his X-wing ahead of his formation. At two clicks distance, he opened single fire, leading across the lead TIE's nose; at 1.5 clicks he switched to double-fire; at one click the lead TIE weaved and jinked to keep out of the line of fire; .7 clicks the TIE gave up trying to lock onto the Warpzone and settled for keeping itself intact. Kris took the opportunity to restore power to shields and switch his radio over to the GENOM fighter command channel. "Alpha One, this is Rebel One. Shall we pick up where we left off?" Alpha One's brought its nose around and fired a few rounds into Kris' weakened forward shields. "WHOA! Guess that answers that," Kris grunted as he squeezed his X-wing through several tight maneuvers. He growled even louder, off the radio circuit, as the TIE prototype slipped in behind him and stuck tight, surrounding his cockpit with green blasts. He tried a vector-lag drop maneuver, and got four blasts into the rear shields for his trouble. He fired up his engines again and tried flipping his fighter over for a reverse-flight shot, only for his target to slide up and out of his line of fire and tag his forward shields again. He threw the throttle to full, braking momentum and surging back along his flight path, and this actually caught Alpha-One by surprise. By the time she reacted, Kris was already swinging around behind her, guns blazing away at her six. Before Kris could get a bead on the TIE, it curled up and to starboard, trying to swing around him. The two fighters swung, unmolested, in a wildly changing mutual orbit, neither able to gain advantage. I hate it when this happens, Kris thought as he swung around for the eighth or ninth time. Orderlies bore away the body of Commodore Platt O'Keefe, her skull caved in from the collapse of the bridge ceiling. Around them, braces kept the ceiling in place above them while three engineers worked as fast as they could to secure the bulkhead in its former place. Underneath the workers, Aya paced impatiently as she glared at the tactical display. "Can't we get any more weapons operational?" "Captain, I've got my hands full replacing the forward shield generators," Shran's voice echoed over the intercom. "Doing it from the -inside- of the ship doesn't make it any easier. As it is, I may have the shields fixed in five minutes." "You've got two minutes," Aya shouted over the welding. "After that we'll be under fire from more than those stealth boats." Three more ships from the CFMF Support Fleet had fallen to the tiny cloakships before the force had moved beyond their reach. The rest, hundreds strong, cruised around the Roarke's Dream II, spreading out only slightly to present a thick field of overlapping fire to the oncoming GENOM fighter support. And it was definitely oncoming. Wave after wave of fighter, seemingly every fighter the GENOM fleet had left, swarmed at maximum speed toward the AT&T and the starfighter battle taking place over its surface. Without the two main battle fleets mixed up between the TIEs, the wave seemed twice as large as the force launched at the start of the battle- when in fact almost the opposite was true. "Shran, can't we get just one torpedo tube open?" Aya called through the intercom. "Captain- hang on just a minute..." The sounds of arching electricity echoed over the intercom speaker as Shran soldered something into place. "Okay, power up the forward shields." Shwarz's fingers snapped closed a handful of switches and nodded with satisfaction as the indicator lights on his panel showed the forward shields charging to full strength. "Shields activated, Captain." "Great!" Aya shouted. "Now what about the torpedo tubes?" "No chance," Shran's voice shouted from the other end of the speaker. "The starboard torpedo tube is blown shut, and the port tube's rails are out of alignment- we can't get the torpedoes out of the tube." "Can we push a torpedo out manually?" Shran's voice dripped with irony, unusual for an Andorian. "Yes, I think so, if we cut off gravity to the lower decks and evacuate the torpedo room, someone with a long broomstick might get the nose out of the torpedo port." "Hurry up and do it, then!" Aya said. "You've got fifty seconds!" "WHAT?!" "Captain," Claire called from her position, "I've got fifty ships requesting permission to open fire..." "I'm working on it!" Aya snapped. "Tell them hold fire... wait for us to fire a shot, then unload with everything!" "Will do, Captain!" "Sis," Homare turned around to face Aya, "do we really need to fire the first shot?" "No," Aya grumbled, "but it'll make sure the first volley is all at once...Shran, any word?" "Just a minute!" Shran's voice sounded muffled; a few seconds later, some of the intercom static cleared as Shran said, "I'm suited up... torpedo armed and on the launch rail, ready for targeting..." "Target the lead interceptor, Irving," Aya smiled. "Program the torpedo for a ten-second engine delay." "Aye, sir!" Shwarz keyed the targeting computers onto the closest TIE Interceptor and waited for the lights to go to red. Ten seconds later, with the quiet buzz of lock-tone ringing through the bridge, Shwarz said, "Ready to fire." "Shran, you've got ten seconds to get the torpedo out and clear," Aya said, "launching -now!