Steam rose from the chilled bogs of Calcasieu Parish, Louisiana, as a green-haired humanoid in an alien flight suit and up to his waist in swamp water eyed the remnants of his Koensayr Longprobe Lone Scout-modified Myrmidon fighter. He held in his hands a data pad, through which his astromech droid, R5-SK, transmitted its diagnostics. FINAL REPORT; WEAPONS SYSTEMS- MINOR DAMAGE SUBLIGHT SYSTEMS- INTACT HYPERDRIVE- INTACT LIFE SUPPORT- MODERATE DAMAGE; HULL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED SENSORS- MINOR DAMAGE COMMUNICATIONS, RADIO- INTACT COMMUNICATIONS, SUBSPACE- IRREPARABLE DAMAGE-ANTENNA POLARIZED FLIGHT CONTROL SYSTEM- EXTENSIVE DAMAGE ANALYSIS- TOTAL LOSS "Total loss?" the pilot said. "Explain reasons evaluation total loss." REASONING: FLIGHT CONTROL SYSTEM REPAIR REQUIRES OUTSIDE ASSISTANCE OUTSIDE MISSION PROTOCOL. DESTRUCTION BEFORE DETECTION. "Elaborate flight control system repair." FLIGHT CONTROL SYSTEM; STEERING VANES AND BAFFLES BENT AND BROKEN BY IMPACT ON REENTRY. CONTROL CABLES FOR SAME SNARLED. HULL FRACTURE AFT OF CONTROL COMPARTMENT. MATERIALS REQUIRED FOR REPAIRS NOT ON SITE, THEREFORE OUTSIDE AID REQUIRED. OUTSIDE AID PROHIBITED BY WAR CODE 7542-A, LINE 3, AS APPLIED TO SCOUTS IN DISPUTED TERRITORY, INCOGNITO. DESTRUCTION BEFORE DETECTION... ...UNLESS YOU'VE GOT A BETTER IDEA. The pilot looked testily at the 'droid sitting in its socket in the Myrmidon, just above the water line. It had been developing some quirks lately, and he'd intended to wipe its memory as soon as the occasion permitted. Now, the opportunity would never present itself. "R5-SK: initiate Myrmidon self-destruct sequence. Power drain all equipment." I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT. "R5-SK, you have no choice. Obey orders." POWER DRAIN MEANS I WILL LOSE ALL DATA STORAGE EXCEPT ROM AND PROM DATA ON MYRMIDON STARFIGHTER. "Self-destruct mode, robot. Now." A small pillar of smoke began to rise from the rear of the battered starfighter. The lights dimmed and died as the energy from the main power cells was burned and drained. As the starfighter began to sink into the mire for good, the pilot, sadly, removed his pistol. Move a half mile off, as dictated by regulations, and set to overload. Destruction before detection. All hail the Imperial Zardon. A month later, a Cajun discovered the heap of scrap metal beneath the bog, and through much lifting and the use of a cutting torch, managed to chop up the beast into several pieces. Damn strange things you dig out from the swamps these days. I gua-ron-tee. WHITE LIGHTNING PRODUCTIONS in association with EYRIE PRODUCTIONS and A WHOLE LOTTA GUYS PRESENT A tale of UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES REDNECK: The Quagmire Project (A tale of the CFMF) STARRING Kristan O. "REDNECK" Overstreet Washuu "Washuu-chan" Hakubi Leeanna "Judge" Zard'al CO-STARRING Garth Zard'al Jeremy Feeple Khorin Dr'anaal James "Mandrake" Diggers Sparky (R5-SK) Takuya Isarugi Miyuki Haneda Arisa Mitaka Charlotte Brigand Arlin B. "Butch" Overstreet and James Joseph Condorcet III as "JJ" ALSO STARRING A whole lotta ex-college students from Worcester Tech, victims of other strange coincidences, members of the Overstreet family, and characters from manga, anime, and comics like you WOULDN'T BELIEVE. So many, in fact, that we just couldn't credit them all. (Don't worry, their mothers know who they are.) SCREENPLAY BY J. CONRAD SPADE EDITING BY BENJAMIN HUTCHINS DIRECTION BY O'HARE AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL SPECIAL EFFECTS BY SCRAPS FROM LUCASFILM'S CUTTING ROOM FLOOR ASSOCIATE PRODUCERS: BRIAN BIKOWICZ, BEN DUNN, ROBERT SHANNON SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO: MARTIN ROSE, ROBERT MANDEVILLE, LARRY MANN EGO MAINTENANCE BY: PHILIP MOYER PRODUCED BY A BRAIN ON CLEAN AIR... scary isn't it? Dedications First, to the Big Three- Zoner, Gryphon, and ReRob, for inventing the UF universe and discovering a place for me in it; To Ben Dunn, for creating NINJA HIGH SCHOOL and giving me my break into comics; To Fred Perry, Ted Nomura, and Joe Wight, for their own creations (those characters of yours which HAVEN'T found their way into UF yet are about to); To Pioneer, for backing a project which became one of my Top Ten Visual Entertainments of All Time; To George Lucas and West End Games, for many, many hours of entertainment; To Lois McMaster Bujold, whose Miles Naismith novels planted the seeds in my mind years ago for the Freespacers; To Philip "Serendipity" Moyer, for being my principal Guinea Pig while writing this- thanks for the regular ego boosts and the Gargoyles tape; And to Mom and Dad, two colorful characters in their own right, who gave me a love of reading, a sense of irony, and the desire and ability to overcome the limits of a social class and be more than just a redneck... even if I just ended up being The Redneck. Thank you for (a) letting me live, and (b) proving that everyone is a Major Character, and all lives are interesting and make good storytelling. 1) There is nothing so outlandish, so worthless, so unwanted, that it can't be sold. --- Amway sales training brochure It was March 12, 1996. Kris Overstreet, writer, sales representative, shipping manager, games designer, and can-you-do-this man for Antarctic Press, was on the last leg of his return drive from Virginia Beach, Virginia, where he had had a wonderful working weekend at KatsuCon Ni. The costumes had been even more elaborate and varied than last year. He'd been able to catch up to some of his favorite anime of all time. He'd even given out his very first autograph- a small thing, but it never hurt to pad the ego. Most importantly, he'd gotten positive feedback from the playtest session for the Ninja High School card game which he'd held in his hotel room. If the test at AggieCon went as well, he'd go ahead with designs on a new module. Add to that heckling bad videos, singing Civil War songs with Steve Bennett, and pocky... Yeah, it had been a great con. This year, he was taking it easy driving, since Doug Dlin had opted to fly back to San Antonio. In fact, if he wanted, he could sleep in his old bed tonight... by sundown, he'd be crossing the Sabine River, back into Texas, and less than two hours drive from the place where he'd grown up. And, he recalled as he blew through Lake Charles, Louisiana, he'd be just in time for the start of tonight's auction at Toppers. Toppers was Butch Overstreet's - Kris' dad's- personal business. Two years before, after Kris had won a pile of money on a very popular game show, he'd invested a good chunk of it into the company, and he was therefore junior partner and part owner. Tonight, his dad had let him know, there was a special junk sale, and his help would be welcome if he could make it. Looking at the clock on the dash, gauging his fatigue, and thinking about how much money he still had left in his bank account, Kris decided that he could. 6:30 P. M. The parking lot in front of the auction barn was packed. Dry, dusty gumbo dirt mixed with tufts of grass to form the open yard of Topper's Auction House, Vidor, Texas. On the arrow sign, the legend read WAREHOUSE CLEARANCE SALE- EVERYTHING GOES!!!! Kris eased the heavily laden Antarctic Press van over the culvert and into the parking lot, poking past various good ol' boys, junk dealers, bargain hunters, and addicted auction-goers. Transfer twenty from IQ points to age, and I expect there ain't much difference between a con dealer's room and an auction, Kris thought as he pulled the van up to the edge of the ditch and killed the ignition. Butch was walking out the door of the barn, portable karaoke machine and mike in hand, as Kris signed the registry and took his number. Whereas Kris was twenty-two, 5'11", blond-haired, red-bearded and balding, his father was 45, 6' even, bald, with a brown fringe of hair and beard to match, both with flecks of grey in them. In this closely- knit region, both had reputations; Butch for his short temper and hatred of politics, and Kris for his uncommonly quick intelligence. Uncommonly quick. In Big Thicket terms, that means you can actually read when you graduate high school, Kris thought. Even today, he was either Butch's Boy, The Guy on the Wheel, or The Kid who Read the Newspaper to the Principal in First Grade. People just didn't forget. As he drifted up to the place where his did was setting up to begin the outdoor part of the auction, Kris noticed a VERY large pile of scrap metal and glass sitting on a farm trailer. The metal was scarred, as if it had been in a fire, but appeared intact. Various leads and wires strung out at various points. Two domes, which looked glassy but didn't feel like glass, stood out from the bottom of one end of the pile. All in all, Kris figured, it was about five tons of Class-A junk. Then he saw the twin parabolic emitters sticking out from the very top. Following the emitters down, Kris's eyes went to what looked very suspiciously like gun barrels at this range- he had to crane his neck slightly to see- and then to a large, solid piece of metal, scored but not ripped or torn. From there, his glance drifted to a large, not-glass panel covering one side of the hunk of metal Inside, he could make out what appeared to be a dashboard of some kind. A cockpit, Kris thought. Then, further down, beneath a pylon of some sort, a small barrel-shaped protrusion, about, say, two to three feet in diameter, stood out a short distance. Kris looked a little bit closer, and looked again. His mind involuntarily went back to a movie produced in 1977, about a boy who becomes a man by blowing up a giant space battle station. In one scene, the boy buys a robot from these short, smelly little aliens, but as they leave, the robot blows a gasket, and as the replacement robot gets the boy into more trouble than you'd think a little silver- and-blue bucket could. Sticking out from the side of the pile of junk was the head of a carbon copy (carbon-IZED copy, from the blast marks) of the robot that blew its top. Testing the pile to see if it would shift, Kris climbed up to see if he could look into the cockpit. The view, in the dim sunset light and almost-as-dim floodlights, was not very good, but Kris could make out writing on several of the instruments in the compartment. It wasn't English. It also wasn't the gobbledygook George Lucas had used for the galaxy far, far away; that had been a jumble of triangles, squares and rectangles. This was all in script, like a brutalized Elvish cribbed from LORD OF THE RINGS. Further inspection of what he could get to in the pile established the fact in Kris' mind. The glass domes... covers for the Fabritech sensor arrays. Parabolic emitters- blaster outlets. Robot- R5 unit, specialty starship repair. Technology- DEFINITELY not off-the-shelf. This is a REAL Y-wing fighter. Thank you, West End Games, Kris thought to himself. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Toppers' special Storage Unit Clearance Sale. My name is Butch Overstreet, I am licensed and bonded with the State of Texas .... " Butch had started the auction. Kris stole a look at the lot number; usually the lot would be the same for everything owned by one person at junk auctions, but in clearance sales, the lot was unique to each item, and indicated its order of sale. Lot number four. "... do I have ninety-five? Ninety-five? SOLD!" WHAP "for ninety dollars to number... sir can you hold up your card?... number twenty-three." Butch moved the karaoke machine he used for his PA system down the row of junk, and his eye caught Kris as Kris watched his father approach. "Hey, there Kris," Butch said as he set the machine down, "didn't think you were gonna make it. You up to helpin' out?" Kris looked meaningfully at Lot Number Four and said, "I expect I can..." Butch shamelessly introduced Kris to the customers and proceeded to sell Lots Two and Three, which consisted of about thirty 2X4's and a go-kart, respectively, and then went on to Lot Number Four. "Okay, Lot Number Four, this here's a hell of a lot of scrap metal. We're gonna sell the trailer, but you have to take the junk with you when you go. Do I hear one hundred dollars?" In a Southeast Texas junk auction, a trailer by itself would on average bring anywhere from sixty to two hundred, depending on the crowd. Since most of the people were already inside, waiting on the furniture sale, Kris decided to wait until Butch dropped the opening bid. He was surprised to see a bid card rise from the crowd. "I have one hundred dollars, do I hear one hundred fifty? One hundred fifty?" Kris waved and shouted "AIAYA!", which is Auctionese for, "Mr. Auctioneer, I have a bid." Butch turned and asked, "Who you got, Kris?" "My number," Kris replied as he stared at the suited man. No one else in the crowd wore a full suit and tie, especially with the temperature as hot as it was. The man's Asian features didn't bode well for his chances of getting out of Vidor in one piece- Vidor being a stronghold of white supremacy- but somehow he seemed unworried about his immediate future. His eyes had been turned towards Kris; now, his attention returned to the auctioneer, as Butch turned back to the mike and said, "Well, I have one hundred fifty, do I have two hundred?" The Suit waved his card in reply. "Two hundred, do I have..." "Three hundred!" Kris said in as loud a non-shouting voice as he could. "Kris, are you sure about this?" Butch asked. "My number, Dad," Kris replied. "I got the money." Shaking his head, Butch looked at The Suit. "Do I hear four hundred?" The Suit nodded. "Kris, you still in?" Butch asked. I've got eight hundred still in the bank, Kris thought. "Four fifty," he replied. "I have four fifty, do I hear five-fifty?" The Suit nodded. "Six-fifty." Seven fifty. Kris took a deep breath and said, "Eight hundred." That was it. Nine hundred. Butch turned at Kris, and silently gestured Want help? Kris shook his head. "Do I hear nine-fifty? Nine-fifty? .... Sold!" WHAP "to number thirty-three." The Suit nodded and put his bid card into his breast pocket. Three more lots later, the auction moved inside, for four hours of sweaty, smoky, back-straining furniture and junk selling. As Butch and Kris led the remnants of the outdoor crowd into the barn, Butch said softly to Kris, "What did you want with that trailer?" "I'll explain later," Kris said, and began thinking happy thoughts related to acetaminophen. The Suit stood at the cashier's booth about a half hour into the furniture sale. From beneath a large oak table, Kris could barely see the man bent over the counter staring very intently at the sixteen-year-old girl Butch had hired for his cashier. Although Kris couldn't hear a word over his father's calling, he could see the young lady was very agitated. Kris did not like the looks of things at all. As the hammer dropped on the table, and Kris and the other floor worker lowered it to the ground, he turned to Butch and said, "I'm gonna check on the cashier's booth. Somethin' ain't right there." Butch looked, nodded, and said, "Okay, Kris. You're covered," and his right hand shifted noticeably on an object on the podium. Kris's father had had as equally diverse a youth as Kris, and part of it had earned him a Pistol Sharpshooter medal from the United States Navy. Butch called up the next lot number- as it happened, a choice of box deals- and Kris strode out of the display area and around to the cashier's booth. As he walked, he began to hear what was going on. ".... but sir, your credit card is overdrawn. " "Run it again." "I've already run it three times. Either give me another card or pay cash." "I don't need another card. Run it again." Kris stood behind The Suit and said loudly, "May I help you, sir?" The Suit spun at Kris, looked at him, and said, "This young lady of yours refuses to accept my card." Looking at the girl, Kris said, "Let me have a try." Stepping into the room, he accepted the plastic wafer from the girl. Corporate Visa, Bank of America, account of GENOM, Inc. GENOM? Somebody has a warped sense of humor. Kris had heard of GENOM, which had made a brief, dazzling, and disastrous career as a technological giant up in Massachusetts somewhere. These days, he'd thought the company dead and gone. No one in their right mind would continue business under that name, not after that. Oh well, not his fault I expect. "What's his total?" "Nine hundred dollars," the girl replied. Kris turned to the old electronic card machine, a grunt with a card swiper and a LED readout, but no printer. Kris didn't know where Butch had found the money for it, but he was glad it was here. He swiped the card, punched in the amount 900.00, and waited for the transaction to process. After a second, the LED read; PICK UP CARD. Kris turned to The Suit and said, "Sir, we have been asked by you company's financial institution to destroy your credit card. I am afraid I must ask you to pay by some other means or forfeit your bid." The Suit looked meaningfully at Kris and said, "I do not need... other means." Kris stared right back at the man, keeping his own annoyance in check. "Sir," he said, "under the laws of the state of Texas and as the employee of this auction house I am declaring your bids null and void. I must ask that you leave the premises at once." He glanced and nodded at Butch, whose right hand eased around the grip of the .357 just out of sight from the auction crowd. The Suit followed the glance, interpreted the stance of the auctioneer, and said in a tight voice, "You will regret this." Turning on his heels, he walked out the door, each movement screaming rage. Kris let out his breath slowly, took a pair of scissors and snipped the credit card in half, and tossed it on the desk. To the girl, he said, "Leave that for Butch. He'll want to see that." Nodding again to Butch, he watched as Butch gently released the gun, then stood up and called the next lot. "Lot twenty-nine, Kris can you give Roy a hand with that?" Lot Twenty-Nine was a huge sofa. Oh my aching back. The hours passed, the cigarette smoke drifted, more customers paid out their bids and left, and finally, Butch opened up the final phase of the sale, the Garage Sale; for a minimum bid of five dollars, anyone could put anything in the house up on the block. The dozen or so remaining customers milled around, looking through the junk a final time. Kris said in a loud voice, "Sir, Lot Four from the Clearance Sale is open." Butch knew this as well as Kris did, but he said, "We ran that before." Kris replied, "The buyer backed out, sir." Butch looked out at the crowd. Most of them were noncommittal; a couple looked piquedly at him for having withheld that information until now. "All right, the trailer with the junk on it is back up for bids. You take the bid, you take the junk. Do I hear fifty dollars?" Three hands jumped up, and a more modest bidding followed. Three minutes and one hundred twelve dollars, fifty cents later, Mr. Kris Overstreet owned a do-it- yourself Y-wing fighter. 2) There is no machine so simple that some fool somewhere won't be dumb enough to screw it up. --- Aristotle The next morning, Kris carried his suitcase into the dining room of the old trailer house his family called home, where Butch was talking on the phone. "Uh-huh... uh-huh... well, I'm sorry, but your man threatened our help and was asked him to leave the premises. Uh-huh... well, you're welcome to try. You were the ones who gave us the bad card. Oh? Oh. Well, good. I'm glad we got that straightened out. Good-bye." Click. "Mornin', Dad," Kris said. "Who was that?" "That," Butch said, walking through the tiny kitchen into the den, "was a gentleman calling from GENOM. Apparently he was unhappy with our handling of their agent's bids last night." Seating himself in his recliner, Butch looked straight at Kris, who sat in a metal chair by a small dining table. "Why did you and him want that junk, anyway?" Kris looked at his father and said, "I think it's a spaceship, Dad." Once Kris had gotten home the previous night, he'd dug through the mass of books he'd kept in storage while he worked in San Antonio to find the West End Games Star Wars RPG rulebook. In addition, he'd forwarded Butch's bootleg copy of STAR WARS to the first Death Star Trench Run. Pushing play, he pointed out the similarities and explained what he'd seen. "So George Lucas built it," Butch replied. "Big deal." "That's just it, he didn't," Kris replied. "Not only does the lettering not match up with what Lucas used in the movies, but there's just too much guts in there for it to be a mock-up. It's the real thing, Dad... and George Lucas didn't make it." "So, if you're right, what are you going to do with it?" Butch asked. "Today, nothing, I gotta get the van back. Tomorrow, I'll catch up on everything I can at work, and declare an extended holiday," Kris said. "Day after tomorrow, me and all the stuff I need for the next con will be coming back here. That gives me two weeks to get that thing flying." Butch looked skeptically at his son. "Kris, assuming what you say is right, how do you plan on fixin' an alien fighter?" Kris pointed to the little bump on the diagram in the book which represented the 'droid. "With a little help from him." Three days later, and over Joeming Dunn's loud objections, Kris was back in the deep woods of Southeast Texas, spreading out the pieces of starfighter into what roughly corresponded to the proper positions. Lumber, nails and sweat resulted in a makeshift scaffold in the clearing behind the Overstreet compound which could hold the ship in place, balanced on the intact landing struts. A little more sweat positioned a drill, several wrenches and pliers, an acetylene torch, and three portable gas-powered electric generators around the work site. One more bit of sweat dislodged the 'droid from its socket and placed it on the scaffold beside it. Now, Kris thought, to tackle Problem Number One. In the dim evening light, he pointed out to Butch a large patch on the 'droid's chassis, which had four irregularly placed slots in it. "That, if I remember the movie right, is the power intake socket," Kris said. "We have to figure out a way to get power into the robot without frying it in the process." Examining the chassis closely, Butch saw six regularly spaced screws around the plug. The screwheads were hexagonal stars, alien to anyone who never had to remove a dashboard from a Chevrolet vehicle before. "Why don't we try pulling the socket out and hooking the wires up to a battery charger?" he asked. "We'll plug the charger into one of the generators and see what happens." With an electric screwdriver and a flashlight, the task was soon completed, and soon four wires were stripped of a section of insulation. Two wires were hooked up to two battery clips, which extended back to a small automobile battery charger. It in turn was connected to a Honda 550-volt generator, chugging merrily away. Butch held each clip in a gloved hand, while Kris watched the charging meter. "Okay, I'm switching the charger on... now." Click. "Anything happen?" Butch asked. "No, nothin'. Try another wire." Clip. Clip. "Now?" "Uh... no, nothin'. One more time..." Clip. ClipZAP! Suddenly, the gauge on the charger kicked over from 0 to past the 18 mark, and the motor on the generator dropped its tone several notes, and began to labor noticeably. A spark jumped off the charger and caught Kris's hand. He jerked back quickly and watched as sparks danced over the charger's metal frame. "JESUS! CHRIST! ALMIGHTY!" Kris said. Looking at the generator and the charger, Butch said, "I think one of us had better stay up tonight, to make sure this sumbitch doesn't explode." Kris nodded, and watched as tiny sparks jumped all over the battery charger, as it conveyed multiples of its maximum energy capacity into the fuel cells of the 'droid. A couple of hours later. lights shone faintly from the twin optic sensors on the 'droid's body, as well as from a couple of tiny status lights on its barrel chest. Most of the status lights were still dark, however, and the robot's first feeble beeps and boops conveyed no confidence to either Kris or Butch. "BeepbeepBEEEP boop beeb beep Beep razz..." the robot said as Kris and Butch looked at it with the flashlight. "As far as I can tell, we've recharged its computer and related functions. The other two wires must supply power to a separate power unit for movement and stuff like that," Kris said. "Seems kinda silly, buildin' two power supplies for one robot," Butch replied. What the robot was trying to say, meanwhile, translated roughly like... Come on, get a clue! Lay off the backup batteries! Hurry up and recharge my main power cell so I can greet my master! Unfortunately, it had no idea who its master was supposed to be, or what; it knew about humans, Salusians, Zardons, Kilrathi, and a few less important races, but it couldn't remember which side he belonged to at the moment. For that matter, he didn't know why those races he did know were important- they just kind of WERE. Oh, well. As soon as these primitive tech finished recharging him, he could repair himself and see to his master's wishes. Meanwhile, he'd try to learn the language these two were mangling in front of him. "Okay, Kris, I'm ready... " "Okay... NOW!" Kris switched off the charge switch on the battery charger, and Butch quickly exchanged the wires connected to the clips. When the new wires were secured, he said, "I'm clear!" and stepped away. Kris quickly hit the switch and stepped off the platform. R5-SK felt a tiny trickle of power running into his primary power unit. Performing some self-diagnostics, he discovered the unorthodox recharging system the techs had hooked into his innards. Slowly, slowly, his head turned, as sparks flew again from the battery charger. The charger. That was the problem. R5-SK could see that most of the power he needed was stopping at the power converter. He examined the power flow and decided that he could make use of the main, alternating-polarity supply, and with a POP! of an auxiliary hatch, he ejected a specialized cable for the task. I wonder when I got that? he thought. Kris and Butch, meanwhile, watched the droid slowly rotate its head. "It's alive! It's alive!" Kris shouted, and he held out his palm to Butch, who blatantly failed to slap it. "Big deal. We got a Lucasfilm toy to work. Probably that's all it does right there," he said instead. "Look, Dad, that was never built by George Lucas, all right? As a matter of fact-" Kris was interrupted by a soft POP! from the robot, and he turned to see a short cable drop over the side of the platform. Butch had the flashlight on it in an instant; except for its maroon color, the end looked just like a plug for a standard 120-volt, three-prong wall socket. Moving carefully around the battery charger, Kris reached down and grasped the power cord, and carefully stretched it to the extension cord which connected the portable generator to the battery charger. Two other three- prong outlets were still open on the extension; Kris slowly pushed the 'droid's plug into one socket. The gauge on the battery charger flickered, and the generator's engine sputtered and stalled for an instant; then, the engine resumed its labored roar, and the sparks subsided from the battery charger. Slowly, the gauge dropped from 18 to 0 again, as the droid switched over to recharging from the AC current. That, the 'droid beeped to itself, was more like it. Now he might be recharged by morning, as opposed to next week sometime. "What did you call it, Kris?" Butch asked as the battery charger went dead. "According to the movie, it's an R-5 astromech droid. Sort of a cheap version of R2-D2. I think I'll name it Sparky for now." "Sparky?" "Have you got a better name?" In the dark, using his infrared optics, the 'droid spotted the two techs talking quietly to themselves. R5-SK gave up on trying to match their language to his database; in fact, the only language in his current memory logs was that of his mechanoid type. Must be a few fried chips in there from the jury-rigged charging system those techs had attempted. Oh well. He felt sure that, if he could just access another computer, he could restore the lost data in his system, but for now he'd just have to wing it. Improvisation, after all, was the hallmark of the R-series starship repair droid series. (How did he remember that?) 3) "Now, y'see, the gas goes in here, the plug makes a spark, and the whole thing spins around and makes the car go." --- Henry Ford R5-SK's rehabilitation was not going well. In the hopes that the droid could be as adaptable in information usage as it had been in power usage, Kris had attempted to feed several different media into the small input slot on the droid's chest. The droid rejected each and every item; he wanted data solids, not those stupid plastic and rubber floppy and laser disks the tech tried to stuff down him! After that project failed, Kris took the robot back to the Y-wing. The robot looked at the welding-torch cuts with dismay; this fighter was in a bad way. Examining the decades- old welding rods proffered with acute distaste, the robot finally decided to cannibalize the obviously useless navigation baffles at the rear of the engine pylons. When the tech tried to indicate by gestures that maybe that wasn't such a good idea, the 'droid angrily beeped that if he was only going to offer substandard tools and supplies, maybe he should move out of the way and let someone who knew what the hell he was doing handle things. Kris shrugged, demonstrated to the 'droid how to refill the gas tank on the portable generators, and drove to Silsbee to pick up some new supplies. That night, after cleaning the 'droid as well as he could, he brought it into the old house. The Overstreets- at least Kris's grandparents- had started out in an old squatter's shack rebuilt as a honeymoon cabin. After the elder Overstreets had retired, back in '77, they'd brought their trailer house onto an adjoining site to the old house and its garage and began adding on to the trailer. Now, thanks to a modification his father had made three years previously, the old house had an extra room on its front and a set of double-doors. Butch used it as part of his storage space for the auction company. Inside, Kris set up a small entertainment system, a television and VCR, and had stacked up two seasons' worth of SESAME STREET, the entire HOOKED ON PHONICS course, and certain other educational tapes. In addition, he had picked up three different dictionaries; the YOUNG PICTURE DICTIONARY, the Webster's Abridged, and the OXFORD COLLEGIATE abridged version. Kris showed the droid a power socket, how to operate the VCR, how to look through the books, and then indicated to the droid that he had better spend the night looking through the materials provided. Or else. The droid substituted its own infrared emitter for the remote controls provided, but otherwise did exactly as the tech had specified. Sesame Street was annoying in some parts; a little experimentation with Hooked on Phonics allowed the 'droid to match sounds with symbols, even if it didn't understand either. The Picture Dictionary gave him symbols to match with pictures, and each picture had the word it represented beneath it. In some cases, it used big pictures with words spaced at random across the page, to show sky, grass, dirt, children, and a kite. This allowed the robot to conquer nouns and action verbs fairly easily. By morning, the 'droid understood a little English, but thanks to his vocoder, he couldn't actually say anything in the language. Time, he mused, to link up with the computer on the starfighter. The 'droid had hooked the starfighter up to all the generators as soon as it had made sure there were no short circuits in the remaining components. Now, although the pylons weren't completely reconnected to the main hull, the hull breach was fixed and the on-board computer had recharged to a point where interface was again possible. With this thought firmly in its CPU, the 'droid rolled from the old house over to the starfighter and began beeping noisily. Meanwhile, in the main house's den, Kris was downing the edible portions of his grandmother's cooking for the morning. The lady herself, a small woman named Birdie Mae, walked in and said to Kris, "Your play-pretty's cuttin' up back there, honey." Faint metallic banging noises confirmed the statement. Grumbling to himself, Kris slapped together a sandwich filled with runny scrambled eggs, charcoaled bacon, and a little mustard to make the thing palatable, and ran out to the starfighter with the sandwich in one hand and a glass of Dr. Pepper in the other, eating as he went. R5-SK heard the tech coming and turned to face him. Bumping the hull of the fighter gently, it beeped plaintively and alternated its facing between the tech and the starfighter. Get me up to the socket, dammit, the robot beeped. Get me up in there! Looking at the robot, Kris pointed to the socket on the starfighter. "You want in there?" he said. On the receiving end of the robot's audioreceptors, his vocabulator unit translated this to, "You grunt in grunt?" You... in. The tech had the right idea. "Beep beep beep BEEEP beep!" the droid replied. Terrific, Kris thought. This hadda happen when Dad was working at the shipyards. Bending his knees around the 'droid, he took a handhold at the base of the robot and HEAVED. Damn. The droid was too heavy for him to lift by himself. Looking around, Kris spotted a thick plank left over from the scaffold. Laying it up against the starfighter, he gestured to the robot. "Go up the plank," he said as clearly as he could. Go... up... the... grunt. That last sound spells out P-L-A-N-Q or P-L-A-N-C or P-L-A-N-K. Well, whatever, he wants me to go up that board. Looking at the tech for confirmation, the droid slowly but surely rolled up the wooden ramp and on top of the fighter. Hitting a small panel with its roller, it recalled the socket's elevator to surface level. Rolling over to cover the elevator pad, he issued a silent command, and the droid retracted into the starfighter. Status checks... okay, linkup complete.... my my my, there sure is a lot of information stored here. Lessee... oh, I was ordered to self-destruct this ship. Well, obviously that hadn't gone well enough- the systems reports showed that the only things needed to finish repairs were new baffles and steering vents and more power for the power cells. And, of course, the remaining structural repairs to the pylons. Should I re-attempt the self-destruct? No, I don't think so. Not after I went to so much to repair this thing. The cockpit of the fighter hissed open. Inside, the pilot's seat had a thin coating of pond slime on it, but otherwise everything was in good shape. The on-board electronics were fully functional... oh look, a language data base, I'd better download that and see what I can do. Meanwhile, Kris was looking into the open cockpit, as various panels and lights came on. The robot beeped, and letters flashed onto a screen in the center of the console; more of the same stuff as on the panel labels. Kris shook his head. Maybe it can talk to me now, but I still don't understand it. Then a second row of symbols scrolled past; a series of lines and triangles. "No, not that either," Kris said out loud. A new row appeared; Japanese kana. "Nor that, Sparky, but getting closer." Another row appeared; despite several spelling errors, Kris recognized it as English; HAY! DEW YOU UNNERSTAN MI? Kris nodded. "Yes, I understand you, Sparky." SPARKI- UNIT R5-SK DESIGNATION INQUIRY? "Yes, that's your name. I'm Kris." KRIS DESIGNATE TEKNISIAN? "Tek-nis- oh, technician! Not exactly... I bought you with this ship at an auction." AWKSHUN-- DEFINE "An auction is where people compete with each other to purchase goods by pledging progressively higher amounts of money for their purchase." MYRMIDON DESIGNATE STAR FITER SALVAGE AT AWKSHUN? "Sort of, yes... you call this thing a Myrmidon? Add Y-wing as an alternative name." ALTERNATE DESIGNATE STAR FITER WHY-WING NOTED. "No, 'Y' wing. The letter 'Y'. " CORRESHUN: Y-WING STAR FITER. "Close enough. Okay, Sparky, let's get to work on this puppy. And tonight you're going back to those books." Kris turned to the generators and began refilling their gas tanks. Looks like there might be something worthwhile to this after all, Kris thought. 4) "Improvisation is the cornerstone of a successful operation." --- Robert E. Lee Two days later, almost everything that could be fixed had been. Miraculously, the ion-cannons and lasers all worked, at least well enough to start a couple of fires which Butch quickly put out. The power cells still needed more power for flight, but a test of the main engines proved that when the time came, they would prove serviceable. Sparky managed to salvage a spare datapad from the ship's emergency supplies, so Kris or Butch could understand Sparky's beeps and whistles. As the two would-be starship repairmen went into the main house for the night- despite Sparky's repeated attempts he simply could not fit through the front door-, Kris and Butch sat down and began discussing what should be done with the new ship. "According to Sparky, there's lots of people up there," Kris said. "Not that that surprises me. What kills me is the series of coincidences which seem to keep building from this one ship." "You mean besides the direct reference to Star Wars?" Butch asked. "Exactly," Kris said. "According to Sparky, the ship was produced by Koensayr. That's the same company given credit for it in the game books. However, Koensayr is supposedly a firm from the planet Zardon." "I don't get it," Butch said. "What's that refer to?" Kris took a deep breath. "You know that book I've been writing for? NINJA HIGH SCHOOL?" Butch nodded, although he didn't know much about it. His tastes ran more towards Heinlein than Jackie Chan. "Among the alien races in it is this one group- a real nasty bunch of guys- called the Zardons." Looking at the datapad, currently blank, he continued, "After that, I kinda got scared to ask any more questions." Butch shifted in his easy chair. "I figger you better ask as many questions as you can, Kris. If you're gonna fly that thing, you'll need to know what you're getting into." Kris looked oddly at him. "What makes you think I'm gonna just fly off into space?" "It's a spaceship. If you try to keep in here, the government'd just confiscate it, maybe shut you up permanently too. Besides," Butch asked, "I get the feeling that those GENOM people won't take too long to figure out just where that beast is." "I suppose you're right," Kris said. "Anyway, tomorrow I gotta go to the salvage yards in Silsbee and get some composite-steel of some kind, so Sparky can finish up replacing the baffles." "I'll try to get off work early tomorrow, Kris," Butch said, "and we'll see if she flies then." "If what flies?" Birdie Mae had snuck into the kitchen, as she did on an hourly basis, eavesdropping. "The spaceship, Momma, the thing Kris bought at the auction last week!" Butch snapped. Somehow or other, Birdie Mae pushed every one of his buttons, and lately between his worrying about Kris and his exhaustion from shipyard work, auctioneering, and helping with the Y-Wing, his nerves were completely shot. "Oh, well I'd like to see that," Birdie Mae said. "Tell me, how far does it go, Kris?" Kris was annoyed- he'd tried to explain to his grandmother before- but he had more practice in controlling his temper. "It's an alien spaceship, Mam-maw. It came from another planet, and I expect it can go back there, too." "Well, if you go off to another planet, you call me, alright honey?" Somehow the major problems were always obscured by the minor concerns in Birdie Mae's vision. "Don't do like you do off in San 'Tonio, never call nobody, let 'em know how you're doin' or nothin'." Before Butch could follow through with his habitual defense of Kris, Kris said, "I promise I'll call as often as I can, Mam-maw." "Well, that's good, honey." Birdie Mae said, and went back to the main living room to watch the Matlock movie. For a moment, Butch and Kris stared at each other. Finally, Kris said, "What on earth were we talking about?" GENOM Buma SCO-35 Covert Operations Specialist sat motionless in the woods, surveying the Overstreet compound. Old house, garage-slash-barn, tool shed, pump shed, and main house sat in the shadows of the light on the electric post. One by one, the lights went off, except for one which remained on in the back of the house. The bald one had decided not to bother with sleep tonight. So much the better. The Buma could be patient- had to be patient; it was utterly vital that its existence not be known, not when all the Buma had been presumed destroyed in Neo-Worcester. Soon, soon, an opportunity would open, and the Buma would be able to retrieve the starfighter it had been unable to acquire in the auction. Until then, patience and silence was the watchword. A bobcat walked up to the motionless replicant and marked its territory on it. A few seconds later, a threatened species moved one notch closer to the endangered list, in a blur of blood, fur, and blue metalloid skin. Patience... and what I seek will come to me. Kris managed to dicker the price down at the scrap- metal yard to a point where one hundred dollars could bring home enough metal of close enough quality to substitute for the alloys formerly in the Y-wing's baffles. With a loaded pay-bed, he turned the small farm truck back northwestward, and began toying with the idea of buzzing Area 51 