-" Shwarz hit the launch button as, below decks, Shran held the launch rail in one hand and a long section of conduit in the other, prodding the weightless torpedo down the launch tube. Eight seconds later, the torpedo cleared the tube, and as Shran pushed away from the open tube, the torpedo's engine ignited, sending a short blast of heat back down the tube as it rocketed away towards the GENOM fighters. "Roarke's Dream to all ships," Aya grinned, "FIRE!" A hundred different kinds of shipborne weaponry loosed itself upon the leading edge of the starfighter force. Proton torpedoes, photon torpedoes, concussion missiles, AntiChrists, drum bombs. Lasers, phasers, ion cannon, disrupters, neutron blasters, mass drivers, machine guns. One ship had even charged up an old Romulan plasma wave launcher, sending massive waves of raw energy at the clustered TIEs. The TIE wave struck the smugglers' lines, but instead of Hannibal at Cannae, the situation was more like Pickett at Gettysburg. A couple of minutes later, the GENOM starfighter force brought its bloody stump back from the encounter, leaving the CFMF Support Fleet scorched, battered, but victorious. Kris spun his X-wing away from a wild shot from Alpha One's fighter; he squeezed off a few wide misses of his own as he tried to get his ship to bear on hers. The dance had gone on, uninterrupted, for minutes, neither one even landing a shot on the other, while all around them fighters from both sides ignored the dueling commanders. Kris had long since allowed his mind to fade into the calm of Jedi battle mode. For the first time in days, his emotions flowed calmly through him, his anger and sadness fading into the background as the Force guided him. Each movement, each nudge of the stick, each shot fired, brought his ship a hair closer to the firing solution he wanted, and kept his own ship out of the guns of the TIE. Kris brought his fighter around again, this time blinking as one of Rebel squadron's - no, wait, Kris blinked in surprise, the fighter was painted in Cavalier colors! Terri!- sped across Alpha One's line of fight, pursued by a rain of blaster fire from two TIE Interceptors. As the X-wing jinked and turned, it presented its full top profile to the prototype TIE, giving Alpha One an irresistible shot. Green bolts flew from the TIE's chin-mounted guns, just a moment late. Between the TIE and Terri's starfighter flew one of Rebel Squadron's ships, disintegrating at the first touch of Alpha One's blasts. Behind it, three TIEs veered away for new targets, while Terri doubled back and blasted wildly away at her former pursuers. Kris' peace was gone at the first sight of Terri's fighter. "Crash, what are you DOING here?" "What do you THINK?!" "We'll discuss this later." Redneck pulled back around and bracketed the TIE commander's ship. He stared at Alpha One for several seconds, numb with shock. The shock quickly gave way to pure rage. "Why you... we had an AGREEMENT..." Kris squeezed the trigger and held it down, firing his blasters wildly after the enemy fighter. "You goddamn well BROKE THE RULES! You SHOT DOWN one of MY MEN!!" "The fortunes of war, Rebel One," the Cajun woman's voice grated out over the radio. "Fortunes, hell!" Kris ripped the gloves away from his flight suit, sealed up his helmet, and said, "Sparky, open the canopy." WHAT?!? scrolled over the X-wing's display. "Do. It. Now." I HOPE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. The click of the latches was lost in the rush of escaping air. Kris gritted his teeth at the cold of space working on his bare hands, grunted with discomfort as his suit automatically sealed itself and pressurized to its minimum-survival pressure. Switching on the electromagnets in the soles of his boots, Kris climbed out onto the nose of his fighter. Shifting his balance as Sparky guided the X-wing through the firefight, he searched the swirling, weaving, fire-blazing mass of starfighters. Picking out the prototype, he cracked his knuckles soundlessly and whispered, "Call -this- the fortunes of war...." Rayna Tangril brought her TIE Advanced Prototype around