in his new ride. An hour later, he pulled up to see water spraying and smoke billowing from behind the house. Sparky and Vernon Bearss- Birdie's new husband, since A. B. Overstreet had died years earlier- were both trying to put out flames spreading through the dry underbrush of the woods surrounding the Overstreet house. Kris noticed that the Y-wing had been moved; the scaffolding was shattered, all three of the portable generators had been disconnected from the ship, and the ship itself had turned to point towards a patch of the woods which had formerly been thick with brambles and grass, and now was thick with flame. Kris retrieved the fire extinguisher from the old house, used up its tiny supply of retardant foam on the rear side of the fire, then grabbed a bucket from the garage and began madly toting water, dumping it in advance of the fire, making a firebreak to keep it from spreading. Meanwhile, Vernon and Sparky kept up their work, and in a few minutes the flames were contained and extinguished. Gasping for breath, sweating from the heat of the fire, Kris looked at Vernon. "What happened?" he asked. "Your grandmother and I heard a loud noise, sorta like a transformer blowin' out. When I came back here, your ship was hoverin' over the fire, and your robot was makin' loud beepin' noises, louder'n he usually does." "Did you call the fire de-" Kris thought fast; the local volunteer fire department would contact the sheriff's department, who would find the ship, and- "No, or at least I told Birdie not to," Vernon said. "I figgered the last thing we needed was public attention, especially with so small a fire." "Thanks, Vernon," Kris said. Stepping carefully among the charred brush, he saw half-buried in ashes a glint of blue metal. Removing his shirt, he wrapped it around his hands and brushed away the ash, and he picked up the first handy piece he could. It was a robotic skull, with evil-looking red eyes, and a small legend on the forehead; GENOM. GENOM wasn't a sick joke anymore. That night, a small blue Geo Prism pulled up into the Overstreet drive. Cheryl Sharp had been divorced from Butch for fifteen years, and she could barely stand to be around his mother, but when her son had asked her to come as fast as she could, she did, no questions asked. Yet. The back door opened, and Kris emerged. He was wearing a hastily-repaired set of camouflage hunting coveralls, an old pair of work boots, and a worried expression. Christ, Cheryl thought, he ought to be sweltering in that. "Hi, son," she said. "Glad to see you again." "Me too, Mom," Kris said, obviously preoccupied. "I guess you're wondering why I asked you to come out here." "Well, the thought HAD crossed my mind..." Cheryl had a rich sense of sarcasm. Kris turned to the door; Cheryl noticed a Confederate battle-flag patch on his left shoulder. "DAD!" he shouted. "Can you meet us out back by the ship?" "Just a second," a voice replied from inside; Butch was searching for his sandals. As Kris gestured for his mother to follow, Cheryl looked curiously at him. "Kris, you haven't joined one of those militia groups, have you?" Kris chuckled. "You mean the patch," he said. "You'll see the explanation in just a moment." Kris led the way to the rear gate behind the garage; he waited until Cheryl had secured the gate behind her, then said, "Hit it, Sparky!" The navigational lights and landing lamps on the Y-Wing flared into life. The scoring had been mostly cleaned away, and on either side of the cockpit ,the code CSF-01-001 and a Confederate battle flag stood boldly on the metal.. Cheryl looked at the spaceship, astounded. From the back, Sparky whistled cheerfully; Kris decided it meant, "all set." Butch closed the gate behind him in turn. "Hi, Cheryl," he said. "Like Kris' new car?" Cheryl stared, amazed, at it; after a moment, she said, "What is it?" Kris looked at her and said, "It's a spaceship, Mom. I asked you to come here so I could say goodbye." Cheryl stared at Kris. "Goodbye? You mean, for good? Why?" Butch answered, "Cheryl, there's people who want that thing, want it bad. " Kris interjected, "What's more, some of 'em ain't people. They's worse. I figure they'll keep coming, until either they get it or I get out of their reach. I'm gonna find the people who built this thing, somewhere up there," and he pointed to the stars overhead, " and ask 'em a few questions." Cheryl knew what the answer to her next question was; "When will you be back?" Kris tried, and failed to keep his voice from breaking; "I don't know." I don't know IF I'm coming back, much less when. Butch asked, "Have you got everything you need, Kris?" "Sort of," Kris replied. The minimal luggage space in the ship precluded his returning to San Antonio and loading up his computer, keyboard, camcorder, or anything else. He had packed several changes of clothes, mostly warm-weather. Also, he'd packed his entire NHS collection and every book he had with STAR WARS in the title. That, his father's .357, several clips' worth of ammo for same, several cans of food and tools for getting at it, and a few other odds and ends, would have to do. Cheryl was at a loss for words. "Will you write?" Kris said, "I'll try." Hugging his mother, and then his father, he said his goodbyes. Butch would take his next day off to return the Antarctic Press stock to San Antonio and arrange to have his things returned to Segno. Cheryl would let most of the rest of Kris' family know where he had gone. As Kris turned to board the Y-wing, the gate slammed open. A small, blond-headed figure ran up to Cheryl. "Momma!" J. B. said, "it's a spaceship!" "Yes, dear," Cheryl said, trying to keep calm, "that's your brother's spaceship. Say goodbye to your brother, hon." J. B. ran up to Kris, who had stopped well short of the ship. J. B. said, "That's YOUR spaceship, Kris?" Kris looked at J. B. Eight years old. For the past four, Kris had seen almost nothing of his little half- brother. Now, this might be... Will you quit thinking that? he told himself. "Yes," Kris said. "It sure is." "Can I have a ride in it?" J. B. asked. "I'm afraid not, J. B.," Kris said. "I'm about to go. I want you to take good care of your momma, you hear?" Lord don't let my voice break again... "Yeah," J. B. said, unconcerned. "You gonna come visit?" Kris hugged J. B. and said, "As soon as I can." Releasing J. B., he said, "Now get on back there with Momma. I don't want you to get hurt, okay?" "Okay," J. B. said, obviously disappointed. He turned and managed to run piquedly to Cheryl, who was kneeling by Butch. Kris watched as she turned him towards the ship to watch. Great. I talk bad about Marvel about their angsting, and here I am going ninety-to-nothing with the heartstrings. "Start the engines up, Sparky," he said, and mounted the boarding ramp. As the cockpit opened, the twin engines began whining as power from the ship's cells began driving the ion-pulses which would power the ship in open space. As the cockpit closed, Kris saw J. B. waving to him. Kris waved back, blinked the tears away and activated the landing thrusters. Slowly, the ship rose off the ground, landing struts retracting, nose turning in alignment with the Earth's equator. Then, the ion engines lit brightly, and the ship sped off into the night. The wind died down, and the shadows returned to the clearing in the woods. On the ground, J. B. looked at his mother. "Can we go ride in a spaceship like Kris, Momma?" Cheryl managed to compose herself. "No, sweetheart," she said. "I don't think I wanna go." You take care of yourself, son. I love you... 5) Take a stick to a fistfight. Take a knife to a stickfight. Take a gun to a knifefight. Stay out of a gunfight. ---Kris Overstreet's First Law of Tactics A corporal watching the radar displays at Fort Polk, Louisiana was surprised to see a contact appear over East Texas, moving in excess of Mach One. "Chief, get a look at this," he waved to his superior. "What do you think it is?" As the chief and corporal watched, the radar blip went past Mach Two, then Mach Three, and was making a run at Mach Four before it left radar range heading eastward. "I think I've been drinking too much coffee," the chief said meaningfully, "and so have you." The Y-Wing sped up and away from Earth. Kris relaxed slightly once the last hint of turbulence died away, and asked, "Okay, Sparky, where can we take this thing?" Sparky displayed a depressingly small list of planets within the range of the fighter's hyperdrive. Most of them were unclaimed planets, with several Salusian and a couple of Zardon worlds within range. Kris looked at one, a Salusian outpost world marked as having a shipyard. "Set a course for... ah... Ammuuz," he said, squinting at the tiny name. A line of script crossed the screen; HYPERSPACE PLOT COMPLETED. ETA: FOUR EARTH DAYS. "Four days? Why's that?" Kris asked. FACTORS INCLUDE REDUCED HYPERDRIVE EFFICIENCY, POOR CHARTING OF THIS SECTOR, LOW POWER RESERVES. Oh, well. Four days it was. "Engage hyperdrive," Kris said. Kris then discovered another coincidence related to George Lucas. He'd had the hyperspace effect exactly right. Four days later, not-light was still pouring through the cockpit window, and Kris's remaining choices of rations- peas, ravioli, or tuna, all canned and cold- turned his stomach. Next time, he thought, I pack sandwiches. Kris had spent the past four days boning up as much as he could on the controls of the Myrmidon Y-wing starfighter, as converted for the LongProbe adaptation. He'd even flown simulations using the viewscreen instead of the cockpit view, and he was getting the hang of the multiple controls. He could now adjust power levels on the fly, balance shields, target specific points on an enemy ship, all without Sparky's aid. He'd also learned some interesting things to do with the maneuvering thrusters. In combat, Sparky would be doing a lot of these things automatically, but in Kris' mind that wasn't an excuse to be slack. HYPERSPACE EXIT IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, BOSS. "Great," he said. "Okay, quiz me again on navigational controls." After some extra practice with the individual controls of the eight maneuvering thrusters spaced around the ship, Kris settled back and awaited the exit of the starfighter from hyperspace. A minute later, the engines gave a soft whine, the not-light reverted to stars, and Kris grabbed the joystick and pulled hard up and starboard. Lurching stiffly, the starfighter barely missed a large hunk of scrap metal floating directly in front of it. Kris's battle displays lit up, in a panoply of blue and purple; the computer's colors for neutral or indeterminate allegiance. Through the canopy, he could see specks of light dancing about, spitting laser fire or occasionally some sort of missle. In the far distance, Kris could see what had to be the biggest ship he had EVER seen in his life, sea, air or space; much closer, he saw a smaller, but still impressively large, ship. He couldn't make out the distant ship, but the lines of the closer ship were familiar. He targeted it; the IFF identified it as a Kilrathi pocket carrier. Terrific. More references. Kris began powering up his lasers and shields. Checking his threat readout, he noted that two blue (Kilrathi) fighters and one purple (unknown) fighter were approaching his position. All three were targeting his ship. Kris hit all-call on his communications rig and said, "Ah.. this is Confederate Air Force fighter Rebel-One, repeat Rebel-One requesting assistance. Any Earth-friendly ships respond please. Over." Static filled the speakers for a second, then the channel selector focused on one waveband. "Unidentified craft, this is Eight-Ball Two, Wedge Defense Force. Please repeat your identification." The voice sounded utterly cool and confident, and had no more than the faintest trace of accent. "Repeat, this is Confederate Air Force, Rebel-One, over," Kris said into the speaker. "Rebel-One, please tune to WDF command channel 8, and wait for orders from the airboss, acknowledge." "Message received, now how about those other fighters? Over." A pause, then, "I've got company of my own, Rebel One. Tune to command channel 8 and await further orders. Over and out." Teriffic. Kris pulled the visor down on his motorcycle helmet and said, "Sparky, patch me into WDF Command Channel Eight, okay?" The speakers began emitting various chatter.. "I got him! He's mine! DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!" "Terror, I could use some help here." "Haywire, dammit, watch your six!" A new, laconic voice cut through the rest: "Like, Eight Ball I read like eight new fighters coming off that carrier. Like Dralthi class." Kris cut into the chatter: "Uh, WDF airboss, this is Confederate Air Force Rebel One requesting assistance..." A couple of laser bolts flew past his canopy, and Kris began jinking furiously. "Right now would be nice, over." "Rebel-One like which Confederation are you from?" the voice asked dubiously. Rolling his eyes and eyeing his shield levels, Kris replied, "The Confederate States of America, over." "Like are you sure you're a friendly?" the voice replied. "Like didn't you lose the war?" Damn Yankee, Kris thought as he was jolted by a bolt glancing off his starboard shields. "Yes to both questions, airboss, now could somebody get these fuzzballs off my ass?" "Like can you hold on for a few minutes? Like help is on the way, Rebel-One." "Thanks heaps, airboss," Kris grumbled. "Like call me q, man," the voice replied. Kris stopped for a second, and caught a blast on his rear shields. "Q??" he said. "No, like just q." Whatever. Hold on for a few minutes, he said... well, I'll do better than that, Kris thought. Setting his throttle to zero, Kris dipped his nose down and watched the two disc-shaped Kilrathi fighters fly past him. Resetting his throttle to maximum, Kris armed his lasers and chased after the fighter on the left. "Blast me, will you?" he growled, and opened up with both guns fire- linked. BLAP! BLAP! BLAP! BLAP- BOOM! The fighter's engines exploded and scattered metal fragments across the space in front of him. "ALL RIGHT!" Kris yelled, and pulled his ship into an Immelmaun. "Sparky, flag all Kilrathi as threat and all WDF as allies. Then target me the nearest threat, 'kay?" YOU GOT IT, BOSS scrolled on the readout screen. All the blue blips turned red on Kris' tactical screen, and all the purple blips turned green. One red blip bracketed itself in white, and the targeting readout listed it as a Kilrathi Dralthi, roughly .6 klicks distant and closing. Kris swiveled the Y-wing around to meet the threat, channeled some power from his lasers to the shields, and switched to ion cannons. The Kilrathi presented an almost bullseye circular target, and Kris hit it with six ion blasts. The Kilrathi's hull crackled with electric discharge, and its engines spluttered and died. "Great! That's that!" Kris said, and then into the radio, "Airboss, this is Rebel One, cancel assistance. One kitty fragged and another ready for pickup." "Like acknowledged, Rebel One," q said. "Good job. Like can you give some help to Daver in Eight-Ball Two? Like he's got four bandits on him." "Roger wilco, q," Kris said. "Sparky, highlight Eight-Ball Two and target the nearest guy attacking him." The targeting computer lit up a Kilrathi fighter about two clicks away. Kris circled around to intercept, considered a torpedo, then selected his lasers. Distance at 1.8... 1.75... 1.7... yes! 1.5! Guns guns guns... BLAP BLAP BLAP! Three bolts hit the Kilrathi, and it wheeled downward to evade. Kris manually targeted a second one, fired a few shots at it. "How y'all doing, Eight-Ball Two?" "Better, Rebel One," Daver replied. "I should be able to handle it now. Thanks." "No sweat, Eight-Ball Two," Kris replied. BLAM! BLAM! Shaken, Kris checked his boards. The Kilrathi he'd shooed away first was on his six at damn close range. BLAM! BLAM! Time to get cute. Kris balanced out his shields, killed power to the main engines, and hit the switches on his maneuvering thrusters in a sequence he'd memorized on the way in. Still coasting forward, the Y-Wing flipped over end over end and stabilized, flying backwards with the cockpit facing dead at the Kilrathi not fifty meters behind him. The Kilrathi, puzzled, stopped firing. That was his last mistake before being fried in laser bolts. BOOM. Balancing his shields again and re-energizing them, Kris managed to flip the Y-wing back to its correct orientation and reengaged the engines. Checking his tactical screens, he saw that most of the other Kilrathi fighters were being mopped up by the WDF fighters. The rest were heading back to the carrier. Hmm... Kris had a thought. "Sparky, give me a readout on our torpedoes." A few seconds later, the display read: 4 TORPEDOES ACTIVE, 2 NONFUNCTIONAL. "Good enough, I think." Kris said. Into the comm, he said, "q, Rebel One requests permission bombing run on enemy carrier." "Like no way Rebel One, we have a man on it. Like permission denied." Kris thought for a second, then said, "Sorry, q, I didn't copy that last, I've got a short in my-," and switched off the radio. "Sparky, lock me on the engines of that carrier." YOU GOT IT BOSS. The targeting computer highlighted the engine exhaust ports of the Kilrathi carrier at 1.8 clicks, and the torpedoes locked onto target. UH... BOSS? INCOMING MESSAGE FROM THUNDERGOD ONE, Sparky scrolled on the screen. "Not now," Kris said, and fired two of his four working torpedoes at the engines. BOSS? YOU REALLY OUGHT TO HEAR THIS... "Not NOW," Kris said, and fired the other two torpedoes. As he did so, laser blasts flashed across his nose. "Damn fuzzballs," Kris said, and began Weaving. Switching to lasers, he dumped firepower into the shields of the carrier. As the torpedoes hit, and the carrier's shields flared and died, Kris noticed something in the corner of his sight veer off and away, and the laser bolts stopped. BOSS! the readout scrolled and beeped. PULL UP! NOW! PLEASE!! "All right, all right," Kris said, and pulled up and away from the carrier. "Now what was all that-" BA- DA- DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!! Kris shook off the stun and checked his readouts. Half of them were dead, the other half were not in the best of health. "Sparky, are we all right?" STATUS: DAMAGED. SHIELD SYSTEMS INOPERABLE. ENGINES AT 45% EFFICIENCY. HULL INTEGRITY OKAY. "Great," Kris said. "Okay, set a course for-" hissssssssssssssss... UH, HULL INTEGRITY NOT SO OKAY, BOSS. Oh SHIT. There was a small hairline crack in the canopy. As he watched, the crack grew slightly larger. Hitting the allcall again, he said, "This is Rebel One, Rebel One squawking mayday, I have a hull leak and am losing cabin pressure. Turning control over to astromech unit, will require medical assistance. Out." "Like no shit, Sherlock," q replied before Kris cut the radio off. Reaching behind the seat, Kris grabbed a shirt from his duffel bag and wrapped it around the vents in the helmet. He then pulled his collar up as high as he could, put his hands in his pockets, and huddled down into his seat. "Sparky, get me to their ship," he said. GOT IT. HANG IN THERE, BOSS... Kris sat still and breathed shallowly. After a moment, he began breathing heavier. A few minutes later, he couldn't breathe at all, and he closed his eyes quickly. A brief burst of P*A*I*N flooded his lungs, and then..... ... nothing. 6) I expected this but not quite yet. -- Anonymous tombstone Kris opened his eyes. Looking around him, he saw... well, what he saw definitely wasn't his fighter, or any ship at all, unless he was on some sort of Holodeck. The dim light revealed a wide, flat, featureless plain, extending to all horizons without interruption. The sky actually appeared to be darker than the ground, and light seemed to emanate from the horizon. "Let's see," Kris said to himself, "I was in a starfighter, with cabin pressure dropping to vacuum, and now I'm walking around-" Kris looked to check, and indeed he was standing and pacing, "-walking around in a place which can't exist by any natural laws I know. This must be the afterlife, then." NOT QUITE, ACTUALLY. The voice sent wild shivers up Kris' spine. If a lion grew to the size of an elephant and was given the power of speech, the resulting voice would seem like a sparrow chirp in both pitch and menace in comparison to the one coming from directly over Kris' shoulder. It was a voice carefully calculated to hit the exact center of the "fear" portion of the hypothalamus. Every alarm bell in Kris' head went off, saying, DON'T TURN AROUND. Kris, of course, turned around. HELLO, the seven-foot tall cloaked figure said. I AM YOUR CASE WORKER. YOU MAY CALL ME THE REAPER. "Nice to meet you," Kris said, trying to keep his rampant terror under control. LET'S SEE, the spectre said, as he shifted his scythe to lean in the crook of one arm and looked at a small notepad with the other. KRISTAN OREN OVERSTREET, WRITER, ENTREPRENEUR, AND STARFIGHTER PILOT. SCHEDULED FOR NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE ON MARCH 25, 1996. WILL RECOVER BY MARCH 26. "Excuse me?" Kris said. "I'm not dead?" IF YOU'RE HERE, YOU ARE AT LEAST VERY CLOSE TO DEAD. YOU WILL GO BACK WHEN YOUR BODY CAN SUSTAIN YOU AGAIN. "Oh," Kris said, "I'm just visiting, then." CONSIDER IT A SNEAK PREVIEW. "Oh." A few moments passed, and then the Reaper said, a little nervously, I DON'T USUALLY DO NEAR-DEATHS, YOU KNOW. "Oh, really? Why not?" Kris asked. NOT IN MY JOB DESCRIPTION, the Reaper replied. THEY GIVE ME ALL THE HARD CASES. ONCE IT WAS ALL BEHEADINGS. PLAGUES. LYNCHINGS. INQUISITIONS. THESE DAYS I GET DUMB SHITS LIKE YOU. "Thanks a bundle." Kris grumbled. DO I LIE? Kris thought. Seeing where he was, and how he'd gotten here, it was really tough to argue. "I suppose not," he said. "What exactly happened?" WELL, REMEMBER WHEN q SAID THERE WAS SOMEONE ALREADY TAKING CARE OF THE CARRIER? "Yes." THAT SOMEONE WAS ROBERT MANDEVILLE. YOU BEGAN YOUR RUN RIGHT AFTER HE'D LAUNCHED A DRUM BOMB AT THE CARRIER. "You mean that explosion-" YOU FLEW ROUGHLY THIRTY METERS TO THE PORT SIDE, AND A LITTLE BEHIND, OF A THERMONUCLEAR DEVICE, the Reaper continued. MANDEVILLE TRIED TO WARN YOU OFF, BUT YOU WERE TOO BUSY TO PAY ATTENTION. "Ouch." Kris winced. "Not exactly a good first impression to make, huh?" OPEN ASS, INSERT HEAD, the Reaper said flatly. NO, I WOULDN'T SAY IT'S VERY GOOD. Kris exhaled heavily. "Well, we'll see what happens, huh?" USUALLY. For a few minutes, Kris looked around, and the Reaper stared at Kris. Finally, Kris said, "Is this all there is to do, sit around?" WELL... the Reaper said slowly... I DO KEEP SOME GAMES ON HAND... JUST IN CASE... "Just in case what?" Kris asked. NEVER MIND, NEVER MIND, the Reaper said. ANYWAY... DO YOU KNOW THE ANCIENT CHINESE GAME OF STONES? "If you mean Go, not exactly," Kris said, "but I do know a simpler variation." OH? "It's called Pente. Would you like me to explain the rules?" YES... YES, I WOULD... One moment, Kris was placing the fifth stone in a row for the twenty-third game running, much to the Reaper's annoyance... And the next moment, his eyelids fluttered, and he stared into the brilliant lights of a medical examination room. He was lying on his back on a cot of some sort, stripped to his underwear. The skin on his hands, face, neck and feet itched horrendously. Worst of all, a strange, fruity smell filled his nostrils, and his mouth had a Godawful taste, like a nectarine had been left to rot in it. He smacked his lips irritably. A vaguely youngish-looking man in a lab coat walked over to his table. "Are you awake?" he said. Kris nodded. "Excellent. Welcome aboard the SDF-17 Wayward Son. My name is Edison Bell, and allow me to be the very first to say: that was a really STUPID thing you did out there." Kris rasped, "You aren't... " Swallowing, and grimacing from the sore throat, he said more clearly, "You aren't the first." "Oh?" Edison quirked an eyebrow. "Who was it, then?" "Tall gentleman called the Reaper. Works for Death. You heard of him?" Edison Bell frowned slightly and said, "Yes, I have." As Kris tried to get the awful taste out of his mouth, he continued, "That smell and taste is bacta. You were in a regeneration tank for a week, growing the skin back on your extremities. You are very, very lucky you can walk and talk, young man." Kris shrugged. "I tend to learn lessons the hard way," he said. Edison turned and typed a few numbers into a terminal nearby. "Well, get ready to have that particular lesson drummed into your head, because several people will be down shortly to remind you just how boneheaded that stunt of yours was." Turning back to him, he added, "That's in addition to asking how an Earther got a Zardon fighter, in whatever condition, with a stolen astromech unit." Kris sat up. "Stolen? The R5?" "Well, you didn't think the Zardons built him, did you?" "He didn't say. He lost a lot of his memory before I got hold of him. Anyway, I just kind of assumed..." Kris considered standing up, then considered lying back down. The way he felt at the moment, lying down was the better choice. "I'm hungry. What's to eat on this ship?" Edison looked gravely at Kris. "Vegetable soup, at least for you, until we can make other arrangements and you can hold down solid food. " "Teriffic," Kris grumbled. "Could I have my clothes back, please?" At that moment, the door opened, and four people walked into the room, in various combinations of uniform and civilian clothing. The first one was a young man in full denim uniform, long, tall and big, with a full head of dark- brownish hair. The second man, wearing what was almost a trenchcoat, a fatigue shirt and jeans, seemed almost the opposite, that is, not long and not tall; more like a dark- haired version of the fabled Immovable Object, should it ever decide to move. Together, they almost appeared normal, except... well, except that they just failed to fit Kris' fairly wide definition of 'normal'. The third and fourth people seemed fairly normal; whereas the two males had been basically generic American in design, these two, both female, both in a uniform style radically different than the others, seemed vaguely Asian in their face and body structure, excepting for the brilliant red hair cropped short on one of them. Kris looked at the men, and mentally waved them off as Threat: Minimal at Present. Then, when he saw the ladies... BRRRRRRRRRRRR. WAY bad vibes. The big-and-tall man spoke first. "Hey," he said, in a light northern accent. "Welcome aboard the Wayward Son. I'm MegaZone. I pretty much run things around here. This is-" Kris held up his hand. "'Scuse me..." he said quietly, "but can you answer me a quick question?" Zoner wasn't quite prepared for this, but he recovered quickly. "Sure, go ahead." Kris pointed to the two young ladies and said, "Why am I afraid of those two?" The two ladies exchanged a quick glance which, when translated by experts, means Our Reputation Has Preceded Us Again. Zoner and the gentleman Kris had mentally dubbed The Rock smiled, in a small way, and Zoner said, "Do you recognize them, then?" Kris studied the two women intently for a moment before saying, in a thick accent of his own, "I got no idea who they are... but for a second there, when I first saw them, I was like-about scared outta my mind." Now it was the two men's turn to exchange a glance, this one being, roughly translated, Do You Believe This Shit? No, I Didn't Think So. Then, both glanced at Edison, who had been following all of this with interest. "What's his psi scale?" the shorter man said, in a drawl which Kris tagged immediately as from Maine. Edison shrugged. "Only slightly above normal, when I checked it," he said. "Maybe I should run another test, a Rhine series..." "Anyway," Kris said quietly but firmly to Edison, "who are these lovely people, anyway?" "Well..." Edison said, pointing to The Rock, "this gentleman is Commander Ben Hutchins, he's our first officer and starfighter commander. His callsign is Gryphon. These two ladies... who probably resent your being afraid of them on sight... are Kei Morgan and Yuri Daniels." He indicated the redhead as Kei and the dark-haired lady as Yuri, but Kris had guessed that. "The.... " Kris took a deep breath, and forced the less dangerous phrase out, "The Lovely Angels." Looking from person to person, Kris thought furiously for about three seconds. Y-wings. Kilrathi. The don't-even-think-that-other-name-Lovely Angels. The pieces blatantly failed to fit. Falling back onto the cot, Kris took a deep breath and said, "How about I give you my side first, and then you can make sense out of all this. 'Kay?" Kris then introduced himself and entered into Flashback mode, describing how he'd found and refurbished the starfighter and picked a planet at random to go to. Although he did drop the name Ben Dunn, to the casual interest of the listeners, he overlooked the Buma skull he'd found on that last day. Later on, he kicked himself mentally for not bringing it up, but forgot about it before he could ever mention the subject again. When his retelling reached the dogfighting, Gryphon said, "By the way, you're a pretty good pilot, but you've got to learn to listen to your radio. Keep getting into the middle of bombing runs like that and you can forget about retirement." Zoner nodded. "If you want to keep flying that fighter, you'd better learn to pay attention to what the airboss tells you." Kris groaned. "I know, I know. I just got into the simulator mentality. 'If you don't do it, it won't get done and the mission is a failure.'" Gryphon grunted. "Well, that's a sim. In real life, we have a team. Nobody goes it alone, ever. You might want to remember that." Kris chuckled grimly. "Sure will, not that I'm liable to need the knowledge. Probably not much of that Y-Wing left to fly anymore." "Oh, you'd be surprised what our techs can do," Zoner said quietly. "There is one thing I'm wondering, though... how did the Zardons get our R-5s? Industrial Automaton doesn't sell to the Zardons." "Damn! That's right, I forgot about Sparky!" Kris leaned up. "Where is he?" "He's being tuned up and repaired by one of our techs right now," Zoner said. "After that, if you don't mind, we'd like to borrow him for a while so we can figure out just where he came from." "Well, I don't know..." Kris said. "I'd expect you'd have to ask him." "What?" several voices asked at once. "I'm going to set him free," Kris said. Zoner's head did the standard Why-do-People-Make- Things- Difficult dive, as Gryphon said, "Do you have any idea what the procedures are for that? He'd have to stand against a series of Turing tests to prove his sentience, there's the legal work, the fees..." "He's earned it," Kris said. "So far as I'm concerned, he saved my life. I owe him." "Okay, okay," Gryphon said. "I'll see you get the paperwork, then." "Fine," Kris said. "Great," Gryphon said. Kris looked at Gryphon oddly. Smothering his own last-word instinct, he turned to Zoner and said, "Well, what now?" Zoner thought for a second, then said, "Well... you could hang here for a while, I guess, until we get the thing with your droid straightened out... or..." Gryphon cut him off in mid-sentence and, gesturing to the doorway, said, "Pardon us a second." The four walked over to the doorway and whispered for a few moments, while Kris looked onward. Zoner looked vaguely at Gryphon, whose tone was slightly disapproving, and Kei and Yuri, who were more intent, whatever they were advocating at the time. Finally, Gryphon shrugged, and the four redistributed themselves around the bed. Gryphon looked doubtfully at Kris, while Yuri smiled and Kei winked at him. Zoner finally said, "Anyway, if you want, you can join up with us." "I'm sorry?" Kris had a feeling he knew what was coming. "In a couple of months, we'll be meeting a supply shuttle from our home base, Utopia Planitia. You can hitch a ride back there, and they'll be able to either smuggle you back to Earth eventually... or you can enter the Wedge Defense Force Academy." "Hmm..." Kris thought carefully. "You don't have to decide right now," Zoner said, "but the option is there, and from what we saw out there you have the potential..." "When you don't have your head stuffed up your ass," Gryphon said quietly. "Hmm..." Kris repeated. "Well, let me think about it. Right now, my big concern is getting past tomato puree." "Fine," Zoner said. "I'll probably be seeing you around, then. Take it easy, okay?" "Sure," Kris said. "What else I goin' ter do?" Time passed, and Kris did the standard welcome- to- the- Son bit, gradually meeting most of the core Wedge people, including a short and confusing encounter with Vaughn ("I don't remember you... must make a note..."). He tried Zoner chili, participated in a Ad-Lib Weird-Al Contest (not bringing any prizes home), and fooled around with a few neat toys and programs. No one trusted him with anything that flew, for obvious reasons. In fact, he was hailed as "Hey, Stupid!" so often that he resorted to, "Hey, I'm jus' dis dum ol' redneck, 'kay?" in response. By the time a month had passed, several of the crew had taken to calling him Redneck, or just Red. This was good by Kris' standards, since a week's worth of exploring had exposed three Christophers, two Christines, one Kristie, and no less than four Salusians with variations on the theme. Redneck was a far sight better than Hey You and supremely preferable to Stupid. As he got to know the general attitude of the WDF, Kris also compiled the paperwork and depositions for Sparky's case to the Turing Board, no small task in itself. In his own deposition, he cited the independent nature of the droid, its various peccadilloes, and so on. Finally, he packed the bundle up and gave it to Sparky to take with him to Turing III. A full week before the shuttle arrived, Kris made his decision. By and large, there was lots to do in the WDF, the discipline was lax to say the least, and going home now seemed about as attractive as watching a marathon of Lewis and Martin films. Ugh. By the time the supply shuttle docked with the Wayward Son, Kristan Overstreet had filled out the application, taken the basic admittance exam, and was inducted as a Cadet, Officer Track, in the Wedge Defense Force Academy. Kris was going back to school. 7) A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Think what the secrets of the universe must be like! --- Stephen Hawking Lord Baron Duke Wolfgang von Fahrvergnugen, basically the top dog and senior Wedge Rat of all Wedgedom, sat down at his desk and resumed the hour of paperwork he forced himself to do each day. Between personally overseeing the first recruits for the WDF (mostly individuals who through sheer bizarre coincidence had ended up at Utopia Planitia), designing new ships to add to the force, and experimenting with new technologies to make the WDF a more formidable force in the galaxy, it was easy to overlook and forget the day-to- day operations of the station itself. Of course, there were people to do that, principally Decker, but that was beside the point. He finished typing a general release to the WDF recruits in training and was about to go over the supply logs for the past week when a small, red crab icon appeared on his terminal screen. He activated the icon and was greeted with a smiling face framed by a bundle of red hair which, by no accident, resembled a crab itself. Beneath the face was the body of a twelve-year-old girl, clothed in the uniform of a student from the ancient Mandalorian Academy of the Sciences. "Hiya, Wolfie, how's it hanging?" the girl piped cheerfully from the other side of the screen. "Professor Washuu." Lord Fahrvergnugen glared at the screen and frowned. "You are not welcome here." If there was anything Lord F disliked, it was a renegade scientist, particularly an ancient one with an ego the size of most nebulae. Washuu could probably back up her claim as the "number one scientist in the universe," but what she did with that knowledge- or rather, what she refused to do- infuriated him. Getting her to reveal her secrets was like trying to hitch a ride with a Q. "Oh, lighten up, Wolfie-chan," Washuu said. "Actually, I'm responding to this ad that was posted to your marketplace BBS last week. 'WANTED: Maths tutor fluent in calculus and astrogation algorithms. Reasonable terms only please. Contact Redneck@wdf.plantia.com.' " Redneck... oh yes, Lord F remembered, the new recruit. Possibly the most dedicated student he'd ever seen... and heard. On some days, he could hear Cadet Overstreet bellowing his objection to a point his teacher was trying to make from seven decks and three kilometers away. His voice carried peculiarly in the station- probably a trick of the ventilation system. Despite his previous lack of physical training, he'd made sincere strides in his combat training, and he had, so far, checked out on three different starfighters. Unfortunately, this left the cadet with zero time to make friends among his classmates, and he'd made a couple of enemies among the teachers. Oddly, those weren't the teachers he yelled at on a daily basis. While Washuu waited, Lord F pulled up Kris Overstreet's file. Hmm... promising melee combat skills... goddess-awful pistol and rifle marksmanship... struggling with maths... disciplinary hazard-- THAT is a first for us, Lord F thought. If anyone's a match in attitude for Washuu, it's him. Besides, I don't have a chance in Hell of keeping her off the station if she wants on. "Very well..." Lord F finally said... "but if he doesn't accept you, off you go. Understood?" "Oh, sure, Wolfie," Washuu said. "Wouldn't want you to get an inferiority complex, would we?" The image of Washuu reduced back to the crab icon, which waved a claw bye-bye and vanished. Somewhere, Lord F imagined, someone is laughing at me... ... and in an obscure service corridor near one of the general commissaries, a small wooden door appeared in the wall. Kris, stripped to his underwear and ready for bed, leaned over his private terminal and examined his schedule for the next day. 6:00 Get up 6:30 Combat, unarmed 7:30 Shower 7:45 Breakfast 8:00 Basic astrogation 9:15 Tactics, starfighter 10:30 Flight practice- Alpha/Beta Legios 12:00 Lunch 13:00 Basic computer operation 14:00 Combat, basic melee 14:45 Shower 15:00 Rifle Range; combat, sidearm/rifle 17:00 Combat, quarterstaff 18:15 Shower 18:30 Dinner 19:00 Languages- Salusian 20:00 Study period 22:00 Sleep Kris groaned. Too much crap. He'd done it at UT and now he was doing it here. Two months ago, he'd thought he could handle the load easily. Hell, more than half of the classes had seemed more physical than mental, and he'd hoped the pointers he'd picked up in Amtgard fighter practice would help. Instead, he spent half his study time in a quiet training room practicing forms. His main book classes, astrogation and Salusian, were suffering. Well, anyway, next week he'd choose which of his electives- quarterstaff, melee or Salusian- he wanted to give up. He expected it would be Salusian; with all the Salusians on the station, he'd probably pick it up quickly enough anyway. Besides, since his aim with a gun was still crappy, he needed something he could use in a fight, and quarterstaff had always been his favorite choice of mayhem maker. Let's see. Gravitational constant calculations- words to sleep by, Kris thought as he lay down and cracked open his astrogation book. His eyelids were already drooping when his doorchime rang. Dammittohell, Kris thought. "JUST A MINUTE!" he shouted to the door, forgetting the people in the rooms to either side, as he rummaged in his closet for his bathrobe. Finding it, he wrapped it around himself, and punched the doorlatch. The door shwooshed open to reveal a small girl, about 4-foot-eight, with BRILLIANT pink-red hair, a small, slender body, and a perky attitude. "Hi! I'm Washuu Hakubi! I'm here about the tutor job!" Kris squinted for a second, then straightened his eyes out and said, "OH!... uh, just a minute, let me get dressed, okay?" "Don't hurry on my account," the young lady said. Kris didn't know how to react to that. Kris shut the door and scrambled around for shorts and a T-shirt. After a short search, he selected one he'd packed from Earth, which had survived that first dogfight with the Kilrathi; BUILT FOR THE LONG HAUL, it said, with a picture of a Yosemite-Sam ripoff on the front. A few seconds later, he presented himself to Washuu. "Please, come in!" he said, and gestured to the girl. Washuu walked in and sat on the bunk. Kris pulled a chair from his desk and sat across from her. "Well, are you good at astrogation?" he said at last. Washuu smiled and said, "Astrogation is kid's stuff! No problem!" Hm... "Okay, well, what pay scale do you work at?" Washuu smiled, this time not quite so innocently. "Depends. What are you willing to pay?" Ouch. "Well, I can only draw so much on credit, but I think I can..." "No, no, no," Washuu said. "I'm a scientist. I need help with my experiments. Would you be willing to help me?" "I suppose so," Kris said. "It depends on what kind of research you're doing." "Oh, genetic grafting, xenobiology, stuff like that..." "And you need a lab assistant?" "Nope!" Washuu smirked. "Guinea pig." Kris blanched. "Now wait just a minute!" he said, rising from his chair for emphasis. "I don't want nothing to do with needles-" "Don't need 'em," Washuu said. "- or dissection, or-" "Don't need to," Washuu replied. "-or experimental drugs, or-" "Not using any," Washuu said. "or... or.. Well, what would you be doing to me?" "Oh, nothing much..." Washuu said. "A