to port just in time to see the pilot of Rebel One standing on his fighter's nose- in mid-flight- staring directly at her. Incredible, she thought to herself, has he gone mad? No, she thought, I've fought madmen and none of them ever decided to take a promenade in the middle of a dogfight. He has something in mind. And I suspect, she thought as Rebel One's hands glowed a brilliant red, I suspect I'm not going to like it very much. A heart-stopping noise ran through the TIE, the sound of metal being sheared away. A few seconds later, every panel, display, lightbulb, EVERYTHING went completely dead. The life support system in her flight suit switched to its internal power system, leaving Rayna to jiggle her yoke helplessly, slam her control panel in frustration, and finally sit back and watch the scenery as her fighter tumbled helplessly, its panels blasted neatly away, out of the firing zone. Around her danced dozens, hundreds of red bolts of light, square-shaped waves of energy traveling in pairs, zipping to and through TIE after TIE. For every flash of light, another TIE spun or drifted helplessly, its solar panels- the primary power source for the magnetic ion engines and all systems onboard- either ripped off or totally disintegrated. On second thought, Rayna thought, maybe Rebel One -is- mad, after all... Standing in zero gravity, surfing the nose of a starfighter traveling at high velocity, constantly regenerating the skin on your hands as exposure freezes it and rips it away, while throwing around terawatts of energy in destructive bolts, wears a guy out pretty fast. The shouts of anger grew quieter, then silent, the waves of energy dimmer and then nonexistent; finally, squeezing one last shaft of ruby light towards the tail of a passing GENOM Assault Gunboat, Kris passed out cold on his feet, swaying limply as the X-wing flew through the zone of destruction. Sparky watched with anxiety as Kris' limp body swayed backwards and side to side, locked by the heels to the nose of the ship. He couldn't take the ship into any extreme maneuvers; instead, he gingerly eased the X-wing into a direct heading for the CFMF Camelot. Hopefully, the droid thought, nobody will notice us leaving. A few seconds later, blaster fire from above skipped around the X-wing, ricocheting off the outer shields and jolting the fighter back and forth. Sparky scanned upward and saw a lone TIE bomber, untouched by Kris' rage, bearing down with guns blazing on the X-wing. The bomber flew past the helpless fighter, leading out beyond it so it could make another pass. With casual ease it came around, lining its guns up on the weakened shields and underbelly of the Dragonfly. The pilot laid his finger across the trigger- The TIE bomber lurched up and off its course, its wing struts creaking alarmingly as something hauled it away from the X-wing. A metallic voice rumbled through the fighter: "I DON'T THINK SO!" With a long grinding and groaning, one wing panel, and then the other, was peeled off the wing struts like the wings off a fly. As the TIE Bomber's internal power dimmed and died, the pilot looked up to see, of all things, a giant blue and purple falcon, wearing a jetpack on its back, soaring off to escort the X-wing home. As the pilot watched the bird fly off, he noticed something unusual... painted on the metallic wings were two black flags, each emblazoned with a bright gold lightning bolt. Kris remained sound asleep as the Camelot's deck crew pried his feet off his fighter. He slept through the hasty bandaging of his exposed hands, the insertion of an IV drip, and the removal of the drip an hour later. He missed Terri Curtiss walking in, gripping his hand tightly, then leaving as the nurses shooed her away. He totally missed Iczer-Two's arrival and the dramatic confrontation between Iczer-One and Iczer-Two- although several of his friends taped it for future viewing. In fact, he didn't wake up until a couple of hours later, when an orderly shook his shoulder and whispered in his ear that GENOM had surrendered. Kris squinted his eyes at the orderly, grunted noncommittally, buried his head in the pillow and went back to sleep. He didn't feel up to peace yet. Ch. 12/THEN Mega City One, Zardon July 1, 2005 The foyer of the Mega City One Hall of Justice echoed with the mumbles of hundreds of dignitaries, Salusian, Zardon, human and otherwise. The colorful formal garb of the assembled notables wrung the eye, every imaginable color represented in at least one person's array. This kaleidoscope of formal wear assembled itself in rows and columns before a stage, atop which sat a podium, flanked by tables with four places set for the chief