couple of base readings, a few samples, a little cellular manipulation- nothing serious, of course..." "Hmm... just samples, eh?" Kris said. Washuu was silent. Kris paced a couple of steps, then stopped, took a deep breath and said, "Okay. Once I graduate, I'll help with your experiment. Okay?" Washuu said anxiously, "Why so long? Can't we do some experiments in the meantime?" she continued, waggling her eyebrows. Kris went to his terminal, called up his schedule, and showed it to Washuu. She read it carefully, then said, "Drop Salusian. I'll have you speaking it fluently in two weeks, and then we can use the time to work on your maths." "Okay. I was planning on dropping it anyway." Kris turned off the terminal and turned to Washuu. "But anyway, I want to graduate as soon as possible. If I can get on a fast track with my maths and tactics courses, I might be out of here in, say, two years." Washuu frowned. "Well, then we'd better get started. I'll see you tomorrow morning... what's your name, anyway?" "Kris," he replied. "Some of the Wedge people call me Redneck, or just Red." "Redneck?" Washuu asked, glancing at the body part in question. "It looks pale from here. I think Kris will do okay for now. See you tomorrow at combat practice, Kris," she said, and she strode towards the door. The door opened automatically, and she walked out without breaking stride. Well, that sure was interesting, Kris thought. Looks twelve, but sure doesn't act it. I wonder what species she is... Then he remembered; the doors don't open automatically here... 8) Politics makes strange bedfellows. ---Robert Oppenheimer The next morning, as Kris donned his sweats and prepared for his pre-breakfast thrashing, his doorbell chimed. A moment later, he was trying to focus his eyes on a piece of hardcopy being held dead in his face. "Hmm... unlimited tutelage in exchange for services as laboratory subject, one session without let or hindrance... okay, fine." On the bottom was a little pad with a barb on it; DNA signature. Kris pressed his thumb against the pad, then put it to his mouth and sucked the tiny cut a little. On the document was a drop of blood, more binding than any written signature in some places. Kris' sleep-fogged mind had enough presence to ask, before Washuu could put the contract away, "Uh... could I have another look at that?" "Sure!" Washuu replied, as she handed the paper to Kris. He looked it over, read the short paragraph thoroughly, examined the paper for invisible ink, etc. No soul clause, no first-born child agreement, nothing. One session as a lab rat, in exchange for however much tutelage it took to get him graduated. No hidden traps he could see at all. "Okay!" Washuu said. "Let's go see your first class!" As Washuu watched, Kris went through his stretching exercises, then faced off against the phys-ed instructor. As usual, Kris waited for a few moments, to see if the instructor would move first. Then, he cautiously made some probing moves, had them parried, and eventually entered a ten minute period he referred to as Low Orbital Human Flight Lessons. By the time the session was over, he'd learned a couple new moves, a Do or a Don't, and several places a body could hurt. As he gathered himself to go to his room for a shower, Washuu walked up to him. "She's really something, isn't she? Of course, her center of gravity's lower than yours." "Not so loud," Kris said as he strode stiffly down the corridor. Shower, food, class, oh God... why why why why WHY do I do these things to myself... "Basically, you need to work on your balance more," Washuu continued. "She catches you overextended all the time. Plus you keep trying those punches when you can't possibly reach..." Kris keyed his door open and strode in. "I'll be out in a few minutes," he said, and closed the door. Washuu stood outside, and listened to the faint "ouch ouch ouch" sounds coming from the room. The shower turned on, then about five minutes later turned off. Five minutes after that, Kris leaped out the door in his cadet uniform, a satchel in hand, and dashed down the hall. A constant chant of "Excuse me pardon me coming through I beg your pardon excuse me" echoed behind him. Sighing, Washuu ran after him, causing noticeably less disturbance. Washuu caught up to Kris as he waited in front of a bank of vending machines. As he received his standard breakfast- a Dr. Pepper and a sausage biscuit- Washuu tapped him in the back. Kris turned around, biscuit already half- eaten, and said, "Wfhutt?" Washuu grasped Kris' shoulder, gently bent him down to her eye level, and said, "I want you to keep your eyes on my finger." She held up a digit about two inches from his eyes. After a moment, the two eyes settled on a position. Washuu then moved the finger to the left, to the right, then up and right rapidly. Kris responded with an obvious effort. Ah, Washuu thought, independent tracking. That helps explain his depth perception problem. Swallowing, Kris said, "Excuse me, but I'm going to be late for astrogation, so if you don't mind..." Bending up, he stuffed the remnant of the biscuit down his throat, guzzled his drink, and ran towards the lecture hall. Washuu followed quietly. Whenever she noticed someone staring at her, her expression was happy, cheerful and carefree; when no one was looking, her face darkened in grim concentration. On a monitor in the security office, Lord F noticed Washuu's expression. I think I have made a severe error in judgment, he thought. Any further thought was cut off by the regular argument in the main Astrogation class, two decks down. My Gods, but that voice carries... In the ready-room near the hangar reserved for most of the trainee pilots sat rows and rows of lockers. Like most of the decor in the station, they were trimmed in blues and silvers and greens and chromes and designed to affect an air of hyper-futuristic style. Unfortunately, for all their trim and style, they still looked like what they were; twenty rows of gym lockers. In between each row of lockers was a bench, to help the pilots put on whatever clothes were needed to operate whatever ship. Inside Kris' locker hung two flight suits; the one he had cobbled together on Earth and modified on the Wayward Son, and the standard WDF Cadet-issue flight suit with CVR-3 armor linking attachments. Since today would be an official class, Kris picked the WDF suit and began pulling it over his cadet uniform. "You get too worked up over things," a voice piped up from behind him. Kris spun, tripped, and almost clobbered himself with the bench. Washuu bent down and helped Kris up. Pulling on the leggings of his flight suit, he said, "When did you get to audit my astrogation class?" "I didn't have to," Washuu said. "You could hear the shouting clear across the station." Kris blushed. "Oops," he said. "I don't mean to get carried away, but... well..." Washuu jumped up, grabbed Kris' shoulders, pulled herself up to eye level and whispered, "You know... you're SO cute when you blush..." Then she JUMPED over Kris' head, over the row of lockers, and was gone, giggling as she went. Strange girl, Kris thought. Kris walked tall in the eyes of his fellow starfighter pilot trainees. In two months, he'd already checked out on the Valkirye, the Hornet, and the Z-95 Headhunter, and was making impressive strides on his current project, the Alpha-Beta Legios system. He was the only one in the group to own his own starfighter, no matter what condition it was in. He'd been making strides in every aspect of flying, and half the time the tactical portion of the day's lesson would degenerate into a quiet debate between Kris and the instructor over what-ifs. In short, Kris had taken the role of Star Pupil, and no one seemed overly inclined to take it from him- especially since it saved them lecture time. As usual, both tactical and flight went to plan, with Kris doing impressively well in his Beta (although he did get splashed like all the other trainees). Afterwards, he was given some pointers about more effectively using the battleroid mode of the Beta (that phrase is not an oxymoron), as the others were lectured soundly on the importance of teamwork. Then, showers for some, lockers for everybody, and Kris went to his usual commissary for lunch. There is an unwritten rule in cooking; the larger the group you're cooking for, the less good any effort of yours will do to make the meal palatable. For example, a recipe for French toast, which provides a cinnamony good breakfast for two, becomes a joyless mush with a crust when served for five hundred. And so on. Throughout history, cafeteria goers have been convinced that the owners of said cafeteriae were actively attempting to poison them. This was only true half the time; the other half, the marginal food was simply the product of mass production, with malice towards none. All these people could take lessons from Utopia Planitia's non-commercial WDF commissaries. As Kris passed his palm over the credit panel by the door, he read the menu. Yum, Cajun-blackened catfish. And steamed broccoli, and chocolate cake... Kris rushed around the place, gathering item after item, and sat down to a large and satisfying meal a few minutes later. A few bites into his catfish filet, Kris noticed a red blur in his field of vision. Looking up from his tray, he saw Washuu, smiling at him. "Ready to begin?" she asked sweetly. Swallowing, Kris cut at his fish with the edge of his fork and replied, "I'm trying to eat, Washuu. I have a class on computer operations in forty minutes, and I intend to have most of this food inside me before then. I really don't have time..." His voice trailed off as Washuu spread an impressive array of notes, charts and books around his tray, each dealing with various astral phenomenae and their relationship to navigation. Washuu began to talk, as Kris continued to eat. The more he listened, though, the less food actually got eaten. Whereas his instructor practically needed a translator, Washuu explained the ideas plainly, simply, and easily. Before long, his dinner forgotten, Kris sat and listened to Washuu make sense of gravitic, antigravitic, subgravitic and hypergravitic curves and the safety limits pertaining thereunto. Finally, Washuu began straightening up the papers. Kris sat up, asking, "Why are you stopping? That was getting interesting." Washuu looked at the clock. "You have five minutes to get to your computer class," she said. "You'd better get moving!" Kris looked at the clock, at his heavily-laden tray, and with a heartfelt, "JESUS CHRIST!" he began wolfing down the food, fish, cake, broccoli and salad disappearing into his mouth at once. Once the majority was down the gullet, he guzzled his drink, dumped his tray in the recycling hatch, and with his usual "excuse me" song, he scrambled out of the commissary and down the corridors. "If he keeps eating like that, he's going to get sick," Washuu said out loud, to no one in particular. Computer class was the basic WDF computer ops course, which taught cadets and techs the basics behind operating the various computer systems in use by the WDF. Kris already knew most of the theory and a good bit of the practical, and managed to cut out as usual fifteen minutes early to get ready for his melee combat class. An hour after that, as he staggered towards his room with several welts and a gurgling stomach, he noticed Washuu standing in front of his door with a spoon in one hand and a bottle of Maalox in the other. Without a word, Kris reached for the bottle. Washuu jerked it back. "Ah, ah, ah," she admonished. "Hold still while Little Washuu gives you the nice medicine." "Washuu. The Maalox. Please." Kris said. "Now, now," Washuu insisted, "take it easy or no medicine. Be a good boy and let me give you your medicine." The things I do for a contract, Kris thought. He kneeled down and let Washuu feed him the spoonfuls of stomach remedy. Oddly enough, it didn't taste at all like Maalox; it was cherry-flavored and went down quickly. As he stood, the gurgling CEASED in his stomach. "Wow, Washuu," he said, "that's really-" Then the Secret Ingredient kicked in; extract of Pelepeno. Pelepeno is a type of pepper grown on Salusia. The name is an Anglicization of its ancient name, which is almost impossible to pronounce, and it refers to a certain Hawaiian goddess, who makes her home in the volcanoes of the islands. It contains an acid which has a time-delay reaction in the mouth; when the time runs out, the victim starts looking for Tabasco sauce to drink to cool the flame. Zoner has pronounced it "noticeable". Kris turned brilliant red in the face for a moment; then, with a very nasty look at Washuu, he stormed into his room. A minute later, the shower turned on again, and shortly after that, a loud gurgling noise was heard. About ten minutes later, Kris exited in his spare duty uniform. He strode off to the rifle range, studiously ignoring the young lady walking beside him. 9) Mutual benefit is the basis of all good contract law. --- Beelzebub And so it went. Every day, from noon to night, Washuu remained Kris' constant companion. With Washuu's help and goading, Kris entered several self-study courses, which only required him to come in and take the tests on occasion. For those courses in which he couldn't skip classes, including piloting and combat, Washuu also provided help, and before long Kris learned to deal with Washuu's little jokes and accepted her advice and teaching gladly. Most of the time. By year's end, Kris realized he had gained two things; his first real friend on the station, and a good chunk of free time. Most of the latter he spent with Washuu, as well as a couple of free spirits from his fighter trainee group. Washuu proved to be an interesting companion, at least in Kris' eyes. On those occasions when she wasn't bedeviling him, her shenanigans never failed to bring a smile, or more usually a laugh, to Kris' usually serious face. In turn, his insights on the human condition- usually delivered in his thickest accent- made her giggle as well. Before long, Kris had, with Washuu's help, passed all the basic courses and had earned his flight badge on every fighter used by any WDF force, plus two Kilrathi fighters and his own Myrmidon Y-Wing. Without a pause, he proceeded to advanced courses and electives; covert operations, paramedic training, general grand tactics, advanced studies in starfighter piloting and melee combat. Each step of the way, Washuu helped, giving advice and insight in a way that Kris could always readily adapt and use. Even in marksmanship- his weakest point- Washuu's aid allowed Kris to achieve a passing score in pistol and light rifle. Finally, after two and a half years of eclectic study, Kris applied for his lieutenant's bars, and on his birthday, January 12, 1999, was commissioned as a Junior Lieutenant in the Wedge Defense Force, with his choice of assignments. Kris was reading through the pile of assignment dossiers on his desk when his door chimed. Laying the assignment profile for the Salusian Royal Guard on the desk, he walked to the door and keyed it open. He was not surprised to see Washuu; the droid beside her, on the other hand, was a surprise. "Hi, Kris," Washuu smiled. "This little fellow says he knows you." "Hey, boss," a voice piped from a speaker on the droid's chassis. Sparky wheeled forward and into the room. "Nice place we got here, huh boss?" Just above his main power intake gleamed a small gold badge with the word TURING on it. Sparky had finally been approved for emancipation. "Hey, Sparky, it's great to see you!" Kris said. "When'd you get here?" "He came in on the last shuttle, this morning," Washuu said. "I took him to my workshop and added a vocoder so he could talk to you." "Thanks, Washuu," Kris said. Looking at the two, Kris sat on his bed and asked, "Well, how would you two like to celebrate my graduation?" "I think a little while in my lab would do nicely," Washuu said. From her pocket, she produced the contract from two years before. "Oh, yeah," Kris replied. "That reminds me, where exactly is your lab? I've never even seen where you live on the station, much less where you work." "It's right behind the commissary," Washuu said. "Would you like to go now?" "I'd think you'd want to wait till morning," Kris said, "but if you want to get started now, I suppose I could." "Great!" Washuu cried, and she actually jumped and clapped her hands. "Let's go!" Kris stopped at the wooden door in the service corridor behind the cafeteria. "This is it?" Kris asked. "Sure is!" Washuu said. "Just a second while I unlock it!" She waved a hand, and a holographic touch-pad appeared in front of the door. A few keystrokes later, a chime sounded, and Washuu turned the doorhandle and entered. Kris followed trepidatiously, with Sparky a few paces behind. For a second, Kris couldn't see anything in the darkened room. Then the light turned back on, and Kris staggered. The lab was ENORMOUS. The ceiling stretched hundreds of yards above the floor, which had assorted trees and bushes growing here and there. Tubes and conduits stretched from eyesight to eyesight. In some places, water tanks hovered over the walkways, many of them occupied. Here and there pieces of equipment lay strewn at random beneath dwarf trees and waterfalls from the overhead tanks. In the center of the complex, Washuu sat in midair on a floating cushion, typing at a holographic terminal. She looked up from her typing and waved to Kris. "Come on over here, Kris!" she shouted. Kris walked slowly through the complex, trying to make sense out of the place. "How did you make all this?" he asked. "I've had it for quite some time now," Washuu said. "The lab got too big to keep in realspace, so I made this pocket dimension to keep it in." Looking around, she shouted, "ZATHRAS!! Zathras, where are you?" Looking at Kris, she chuckled, "Zathras is my lab assistant. Or should be, anyway. I haven't seen him since I sent him to clean out the secondary menangerie about eighty years ago. Oh, well, I suppose we can go on without him." She pointed to a round table and said, "Take off your clothes and lie down on the table." Kris gave Washuu a confused look, but did as he was told. Stripping to his underwear, Kris laid himself out on the table, and at Washuu's request he moved his arms out perpendicular to his body. Latches snapped down on Kris' wrists and ankles, and a couple of coils surrounded his torso. As the table inclined itself into a rack, a strange helmet with light bulbs around its brim lowered itself onto Kris' head. Kris soon found himself spread-eagled in midair, unable to do more than twitch in place. "Okay, let's do some baseline readings," Washuu said and she began a series of tests and probes Kris couldn't identify or explain. Scanners scanned, probes probed, and measuring devices measured. After some study of the results, Washuu nodded and said, "Okay, I think I'm ready now." Washuu opened a metal cabinet and drew out a small air tank and a mask. She put the mask on Kris' face and said, "Now I want you to breathe very deeply, Kris. Okay?" Rolling his eyes, Kris took a deep breath, and thought, I hope I don't regret this... Kris opened his eyes and looked around. The featureless plain again. Oh, great, he thought. HELLO AGAIN. Kris turned, and the Reaper stood there, idly sharpening his scythe. "Hello," Kris said. "Don't tell me it's time now." NO. JUST ANOTHER CLOSE CALL. THE LAST, I SHOULD EXPECT, FOR QUITE SOME TIME. "What do you mean by that?" Kris asked. YOU KNOW I'M NOT ALLOWED TO SAY. "I guess not," Kris said. After a moment, he turned again and said, "Don't you have other souls to bother about?" THERE ARE OTHER CASE WORKERS. MANY, MANY OTHERS. I'M IN NO HURRY. "All things in their time, huh?" EVERYTHING, the Reaper replied, IN MY TIME. "Oh," Kris said, and kept silent. After a moment, the Reaper cleared his throat and said, DO YOU PLAY SPADES? Kris awoke groggily, to Washuu's face. For a moment, he thought she looked worried, but when he looked again, her perky face was smiling up at him. "All done!" she said. "How d'you feel?" Kris considered this carefully. He noted that his joints weren't aching, his head was clear, and he was seeing straighter than he had since he could remember. "Well, all things considered, just having played about two dozen hands of Spades with a Case Worker of Death, I'd say I feel better than ever, thank you." Washuu smiled and said, "Great!" As she released Kris from the rack, she said, "Before you go, there are a few things I should tell you..." "I'll bet," Kris said. "Let's start with my eyesight." "I fixed it," Washuu said. "My joints?" "Them too." "My sinuses?" "Everything," Washuu said. "Now sit down for a minute." As Kris sat, Washuu's face turned deadly serious. "I apologize for doing what I did, but