dignitaries of the day. The Galaxy had turned out in force to witness the final act in possibly the longest continuous war since the legendary wars between the Yoma and Santovasku, ten millenia before. Three heavy thumps rang from the massive doors of the hall. The ceremonial guard of Judge cadets stood away from the doors, allowing a steward, wearing the livery of the Imperial House of Zardon, to open them. Through the doors strode another steward, who shouted, "All rise for Leeanna Zard'al, Princess Elect of Zardon! ALL HAIL THE IMPERIAL ZARDON!" "HAIL!" cried a large minority of the assembled dignitaries, mostly Zardon, as a youngish woman, wearing the dress uniform of a street Judge of the Zardon Justice Department, strode confidently down the center aisle towards the dais. Behind her walked her superior officer, Chief Justice Wilheim Fargo. The acting President of the Zardon Republic Provisional Government, Khorin Dran'aal, followed, looking less like a guerilla leader and more like a schoolteacher compared to the other two. His nattily cut black business suit only partly made up for the difference in attitude. Next in line was the representative for the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, a military unit which had, by hook or crook, gained recognition as an independent nation by the principals in today's ceremony. Commodore Kristan Overstreet, the current de facto chief of state of the Freespacers, looked absolutely drab in his grey overtunic, cavalry sword, and slacks. He resisted the urge to scratch his beard, and totally ignored the urge to yank the damn overtunic off, even if he could barely move in it. This ceremony marked the official end of two wars, and the final act of a galactic government which had been in existence for over fifteen hundred years. Damned if he was going to show up his force by breaking protocol. Behind him, equally uncomfortable in his own fancy uniform, strode the First Consort of Princess Asrial, Ambassador Extraordinary of Earth, Jeremy Feeple. The young human hated these fancy ceremonies and had made this clear during the planning, but the others in the group had persuaded him that the people of the galaxy needed the huge show so they could really believe what was happening- namely, the end of the Zardon Empire. Two months before, after three years of sporadic fighting among the other worlds of the Empire, the people of Zardon itself had risen in revolt against Emperor Garth Zard'al, Leeanna's father. Leeanna had killed Garth herself (the standard sentence for attempted murder of a Judge), and even though her mother the Empress Dowager and her two younger sisters were still at large, the Empire effectively died with Garth. Leeanna could, of course, have revived it, but she refused both the Imperial crown and the Presidential nomination for the Zardon Republic. Today, she would officially sign away the existence of the monarchy to which she was the rightful heir, and return to the cause she'd dedicated her life to: protecting the citizens of Zardon, one block at a time. The ceremony, as the planning group had outlined it, would be fairly short, with the most time devoted to assembling all the lords, ladies, generals, and governors of the Zardon Republic, the Zardon Empire, and the Salusian Interstellar Conglomerate, as well as all the ambassadors to those governments, or at least as many as possible. Justice Fargo and Ambassador Feeple would each give a short speech, outlining the basics of the joint treaty, and then the five parties to the treaty would sign: the Zardon Republic first, followed by the Freespacers, then the Salusians, then the Zardon Justice Department, and finally the Zardon Empire. As soon as the last signature was written, the Zardon Empire would officially pass from existence, the Zardon Civil War would be completed, and the last in a series of Zardon-Salusian wars would be ended once and for all. Kris drowsed through the speeches, having read both in the planning sessions, and then perked up as Khorin rose and signed his name both in standard and in the crabbed script of Old Zardon. Kris quickly scrawled his own signature on the treaty parchment and handed Jeremy the quill. Jeremy signed his name broadly and clearly, and in turn handed the quill to Fargo, who printed his last name clearly before handing the quill to Leeanna. Leeanna gracefully signed her name on the document, then quietly replaced the quill in its inkwell. Coming to attention, she saluted the newly inaugurated President of Zardon, Khorin Dran'aal. The assembled dignitaries applauded politely. The ceremony was over. The Zardon Empire was dead. Yay, Kris thought, wishing he