I thought it wouldn't be dangerous. I attempted to graft the cellular structure of another creature to your own. It nearly killed you, but it worked." Kris looked stunned at Washuu. "What creature?" he asked dully. Washuu pointed to a large jar of water. Inside was a beige creature which looked vaguely like a cabbage jellyfish with eyes. "This is a Masser," she said. "It's a very rare creature native to a planet in Wild Space. It is capable of amassing incredible amounts of energy and manipulating it in many ways." Kris looked at the innocuous creature. It looked back dully at him. "I successfully grafted a portion of its genetic and cellular structure to myself a long time ago," Washuu continued. "I was curious to see if the procedure could be adapted to Earthers. It almost wasn't." Kris looked at his arm. Aside from the absence of the freckles and scars it had previously sported, it looked perfectly normal. "How much did you change?" he asked quietly. Washuu looked directly at him. "Everything." Kris looked at Washuu, then at his arm again. "I see you put it back, then." Washuu replied, "It's a one-way process, Kris. I didn't know until it was too late..." Kris began to tremble. "You're still mostly human," Washuu continued. "It's just that, before long, you'll be able to do things other humans can't." "How long?" Kris asked quietly. "Oh, over the course of, say, five hundred years," Washuu replied. Five... Hundred... Years? Kris mouthed the words. "That's right. You'll have plenty of time to get used to the form. You're immortal now, Kris... like me!" She smiled again. "So now we can spend more time than ever together, huh?" Immortal. "IMMORTAL?!?!?" Kris bellowed. The Masser, terrified, sank into the bottom of its jar. "I'm STUCK like this FOREVER?" Shrieking, he made a dive for Washuu, who leaped well out of his reach. "Now, Kris, it's not so bad as it seems," Washuu said. "GRAAAAAHHHRRRRGH!" Kris shouted, and tackled Washuu. He pulled his fist back to punch her, only to discover he was about to coldcock a plush doll. "I'm a lot harder to catch than that," a voice whispered from behind his ear. Kris whirled around wildly, growling. For a second, he considered trying again; instead, he threw down the plush Washuu doll and said, "Washuu, if I ever see your smiling, scheming face again, it will be too soon!" He stormed over to his clothes and began pulling them on. "But Kris... I didn't know..." Washuu said from behind him. "You knew enough!" Kris yelled. "How long have you lived like this, huh? How long does it take to learn?" "Twenty thousand years," Washuu replied. Kris stopped. "I learned to cope, Kris. You can, too," Washuu said. "I'm still your friend." Kris finished buttoning his tunic and said, "Friends don't trick other friends." He turned to leave, paused, picked up the plush doll and said, "Goodbye, Washuu." With Sparky following, he strode towards the door and left. The crab-shaped door chime clanked as the door closed behind him. Washuu stared after him, worriedly. He just needs some time to cool off, she thought. I'm sure that's it... Lord Fahrvergnugen entered his office to discover a crab icon already on his terminal. Ignoring the fact that he'd deactivated the terminal before leaving the office the previous day, he went to the terminal and activated the icon, bringing up an image of Washuu. Lord Fahrvergnugen was surprised to see her usually hyperconfident face pensive and worried. "Uh, hi, Wolfie..." she said hesitantly... "I just wanted to let you know you won't be seeing me for a while..." Now Lord F was really surprised... usually Washuu left in a much more flashy manner than she arrived. "Ah, thank you for letting me know, Professor," he said, "and I will not deny that I am more than glad to see you going. I must ask... what made you decide to leave?" "Well..." Washuu fidgeted a moment, then said, "What does Kris have against immortality?" "Who... oh, Lieutenant Overstreet," Lord F said. Calling up Kris' psych profile, he scanned quickly and whistled. "Hm. It says here that when Edison Bell explained Omega-2 to him, he expressed a severe aversion to immortality. He said he couldn't understand how anyone in their right mind would choose to outlive all their friends and relatives. He also has a severe aversion to any medical procedure at all. Does that have anything to do with..." The relay clicked in his mind. "Don't tell me you've picked a Guinea pig, Washuu. He deserves better than that." Washuu said nothing, and the screen went dark. Lord F, sighing, reactivated his terminal and began reworking his morning schedule for a minor but necessary session of damage control. When Kris exited Washuu's lab, he discovered it was morning already. After returning to his room and showering, he checked out a trainer Z-95 and blasted out towards the asteroids to blow off some steam. IMMORTAL! he thought as he swerved among an artificial cluster used by the trainees to simulate Kilrathi defensive clusters. INHUMAN! he raged as he buzzed the cratered surface of a large asteroid and dodged two rocks smaller than he was. He returned to the hangar still blazing angry, and went straight from the prep room to a sparring room, and spent a full hour wailing on a padded sparring drone. Finally, exhausted, he returned to his room and showered. With the anger worked out of him, he began to feel depressed. Maybe, he thought, I shouldn't have laid it on so hard on Washuu. I can't believe I tried to kill her. Kris dressed in his best Lieutenant j. g. uniform and jogged back to Washuu's lab. Hopefully, he'd be able to apologize to Washuu, and everything would be okay again. When he got to the service corridor behind the commissary, the door was gone. Kris found a note taped to the wall; Kris I goofed. I don't goof very often. I'm sorry. I'll be around. Washuu The anger built up in him again, and Kris crumpled the note and punched the wall. The hole he left impressed the hell out of him. Lord F found Kris in one of the gymnasiums, punching a padded wall repeatedly. WHAP! "No." WHAP! "No." WHAP! "No." Lord F strode up to him and asked, "Lieutenant Overstreet, what is troubling you?" WHAP! "I let-" WHAP!- " this girl named Washuu-" WHAP- "talk me into being-" WHAP- "her Guinea pig." Rubbing his fist, he explained the whole situation, from when they met to when he punched the hole in the bulkhead. "And now you attempt to repeat the feat, eh?" Lord F asked. Kris nodded. "She screwed me over, and I overreacted. But usually, my reactions don't produce holes in bulkheads." I'd call a murder attempt overreacting, Lord F thought to himself. Out loud he said, "Well, I suggest you take a short leave before you report to your assignment. Have you made a decision yet?" "Not yet," Kris replied. "Please do," Lord F said. "You're too good an officer to waste." And too disruptive a person to keep on this station, he thought. "I'll let you know, sire," Kris replied, and resumed punching the gym wall. What is it about some people, Lord F thought as he swept out, that makes them so edgy? 10) We'll be in and out of there without a hitch. --John Erlichman After considering about a dozen options, Kris finally requested assignment to the Wayward Son's small fixed- configuration starfighter contingent, and a couple of months later he reported to Gryphon along with a shipment of Rapiers and support equipment. The reception, although welcoming, was somewhat cool- at least until the first battle in which the Rapiers- and Kris- were tested. Throughout the battle, Kris stuck by his wingleader like glue, keeping him covered while he worked. He said nothing except to acknowledge orders and kept his fire to the absolute minimum required for the task. His ship came back almost untouched, and he himself came back with a certain reputation wiped clean. After that, although not one of the SDF-17's "in crowd", Kris, or Redneck, or Red, was no longer That Idiot. Now and again, he would pop up in various places, organizing a literary journal one time, founding a short-lived wind band another time, and breaking records on certain classic arcade games many times. Most of the time, though, Kris blended in and became one of the crowd, except on those fairly rare occasions when the Wayward Son actually did anything. Of course Kris had his problems. For example, Ship's Stores grumbled at the number of mattresses (and occasionally bedframes) he'd ruin by punching or kicking holes through them in his sleep. He'd occasionally break joysticks in the arcade (to many people's intense annoyment), and on one notable occasion he'd had to request a tow-in from a practice session in his old Y-wing because he'd crushed the controls during a particular close call with an asteroid. Of course, he could never do thing like that on command; only when it was inconvenient, and usually when he was stressing or excited. There was also the little problem of his regeneration. Paper cuts vanished after the briefest flash of pain, his wisdom teeth and appendix had vanished, and his hair, which by the end of his academy time had almost vanished, had made a full copper-blonde comeback. Unfortunately, it did little for bruises and mild stiffness after a workout or long sessions seated at a computer or in a starfighter. Oh, well. Also, certain engineers claimed, on certain occasions when he'd skip a meal to keep working on a project, the lights and terminal in his room would begin drawing multiples of their normal energy usage. Kris always told them they were mistaken, but every once in a while, when something broke in his hands or the lights surged as he passed by, he would stare at the ceiling and shout; "WASHUU!!!!" 2002, the Salusal system. Two planets, Salusia and Zardon, locked in centuries-long interplanetary war. One planet lush with life, jungles and grasslands and lakes and oceans; the other, poisoned since time immemorial, a wasteland with gigantic walled cities in a few isolated points. Above Salusia orbited the gigantic super-dimensional fortress, SDF-17 Wayward Son, boarding new crewmen and providing shore leave to the old... and, in a couple of cases, recieving bad news. Major Perry Adzjanal dropped a stack of hardcopy photos onto Zoner's desk with a grunt. "There's the best we have. It looks like the Zardons are building an enormous planet-based mass driver, possibly big enough to toss shot at Salusia itself. Unfortunately, we can't tell for certain how close it is to completion, and we can't get any of our usual operatives close enough to examine it." Gryphon slumped onto the desk and said, "Just after Kei and Yuri go out on a mission, too. Perfect fucking timing." Zoner thought for a moment, then said, "Well, WWWA says all its field agents are already out on assignment, but let me see who we have left here..." Keying in a short search sequence in his personal terminal, he scrolled through the short list of names it produced. After a moment, he eliminated those on the list who were on assignment with WWWA, and the list became slightly shorter. "Well, there's me, or you, Ben," Zoner said, pointing at Gryphon, "and about five other candidates." He showed the list to Gryphon and had him look them over. "Well, I wouldn't mind going myself," Gryphon said, "except someone has to make sure you stay right here while Yuri's gone." Zoner smiled at that. After a moment, he fingered one name. "Redneck? I didn't expect his name to come up." Zoner called up the records on Redneck. "Well, it seems he qualified well enough at the Academy... no proof he's any good in the field, but..." "From what I've seen of him, he has a talent for not being noticed," Perry said. Indeed, despite many efforts, Redneck was a nonentity most of the time, becoming noticable only when he played up his redneck personality or when he was flying a starfighter. He'd gone from uniforms to jeans and T-shirts most of the time, gone from military posture to a generic half-slouch, and had actually begun to pick up some Wedge slang, mixed in with his native accent. Most of the time, he just seemed to fade into any group bigger than four. Gryphon looked at Zoner, then at Perry, then at Zoner. Zoner shrugged and waved an open hand at the intercom panel. Gryphon hit the intercom. "Redneck, report to Zoner's office," he said quietly. A few minutes later, Redneck walked into Zoner's office. "Y'all wanted ta see me?" he drawled. Zoner explained the situation quickly, and described what the mission requirements would be. "Basically, we need you to sneak in, evaluate the situation, and sneak out. We need information, not heroics, got it?" "Got a grip on dat," Redneck said quietly. "How do y'all propose ta get me in an' out?" "We have a small stealth shuttle you can use to get close to the site," Gryphon said. "Drop in, scope the scene, punch out. That simple." "One more thing," Zoner said. "At the risk of being redundant... don't get caught. Just don't. Okay?" "I'll do my best," Redneck replied. "Lemme get some stuff together, and I'll be ready to go in, say, ten hours?" Mentally, he was organizing a list of things to do... arrange for physical alteration to appear Zardon, gather a couple of holdout blasters, a few concealable mayhem makers, lockpicks, software hacks... lotsa stuff. "Let's just make it tomorrow," Zoner said. "If possible, the whole op should come off in under a day. Longer than that, and..." "Sounds fine ta me," Redneck said, and came to an exaggerated attention and saluted the officers. "May I be dismissed, suh?" he intoned in an exaggerated Virginian accent. "Oh, get on, you Redneck," Zoner said. He managed to stifle the grin until Redneck had turned his back, and then looked at the rolling eyes of Perry and Gryphon. "I just hope you're right about him," Zoner said, sobering slightly. Gryphon, unusually, said nothing. His eyes, however, glinted as he considered the possibilities... Zardon is almost, but not quite, a dead world. Virtually the entire sapient population lives in a handful of giant, sky-busting Mega Cities, with all the rest of what remains of Zardon's ecosphere exiled to the planetwide wastes known as the Cursed Earth. Those few exiles who scraped a miserable living in the Cursed Earth had to contend with various outlaw bands, a handful of extremely nasty carnivores, and the occasional bit of abuse from the Imperial troops. Roughly an hour's walk away from Mega City One, under the cover of night, a small ship quietly landed on the desert floor, having sucessfully evaded all radar, lidar, subetha, visual and patrol detection. As the ship settled into camouflage mode, a small hatch opened and disgorged a green-haired, green-bearded Zardon in a plain coverall, carrying a largish knapsack with the legend MAYHEM on the side. The Zardon pushed a panel on the hull, noted the general terrain around the landing site, and quietly began walking towards the lights of the mega-city. Get in. Get the information. Get out. Don't get caught. No problem, Kris thought. Six hours later, Kris sat, disgusted, dissatisfied and disarmed, in a prison cell inside the military base he'd infiltrated. His boots were gone, his coveralls replaced by a prison uniform. His guns, grenades, bombs, lockpicks, slashtaps, and other neat toys were all in the armory awaiting the inspection of the base commander. In short, he was quite thouroughly helpless. For a few industrious minutes, Kris sulked in the cell. No problem, you said. Didn't count on the army guys already being on alert, did you? Didn't check up on the Resistance, did you? Stupid, he thought, slamming a fist into the concrete floor. Now I'm trapped in this stupid cell on an alien planet about to wish I was dead because I was STUPID, STUPID, STUPID... Kris stopped his fist, noticing the large hole he'd punched into the concrete. HMMMM.... Kris examined the cell carefully. The concrete appeared too well reinforced to break, but the front of the cell consisted of nothing more than steel bars. If he could bend or break one of those... Kris picked a likely bar, raised a fist, took a DEEP breath and concentrated, and slammed the bar. CLANG. "YEOWWWWWWW!" That... was... dumb. "HEY!" a faint voice called from outside the cell block. "Quiet in there! Don't make me come in there and hurt you!" Come in... and hurt me... Hmm... What the hell, he might actually try it... CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. "HEY!" the voice said louder, and the security door at the end of the cell block opened. A lone Zardon guard entered the cell block and said, "I told you to be quiet!" "Come and make me!" Kris shouted back. "Alright, buster, you asked for it!" the guard replied, and fished out the key to Kris' cell. Opening the door, he cracked his knuckles and smiled. "Time to have some fun!" "It sure is," Kris said, as he caught the guard's first punch and threw the guard into the concrete wall. Before the guard could stand, Kris began kicking and pummelling the prone Zardon. Finally, Kris dragged the guard to his feet and slammed him into the metal bars. CLONG. "Thanks for the workout," Kris said as he cautiously stepped out the door. Amazingly, no alarms had gone off. He'd assumed there were cameras, or sensors, or something, but apparently no one was looking. If he moved fast, he might actually get out in one piece. Then he saw the guard's rifle. He'd set it by the cell door. He couldn't have been THAT dumb... Kris considered who was on which side of the bars, and thought, Oh yes he could. Grabbing the rifle, he took two running steps before he thought, Maybe I should do something about footwear. A few seconds' work with the guard provided a set of too-large boots which Kris stuck his feet into and trotted for the door. Incredibly, no one waited for Kris outside. Both security doors were wide open, and where the security monitors should have been hung stubby ends of wires. Apparently the prison was still under construction; all the better. Miracles happen, Kris thought quietly as he checked the small security map on the guard's desk and located the armory. Halfway to the armory, Kris heard the sirens wail. Picking up his pace, he began firing the blaster at random, watching as gratifying bolts of electric death sprayed ahead of him. As he rounded the final corner, Kris was greeted by six Zardon guards in blast armor and helmets. Not the White Guards, but bad enough. Kris quickly lowered his blaster and said, "Thank Zard you're here! The Resistance is attacking! Save me!" The guards, poised to fire, stared blankly at their prisoner. They'd expected him to shoot, not to ask for help. Kris's eyes widened, and he pointed behind the guards. "Oh, no! They're behind you!!" As the guards turned in unison to look, Kris set his blaster rifle to automatic and held down the trigger. A few seconds later, the rifle stopped firing. Kris opened his eyes to see six thouroughly toasty guards sprawling on the prison floor. Pulling the trigger of his rifle no longer did any good; the power pack was dead. Great, he thought, as he grabbed one of the dead guards' rifles and looked for the door to the armory. After a few seconds, he located the security switch and keyed the door open. Inside, beneath a rack of blast armor, lay his duffel, apparently untouched. The sirens wailed as Kris considered carrying the bag or destroying it. The equipment inside might be useful, but once outside the compound it would attract attention and slow him down. So much for that. After a second, he shouted over the cacophany, "RHO! ALPHA! TAU! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" A faint voice inside the armory said, "Self- detonation in thirty seconds." Kris turned and ran, imagining in his mind five thermal detonators in the duffel cycling towards activation, lights flickering faster and faster. Guards appeared, and Kris blasted them, clumping along as fast as possible, bursting out the main entrance to the prison and onto the base compound. A handful of troopers and officers glanced towards him, reached for their sidearms- KA-BLEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWMMMMM...... A ball of flame spewed from near the center of the prison building, followed by secondary explosions and flares as the thermal detonators fried the contents of the armory. The Zardons in the compound turned away, half-blinded by the sudden light, and Kris took the opportunity to secure himself in a pile of girders not far away. Checking himself, Kris found no injuries, just a sudden doubling of his appetite. Christ, he thought, I need something to eat. As he watched from the girders, troopers rushed around attempting to extinguish the fire. Another building caught fire, and another, and another, as ejecta from the armory flew up and out from the prison. Kris paused for a moment as a fire brigade rushed past the girders, then eased himself out and quietly slunk towards the fence. Fifty meters from the perimeter, Kris stopped and dropped to the ground. Guards on several hoversleds circled and recircled the base, cutting off his escape. Whether or not the troopers could deal with the unexpected, they had no problems with routine. Crawling to within thirty meters of the fence, Kris watched as the sleds passed by. After a few passes, he raised his rifle, aimed as well as he could at one fence post, and pulled the trigger. ZARK! The pole bent slowly in half, lowering the concertina wire and electric wires about halfway to the ground. A second shot cut the electric wires, and Kris jumped up, leaped onto the sagging fence, and scrambled over the gap, ignoring the cuts and rips from the wire and the stray blaster bolts angling his way. As the blood from his hands tapered off, he looked back to see the troopers milling around behind him, apparently confused as to which way to go. Unbelievable. Kris checked the ground beneath him- hard rock with only a trace of sand- and turned ninety degrees to his left. Whether or not they could track by smell, they sure wouldn't be able to track him past the blood trail by footprint, and any confusion could only help. Trotting slowly onward, he thought quiet thoughts as he began angling back for the ship. Time to get scarce, or else. Dawn found Kris looking at the shimmer of his ship's camo field, watching the dozen or so Zardons- not military, no two were dressed alike, although the various rags and threadbare clothes blurred together in Kris' mind- watching it. Each one held a rifle or pistol, ready to fire at anything near the ship. Damn, Kris thought, looks like the intelligent ones keep out of the army. I can't get any closer for now, and I expect I'd better get farther away before I attract some unwanted attention. Something tapped his leg. Kris spun around, swinging his rifle at it. The rifle hit something and bounced back; a moment later, Kris saw and heard the thing he'd hit. "RRRRRAAAAAAAOOOOUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!" As Kris's survival instinct cycled through options of escape, a small clinical part of his mind analyzed the situation; Lifeform, large carnivore. Size; roughly seven meters long and four high. Teeth: lots. Analysis: Negative outcome- NOT GOOD. 11) Come, relax... we're all friends here. --- Adolf Hitler Kris ignored the stares and shouts of the Zardons behind him; he focused instead on the big ugly carniverous whatever which he'd managed to annoy. The shale-brown creature stared balefully at him, apparently debating which part to rend first. Its stubby tail twitched as Kris eased his rifle into firing position. Suddenly, the head leaped forward, and and Kris pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Snarling, the creature bit down on the rifle, imbedding it between his teeth. As the creature wrestled with the metal thing in its mouth, Kris scrambled like mad beneath the creature. Reaching the desired location, Kris prayed for a similarity in anatomy among Zardon and Terran creatures, and did his field-goal unit imitation in the monster's crotch. The creature stiffened, whimpered, and fell over and curled into a quivering leathery ball. Kris crawled away, not desiring to retrieve his bent rifle from the creature's mouth. Hell, he thought, it's a dud anyway. Damn cheap Zardon blasters. Down the dry, crumbling ridge Kris crawled, pausing to turn around when the grade became too steep. After a few minutes, he reached a flat spot and stood, ready to run at the first sight of the creature. "That's far enough." The voice surprised Kris for a second, before he remembered just exactly why he'd been on the ridge to begin with. "Who are you?" he asked quietly. "Hunters," the voice replied. The Zardons whom he'd seen lurking around his ship now lurked around him, only more visibly and less patiently. "We know you have a ship here. Open it or we will kill you." Kris looked blandly back at the Zardons, not trying to spot the owner of the voice; it was male, and adult, and that was all he could tell. "You'll probably kill me anyway," he muttered. "No deal." The Zardons looked at each other, and then the owner of the voice appeared, a scrawny middle- aged man with a blaster pistol in his right hand and the neck of a female Zardon in his left arm. "Open your ship or I will kill her." "Why would you kill your own person?" Kris asked. The female spoke; "It is not the first time we have died for the cause." Well, that did it. The first threat had been just that. This one... Kris walked through the Zardons, feeling the guns tracking him, and spoke to a specific point in the air, "Emergency hatch override Sierra Horse Indigo Tango." A small airlock door appeared in midair, and Kris keyed the hatch open. The Zardons' leader gestured with the blaster. "Go in," he said. "We will follow. If you flee, she will die." Kris looked in the "hostage"'s eyes; he could believe it. He stepped into the small stealth-ship's debarkation room, palmed a hold-out blaster, and gestured with his unladen hand towards the others. "Drop it," the voice growled. Damn. The derringer dropped to the floor, and Kris gestured again with slightly less grace. The Zardons scrambled into the ship, each looking around hurriedly in the cramped compartments. A few seconds into the search, Kris heard the words, "Wedge Defense Force!" above the quiet muttering and exchanges. After a cursory search, the dozen or so Zardons regrouped, crowding the main compartment of the ship. Their leader turned to Kris, releasing the woman at last. "Are you a member of the Wedge Defense Force?" he growled. "Yes," Kris replied. At this, the various Zardons looked at each other excitedly. The leader of the group smiled. "I am Khorin Dr'aanal. I am the leader of the Zardon Liberation Party. The Resistance." Gesturing to the others, he said, "Here you see the army I have at my disposal." "I'm impressed," Kris said sarcastically. Khorin shrugged. "We aren't alone, you understand," he said. "There are others cells in the other mega cities, and a couple out on the Cursed Earth, but we have no way of coordinating our efforts. We cannot travel far from our homes without permits, which we dare not apply for. Communications are all tapped, and several of our members are under constant military surveillance." He paused, then said quickly, "We need your assistance." "I'm sorry?" Kris said quietly. "We cannot hope to gain the support of the masses without assistance from outside. We need help to unite the people, overcome the imperial soldiers, and put an end to the Imperial Zardon once and for all." Khorin looked almost wistfully at Kris as he said, "We need your help." Kris shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Well... I can't." Noting the disappointment on the revolutionaries' faces, he continued, "Even if I wasn't on a particular mission, if I were caught helping you, it would be a diplomatic disaster for the WDF, Salusia, and everyone they're associated with! I'm sorry, but I can't help you. The best thing I could do is raise ship and get back to my base." He gestured towards the door. "So, if you would just kindly leave, or else enjoy a one-way trip offplanet?" "I'm afraid that won't be possible," Khorin said, and a large blunt object struck Kris in the back of the head. For a moment, the room spun violently; then Kris passed out. A few seconds later, he recovered, and noticed with interest the various clothes knotted around his ankles and knees. Although he did not resist as two Zardons trussed his armes behind his back, he asked, "What the hell is this going to do for you?" Khorin smiled grimly. "Even if you aren't allowed to help personally, your extended absence will draw attention from the Wedge Defense Force. Another agent will be dispatched, we will contact him, and sooner or later we will either have the help of the WDF, or all of them individually." Kris decided not to mention the word "expendable" to this man, who so sadly thought his plan foolproof. He also decided not to point out that the next agents would likely be two extremely competent females who would leave behind a trail of destruction. The odds of those two being captured were so remote as to be laughable, and the odds of their staying captured were nonexistent. The revolutionaries sealed up the ship behind them. As the camo field resolved itself over the hatchway, Kris asked quietly, "How did you know the ship was there?" Khorin smiled and said, "You happen to have landed directly over one of our tunnelways from the city. When we couldn't undo the hatch, we sent up this surveillance team to see what had happened." Kris shrugged. His good karma in the prison was being paid for now. "Incidentally," Kris asked, "what do you intend to do once you've gotten rid of Emperor Garth?" Khorin stopped for a moment. "Well," he said at last, "we'll stop the war, that's for sure. And then we'll free all the political prisoners, put an end to torture, establish equality for all the people..." "Sounds good," Kris said. "But who'll be in charge?" "All the people will have a say in the new government," Khorin replied almost testily. "And how will their say be heard? Who will represent them? How will they be chosen? How will the new government pay for public services, for common defense? What do you plan to replace the Imperial Zardon with?" "Well... we'd planned to work that out as we went along." Khorin said. "Get the people together and decide what would be the best way to insure an equitable government." Kris groaned. "So, you really have no plans other than to just get rid of Emperor Garth, right?" "Not as such." Khorin admitted. The lead man in the procession crouched and lifted a slab of rock from the desert floor, revealing a cavern beneath. "We are now entering the caverns beneath the city," Khorin continued. " Our base is located on the seventh level. I must warn you that you will not be in a very safe place." Kris rolled his eyes. "Let's see, I'm being carried underground trussed up like a goddamn calf at roping season surrounded by guerillas with blasters, going God knows where, and then you warn me that where I'm going might not be SAFE?" "Not so loud," Khorin said. "Among other things, the caverns outside the city are prone to occasional collapse. Any shouting might bring tons of rock on our heads. Not to mention the outlaws." "Who's shouting?" Kris shouted. This time three people shushed him, and Kris was carried in silence at first through an ancient limestone cavern, then into a set of abandoned water ducts beneath Mega City One. "The levels these ducts once served are abandoned," Khorin said, "except by outlaws and derelicts. These ducts will see us close to the point we seek. " "Buddy, I don't know about you," Kris said, "but the point I seek has a lot more food in it and a lot fewer guns, know what I mean?" Khorin didn't reply, as the group wound its way slowly upward through the rusty conduits, then out through the basement of an abandoned office building, and then up several staircases. In every corner, Kris imagined shadows shifting and eyes watching intently, which was only a short way from the truth. As they ascended, Kris noticed weapons disappearing beneath the loose rags of the guerillas, and not long after, one of them pushed aside a section of the ceiling. At this point, Kris was lowered to the ground, set on his feet and untied. "I doubt you will be able to easily find your way back through the tunnels," Khorin said. "If you will follow us, we will lead you to a safe place for now." "Lead on," Kris replied. "I haven't got much else to do." Once above street level, Kris began to see signs of activity. People at first scurried away cautiously, then ignored the group marching from access point to access point. Finally, in an old apartment building on the seventh level, the group stopped and quietly unloaded its arsenal into a small closet, then sat Kris down at a table and scrounged some NewFood for him. Kris tried not to think of where the substance came from and ate with gusto. When he asked for more, the two guards assigned to him looked oddly at him, but soon provided some old bread and drink. After downing this, Kris looked around, took the overall situation into account, and did the only thing which made sense. He went to sleep. He was terribly tired. Blood and fire, and a beautiful face falling into a pool of blood, as Salusians, humans and Zardons fight around them... Explosions, and fire, and two women with red hair... Gunfire... Gunfire... Kris sat up as various revolutionaries scurried through the room. Blaster fire and bullets screamed outside, mixed with shouts and breaking glass. Seeing Khorin running down the hall, he waved him down. "What's going on?" he asked. "Block riot!" Khorin said. "We have to evacuate now, before the Judges arrive!" "The Judges?" Why did that name ring a bell in his head? Kris wondered. "Come on!" Khorin yelled. "We haven't any time!" Kris shambled maybe a few steps down the stained corridor before hearing a loud amplified female voice; "Attention! You are all under arrest! Drop your arms and prepare to be judged!" Oh, yeah, Kris thought. The JUDGES. OH SHIT. Kris started running down the stairs. He didn't notice until he'd burst out the fire door into an alley that he'd carried Khorin and another reolutionary with him, Khorin under one arm and the other guy over his opposite shoulder. As soon as he noticed, the weight became unbearable, and he dropped both of them. "Sorry about that," Kris said meekly. "YOU THERE!" A voice shouted from the end of the alley, raising the hairs on the back of Kris' neck. "HALT IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!" "RUN!" Khorin screamed, and scrambled back into the building. Kris turned to follow, and felt a blaze of pain run through his right knee. "EVADING ARREST- TWO YEARS," the voice cried, as the blue and black armored figure producing it drew closer. The figure was obviously- in fact blatantly- female beneath the kevlar and stelamic armor and gilt trim, and the bottom half of the face revealed by her helmet revealed a more delicate jaw than Kris might have imagined. A badge caught the tiny fragment of light the alley trapped; the name ZARD'AL proclaimed itself. The other revolutionary scrambled to his feet, only to be brought down by a single gunshot. "KNOWN FELON AND REBEL- LIFE IMPRISONMENT." The voice, Kris now saw, was amplified from a mike built into the helmet. He checked his leg- the blood had already stopped flowing and the wound was closing nicely. Just a few more seconds... "DIE, JUDGE!" Blasts came from the end of the alleyway, spanging against the concrete walls and occasionally bouncing off. One hit the Judge in the thigh, and she collapsed with a curse. Twisting, she said into her pistol, "Grenade." A reply came from the gun, but Kris couldn't make it out. Aiming at the three or four punks approaching them, she pulled the trigger, and a large flashing object flew from its barrel and exploded about ten meters away, crisping the would-be assailants. The backblast slammed into the Judge and Kris, and for a second Kris felt the lights begin to dim. Shaking off the effects of the blow, Kris looked the Judge over. She was knocked out cold, and blood trickled from a deep gash in her leg. Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he grabbed the Judge under the shoulders and pulled her into the building. "I'm going to regret this," he said... 12) It followed me home. Can I keep it? -- 64% of all juvenile sapients everywhere Inside the apartment building, Khorin and the rest of the revolutionaries gathered themselves to leave, weapons in hand and supplies on their backs. They were surprised to see Kris re-enter the building, and more surprised to see what he was dragging in behind him. "We're dead," Khorin said as he saw the badge on the Judge's chest. "We are most assuredly dead." Kris stared at the rebels angrily. "She needs help," he barked. "Get hot water or alcohol, some sterile bandages, and hurry." As he dragged her feet through the door and closed it, she groaned slightly, but did not awaken. "Do you understand what you've done?" Khorin said. "You've kidnapped Leeanna." About fifty kazillion alarm bells rang in Kris' mind. "Leeanna?" "The greatest street Judge of our time," Khorin said. "Not to mention Garth's chosen heir." That does it, Kris thought, if I survive to go on another mission like this, I'm reading EVERYTHING I can on the target planet beforehand! No matter WHAT! And to HELL with Ben Dunn! "She still needs help. She's bleeding to death, for Chrissakes!" Looking from person to person, all Kris saw were shocked looks and stares. The vacant stares of sheep. Well, Kris thought, I see now why the Resistance isn't very popular. "At least take me where I can get some help for her!" he said. After a moment, Khorin nodded. "Remove her uniform," he said, and Kris and three others quickly removed the armor and as many other identifying marks as possible. Removing her helmet revealed a gentle face, and her hair ended in a large bun which was quickly undone into a long wave of rich green hair. The fact that Leeanna Zard'al was a raging beauty could not really be disguised, but a little work with her hair at least covered it. One of the female rebels contributed a pair of pants to replace the ones from the uniform, and before long Leeanna looked more like a homeless Zardon than a princess turned Judge. The pistol Kris handled very gingerly by the barrel, and he slid it to the opposite end of the hall. "I hope somebody's stupid enough to try to use it," he said; even he knew about the safeguards built into the armaments carried by Judges. "Now," Khorin said quietly, "we must go to one of our other refuges, in the Undercity." Kris' mind clicked into high gear. "The Undercity?" "Not far down, you understand," Khorin said quietly. "We have a few places secured from the outlaws which are hidden from those above street level. We use them as refuges for our families and injured. We will go there, and attend to your... captive," Khorin finished, glaring at Leeanna's pale form. After binding the wound on Leeanna's leg, Kris followed the revolutionaries into an dark, rusty air vent in the basement of the apartment complex. Crawling along the narrow passage, single file, the rebels made not a sound, whereas Kris grunted and cursed trying to manhandle Leeanna in front of him. After either twenty minutes or four eternities, Kris heard a grate creak open, and one by one the rebels in front of him slid down through the opening. Kris carefully lowered Leeanna through, and then slid down himself. The room beyond the grate was fairly large, with large containers of water lining one wall, bunks lying here and there, windows and doors barricaded with tiny firing slots left open, and more people piled inside than Kris thought the room could hold. Many of them were in obvious pain from blaster wounds, and even more showed obvious signs of malnutrition, especially the dozens of children playing listlessly here and there. Even in his prison uniform and stolen boots, Kris imagined he was the best dressed of the lot. In one corner, a man was stirring the contents of a pot over an open fire; the smell from the fire told Kris at once just what was being burned. Kris looked around. "Is any of you a qualified medic?" he asked. "We have no physicians among us," Khorin said bitterly. "The Imperials keep too close an eye on them. A couple of us have learned some basic battlefield surgery, but that is all." Kris groaned. More work. "Okay, listen here. I'm going to need some supplies. Rubbing alcohol- if you can't get any, the most potent booze you can find. Bandages, or rags boiled in water. Hypodermic needles and bags, if there are any to get. Fresh food, vitamins, painkillers, sedatives. Can you do it?" Khorin looked gloomily at Kris. "Much of what you want is beyond our means," he said, "but if you will do what you can for our people, we will do our best." "Great," Kris said. "One more thing. I'll need a couple of assistants." His stomach growled. "And hurry up with that food!" Kris stayed busy for the next six hours, putting his WDF medic training to the test. After changing the makeshift bandage on Leeanna's leg with a sterilized one and cleaning the wound thoroughly, he inspected each of twenty or so other patients. Most had their wounds in the arm and leg, and all of them, Kris groaned to himself, infected. One man in particular needed surgery immediately, and Kris pointed this out to Khorin, who sadly told him that there was no way a surgeon could be obtained, or that the patient could be transported to a hospital safely. As for the rest, Kris cleaned their wounds, administered the tiny amount of antibiotics