could stretch without ripping his tunic apart. The reception after the ceremony was, like any reception with roughly two hundred guests, deafening. Royalty, politicians, and VIPs from all sides mingled among the several buffet tables, sounding each other out on the new order. Already deals were being cut, promises made, debts incurred. Diplomacy, politics, trade: they didn't freeze during war, Kris thought, and war doesn't stop during peace: they just changed their forms. After some idle munching of snacks and small talk with various minor lords and ladies from Salusia, Kris drifted over towards Leeanna. As he got closer, he noticed she was talking nervously in a corner with Princess Asrial Arconian, Jeremy's wife and the heir to the throne of Salusia. Kris couldn't hear through the low roar of conversation what the two were saying, but he smiled when Asrial took Leeanna's hands in hers and squeezed. Leeanna smiled, then hugged Asrial hard, surprising her. Then, she whispered something in Asrial's ear, something which made Asrial blush. Kris grinned: it took something pretty radical to embarrass a Salusian, and he could guess what Leeanna had said. Go get 'em, girl, he thought. Asrial pushed herself away from Leeanna, obviously demurring from whatever suggestion she had whispered. Leeanna was obviously disappointed, and as Asrial drifted off with Jeremy in one arm and their "bodyguard" Ichikun Ichinohei following close behind, Leeanna slumped in place, somewhat depressed. Kris walked over to Leeanna and said, "Need some comfort?" Leeanna shook her head. "No thanks, Redneck, I'm not in the mood." Kris could almost hear the word _anymore_ on the end. "Leeanna..." Kris wanted to help somehow, anyhow, however he could. A few weeks before, against his better judgment, he'd professed his love to her, only to be rejected. Kris knew who she really loved- both of them- and he wished them all the best of luck. That didn't stop him from hoping, though. Squeezing her shoulders gently, he said, "Well, Leeanna, if you need me, you know where to find me." As he turned to leave, Leeanna said, "Kris? Promise me I can always turn to you... when I need someone." Amazing, Kris thought, how someone so deadly can be so vulnerable... "I promise," he said softly. "My door is always open to you, Leeanna." Suddenly, the air rushed out of his lungs as Leeanna hugged him tightly, and before he could recover she kissed him passionately on the lips. When she released him, she whispered, "Remember, I'm going to hold you to that!" As Kris gasped for breath, she walked away, the spring back in her step. Kris watched as the green-haired Judge sashayed off through the crowd. Maybe, one of these centuries, he thought, I'll understand women. Right after I figure out the Secret of Life, whatever that is. Ch. 12/NOW CFA Washington, orbiting Zeta Cygni August 21, 2388 Sunday morning brought Kris a throbbing headache, a pile of paperwork, and depression. Getting drunk after GENOM's official surrender ceremony with General Rayna Tangril- the mysterious 'Alpha-one'- had solved nothing. At best, it had only delayed the point at which he'd have to start coping with a world without a GENOM which he could fight against with a clear conscience. A world without a lot of his friends. A world without Washuu. The office on the CFA Washington seemed strangely quiet without her presence. Of course, there was a receptionist- a new officer now that Little Joe was flying a starfighter- but that wasn't the same. The sense that someone was watching over the office, ready to help at any time... the welcome distractions now and again from the reams and reams and reams of paperwork which, now more than ever, stared him in the face... ... Christ, Kris shuddered, I'm missing her practical jokes. Why is this affecting me so much? She was a friend, yeah, but I never knew how close.... and now I'll never know. "Excuse me, Commodore," his new secretary paged him- the nasal voice reminded him uncomfortably of an obnoxious telephone operator- "but Colonel Ricky of the Fourth Regiment of Marines is here to see you... along with most of the regiment..." Kris sighed. When Daleks had something important to talk about, they always showed up at his office in groups. "Send them in." The door opened to admit a general-purpose Dalek, then another and another, each filing in in orderly ranks of two. In moments the office had been filled with a very neat, very orderly, very lethal group of telekinetic dustbins, headed by one fellow in a battered survival unit marked with the Freespacer flag and a small golden eight-pointed star. Just beneath, a colorful little badge read, HI! MY NAME IS >RICKY