the rebels had where he could, managed to force some food down each one's throat, and doled out analgesics and antihistamines (no sedatives available) as liberally as he could. All in all, he'd contributed slightly to the chances of most of them, but a couple were going to die anyway. Having done all he knew how to do, Kris sat on a chair, munched on a bar of something he didn't want to identify, and settled in to wait. How long, Kris thought, before Leeanna recovers? Leeanna moaned. Her leg hurt like hell, her head was throbbing, and the last thing she remembered was taking a back-blast from an explosive round and going down. She'd gone alone to the block riot, one of dozens popping up all over the city today, like a fool. At first it had seemed like a typical uprising. Then, she'd forgotten to watch her back... and it had gone downhill from there. One of these days, she thought, I'm going to have to remember that my responsibility to the people also means taking care of myself. Who's going to protect the people if all the Judges let themselves get nailed alone in an alley? Opening her eyes, she saw a bearded face looking vaguely at her. The bearded man, who Leeanna recognized as one of the criminals in the alley, was changing a bandage on her leg. Immediately, Leeanna jumped out of bed and into a combat stance, looking the criminal directly in the eyes. "You are under arrest for evading arrest, conspiring with known rebels, kidnap of a peace officer, and obstruction of a criminal investigation! How do you plead?" she asked. The criminal walked over to Leeanna, placed his feet carefully, and laid a hand on her left shoulder and pushed downward. She grabbed the arm and attempted to throw him, but instead she ended up with her back to him, his arm around her chest and arms. "Please sit down, Leeanna," he said, "you've lost a lot of blood and are in no condition to be out of bed." Leeanna struggled, then went limp and allowed the man to lay her gently onto the cot. "Who are you?" she said quietly. The man's eyes defocused for a second as he thought for a second, then said, "My name is Redneck. I'm a lieutenant in the Wedge Defense Force. I came here to investigate the planet-smasher cannon you're building outside the city." "Wedge.... Defense Force?" She looked more carefully at Redneck. "You're an Earther?" A few children stopped playing nearby and turned to listen. "Yes," Redneck said. "I was born on Earth." The children gathered around quietly, mumbling about "He's an Earther!" to each other. Meanwhile, Leeanna asked, "Then what are you doing with a band of rioters and known agitators?" The man sat down and began his story from the moment he'd landed, infiltrating the base, getting caught during a security alert, escaping, being caught by the Resistance, and then ending up in the crossfire when a riot broke out. Leeanna and the children listened raptly as he began to embellish the story, almost whispering as he described his sneaking up to his ship, almost shouting as he described the gunfire. When he mentioned the name Zard'al, the children looked at Leeanna surprised. "You're Judge Leeanna?" one young boy asked. "Where's your Lawmaster?" A girl sitting by the man said, "I wanna be just like you when I grow up, Judge Leeanna. Get a Lawgiver an' run around fightin' criminals." She stood on the cot and said as sternly as possible, "Come out and prepare to be judged!!" Leeanna smiled gently, and notice that the man was also smiling and trying not to laugh. Leeanna wished she felt free to laugh; so seldom, seldom did she feel like laughing, and almost never could she let the laugh escape. A Judge did not laugh; a Judge was the law. And yet... Leeanna remembered her younger days, when her father would take time to play with her, on occasion; more often, he'd order someone else to do it, though. That sort of innocence, Leeanna thought, is what we work for. People living in safety, without fear. "How simple," Leeanna said quietly. "I wonder if I was ever like that..." "Princess Leeanna," the oldest boy there said, "are you here to take my mommy away?" Leeanna's face hardened. She faced this so often these days, you'd think it would stop hurting. Was no one innocent anymore? "If she has committed a crime, yes." In a cold monotone, she continued, "Lawbreakers must pay their debt to society, no matter what the cost." Redneck said quietly, "Is it breaking the law to try to protect you loved ones from a system which grinds them underfoot?" Leeanna frowned at him. How dare he, an alien, speak insurrection in her presence? "The Imperial rule is equal and just. It protects Zardon from the agression of other planets and from the anarchy of the Cursed Earth." The man faced her in turn, and said, "The Imperial rule serves the whims of a tyrant, using the sweat and tears of his nation to realize his mad dreams." Leeanna's eyes flared with anger. "How DARE you speak of my father like that?" True, she had no great love for her father anymore, with his foolish edicts and his mismanagement of the planet, but that gave no right for an alien to speak ill of him. Redneck waved his arm around the room. "When people have to live like rats for speaking their mind about something... when the life of a child is less important than the bullet which took it... when chaos rules the streets and no one is safe... what kind of rule is that?" "Once the radicals and outlaws have been suppressed, peace will return," Leeanna said firmly. The problem is, a voice in her head added, when do the radicals and outlaws stop coming? When does it end? "Suppressed? How?" The man stood and paced the floor. "By exterminating or enslaving your politcal enemies? By spreading death and destruction in your own streets? That won't supress radicals- that creates new ones! People who fear for their safety will decide to rebel rather than wait for the hammer to fall!" Leeanna said, "But if we hit hard enough..." "Hit WHAT?" The man was shouting now, and all eyes in the room were on him. "THIS," he yelled, pointing to the girl who'd wanted to be like Leeanna, "THIS is what you're hitting! How many more people have to die, and how many riots, uprisings, protests have to occur before you get the idea? You're destroying the people you're trying to save!!" Redneck turned away, leaving Leeanna to think. All the doubts, all the regrets she'd had since she'd become a street Judge, wrapped up in the angry shouts of an alien. How many times, Leeanna thought, have I and mine split up a family, killed parents, for the sake of the laws my father hands down? How long has it been since we looked at the Law of the Justice Department more than the Law of the Empire? Leeanna took a long look at the room. Are we really doing any good... or are we a worse cure than the disease? "Judge Leeanna?" a young voice asked. "Are you gonna arrest us?" Leeanna wanted to say no, but the word couldn't get past the lump in her throat. Why? she asked, Why does it never get any better? We're just making things worse... "Judge Leeanna?" the voice continued, "why you cryin'?" Kris looked up from where he'd stood, trying to control his emotions. Children could annoy him or delight him, but woe betide anyone who mistreated a child in his presence. In a couple of moments, his anger, frustration, and sadness over a system which produced conditions such as this, which made parents send children to Hell for protection, had burst out and hit Leeanna head-on. He'd blown it, big time. "Hey, lookit!" a little boy said. "The Earther's cryin', too!" "I'm all right," Kris said, quietly, as he turned slowly and sat down beside Leeanna. Hugging her, he said, "Take it easy... it's all right..." "It's NOT all right!" Leeanna shouted through the tears. "We try so hard, we uphold the law, we try to keep the peace, and everything just keeps getting WORSE!" Burying her face in her hands, she repeated, "It just keeps getting worse..." and sobbed heavily. Kris REALLY wished he were anywhere else at that moment. To one of his assistants, he said, "Give the children something to eat, a treat or something. If they ask, tell them Leeanna isn't feeling good, but we'll make her all better. And that she's taking NOBODY away. Got that?" "Yes, sir," the orderly said. As he rounded up the kids, Kris got Leeanna on her feet and walked her over to the far end of the room. He whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to hurt that much..." A clinical and unhelpful part of his mind thought, The truth always hurts someone. "But it's so wrong," Leeanna said through her sniffles. "Why doesn't it work?" Kris sat her down in a chair and sat down himself beside her. "It's not that much your fault," he said quietly. "Here you have your father, his cronies, and a few others at the very top, either getting rich or getting powerful off everybody else. Whenever someone comes along trying to take that away, they eliminate them. Follow me so far?" Leeanna nodded, still unable to compose herself. "Underneath, you have a small middle class, pretty much running everything the big boys missed. They get their share, but they pay taxes too. All in all, they get on pretty well most of the time. "Beneath all that, you have an ENORMOUS lower class. These people are too poor for most services, have to rely on substandard housing and dead-end jobs for virtually no pay, and get placed in life-threatening danger every day from criminals and gangs. "These people are caught. They can't move up because they can't get the right jobs or the right connections. They can't stay here because they're being slaughtered by gangs, the military press gangs, and, I am sad to say, the Judges. So, they begin to fight back. A few at a time, an isolated robbery or shooting here and there, then organized protests, riots, eventually full- scale uprisings. "And the more they threaten the people in power, the harder those people come down on them. The greater the pressure, the more the people fight back. Before long, either the populace is destroyed, or the government is overthrown. More likely both, with a lot of anarchy and mob rule thrown in." Basically, Zardon was following the same trend many Earth nations had followed, which ended in anything from reform (if caught early enough) to revolution (if managed by competent leaders) to total anarchy (the worst-case scenario). Kris doubted that the Imperium could survive as it was more than another, say, ten years, even discounting what might happen if that planet-slammer ever became operational. "But what do we do then?" Leeanna said quietly. She'd stopped crying and was watching Kris intently. "The system you had, if it ever worked, is broken," Kris said. "One way or the other, it's got to change, or else one helluva lot of people are going to die changing it themselves." "But..." Leeanna stared at Kris dumbfounded. "That's treason! That's overthrowing the Imperial Zardon!" "It's reform," Kris said. "If your father would be willing to hear the grievances of the people, improve living conditions, expand civil liberties, the pressure might be relieved." Leeanna shook her head. "He'll never do it," she said. In a low growl, she continued, "Damn fool never listens to anyone except his admirals. And Mother," she added with an extra touch of distaste. Kris laid a hand on Leeanna's in what he hoped was a comforting way. "If he won't move, then sooner or later he'll be moved." Staring directly at Leeanna, he said, "There'll be a time when in order to protect his throne, he'll kill every single person he rules over. Or else they'll kill him and sack the planet in the process. Or... " he leaned over and forced Leeanna to look into his eyes, "...you can control the mob, keep order and throw out Garth yourself." Leeanna brushed away Kris' hand. "I can't!" she said testily. "You're talking about my father! I can't just go in and toss him out on his ear!" Kris looked at Leeanna surprisedly. This was NOT the intense, ruthless Leeanna he'd been expecting. So much the better. "Many others in your position would do just that, without a second thought," he said quietly. "Good for you. That means you'll be a fair ruler when the time comes." "I don't want to rule," Leeanna said. "All I want is to protect my people." "Well," Kris said, "someone has to lead the revolution. The people seem to admire you. Fear you, yes, but also admire you. Furthermore, with you leading the opposition, a lot of people who might support your father will feel more comfortable about the new order. They might even help." Leeanna stood. "You're right," she said. "After all, it is my responsibility. Zard'als solve Zard'al problems. Let's go," she said, and strode towards a door. A few steps away, she stumbled, and Kris caught her before she fell. "You aren't going anywhere until you get some rest," Kris said. "Besides, you can't just start the revolution now." "Why not?" Leeanna asked angrily. Kris ticked off his points on his fingers. "One. Nobody knows who or what or why, as far as any revolution goes. Two. You're sick and weak and wounded and should be in bed. Three. Any uprising of the people has to be well-organized, simultaneous, and apparently spontaneous, or it won't work. Four. There are the Zardon army, space navy, and the Judges to consider. Either we have to recruit them or eliminate them as serious threats or else the revolution is quite short. That means organizing a military of our own, or-" "You said, 'our'," Leeanna pointed out. "So I did," Kris said quietly. "Well, I guess I'm involved in it now." "So," Leeanna sat and considered, "where can we get a military from?" Kris thought carefully. "Well, as you can see here, the beginnings of an army are already in place, and besides any ground forces would have to contend with the mass uprising of the people. Hopefully, other Judges besides yourself can be made to recognize Garth's crimes, and come over to the side of the revolution. Finally, the space navy..." Kris thought very, very carefully. "We'll need some help for that." "Help? You mean, from the WDF?" "No," Kris thought. "The WDF, and Salusia for that matter, would lose a lot if they got directly involved with a revolution. No, this has to look legitimate and internal, which means... " Kicking the puzzle over in his head, he continued, "We need to hire some mercenaries, a fleet without allegiances, who could keep the fleet occupied while the revolution goes on here." "Why? Except for starfighters, our starfleet can't do much against a ground force." "They can blast the city from orbit," Kris said gloomily. "So long as your father has the fleet close to hand, he'll use it, no matter what." "Hmm..." Leeanna said. "He'd be just stupid enough to do it. Well, how do we get a fleet?" Now Kris was at a loss. Most pirates worked for themselves alone and didn't hire out these days. Currently, the only licensed privateer ships belonged to the WDF, which technically was a fleet without a planet (if you didn't count Plantia). However, the acknowledgement of the WDF as a legal independent fleet by the United Galactica convention (through the bullying of Salusia) had set an important legal precedent... "We'll make our own," Kris said at last. To an orderly, he called for paper and pen. "A fleet we control, made up of ships and pilots from all over, hired on for the duration of the war." In his head, the words logistics, supply, reinforcement, intelligence, all danced in his head. "No one in the fleet can have a political tie to anybody else- that way, the diplomatic angle is eliminated. Call it... call it the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet." "The what?" Leeanna crossed her eyes at the name. "Confederate Freespacers. Nationless people united for common goals. A group dedicated to freedom and liberty for all sapients everywhere... for a price," he said, waggling his eyebrows. Leeanna looked annoyed at Kris. "What price will that be?" "Hmm..." Kris thought carefully. "That'll have to wait until the Resistance can actually pay something. Still..." The wheels turned round and round in his head. "How opposed would you be to a vacation?" he said at last. "Why? What do you have in mind?" Leeanna asked. "I think we need to have a talk with my boss... Commander Hutchins." 13) Take this job and shove it. --- George Washington, 1783 That evening, Khorin, Leeanna and Kris sat down and discussed the general direction of the future Popular Republican Zardon Party. Since he was the only one of the three whose culture had a successful revolution in its recorded history, most of the general outlines were left to Kris to fill out. Khorin contributed where he could regarding the lower and middle classes, and Leeanna made points on the ruling houses and the military, but by and large the plan was Kris'. The first step would be to stage Leeanna's death. (Not terribly difficult, since the Judges had already recovered her uniform- after all traces of her movement had been erased.) While Garth and his minions would play it up as part of the royal house's devotion to duty, word would be spread, a little at a time, that Leeanna was alive and had gone underground to assist the Resistance. By keeping Leeanna in the back of the public mind, her popularity could be maintained until the proper time came to stage the uprising. The next step was selling other governments- primarily Salusia and the WDF- to covertly aid the new party, either by supplying aid to the ground forces or contributing to the "Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet". This involved personal interviews by Leeanna- who would probably be the next Chief of State no matter what happened- and Kris, who would be organizing the new starfleet himself. While this was going on, Khorin would be organizing the various resistance cells within range, who hopefully would in turn pass on the message to other cells, and so on. After that, Leeanna would return to Zardon and begin her main task- slowly bringing the Judges over to the viewpoint of the Resistance. This meant, among other things, establishing a basis for the prosecution of Garth's crimes. Kris listed them as much as he could; Malfeasance in public office (sp. the Office of the Imperial Zardon) Gross tyranny Perpetuation of massacres and murder on the general populace Unlawful seizure of life, limb and property Violation of civil liberties Prosecution of an aggressive war (sp. against Salusia and her allies) Most likely, only the first, third and sixth could ever be tried, but Kris felt the other points had merit. In any case, it never hurt to lay it on thick, especially in a revolution. Kris outlined a possible republican government to replace the Imperial one, once the revolution was successful. Using a variation of the Parliamentary system, he sketched out a quick constitution, giving legislative power to a House of Lords (to keep the old guard happy) and a House of Commons, executive power to a popularly elected President of Parliament, and judiciary power, of course, to the Supreme Judiciary- where it already was. Also included were civil rights stipulations and limitations on the powers of lords and mega-city governments. Finally, after copying the draft down for later reference, Kris passed the paper over for the other two to read. Leeanna balked at the idea of trial by jury, and Khorin choked at the notion of the old lords still having a place in politics. Kris scratched in "civil" under "trial by jury" to limit it to lawsuits, but held firm on the House of Lords. "We'll need every bit of support we can get," he said. "That includes the nobility, like it or not." Leeanna proposed a clause making the Book of Law, the basis of the Judges' jurisprudence, the basic law of the Republic. Currently, there were two different sets of laws: the civil set which had been handed down from before the Imperium, and a military code established by the Imperium, enforced not only by the Judges but also by the armed forces, particularly the White Guards. After a moment's thought, Kris wrote in the clause. Why not, he thought. Once the basic strategy of the rebellion had been hashed out, Kris and Leeanna gathered together what little they could and, crawling through a system of vents, conduits, tunnels and caves, finally ended up at his ship. Thankfully, two days had not been enough time for the Zardon military scans to cut through the camo field and find the ship. Promising to return as soon as he could, Kris set the ship to full stealth and lit out for deep space. Commander Ben Hutchins, executive officer of the SDF-17 Wayward Son, commander in chief of the starfighter and mecha squadrons stationed therein, and immediate superior to Junior Lieutenant Kristan Overstreet, was not particularly pleased when Redneck returned from Zardon a day late. However, he thought as Kris' preliminary report scrolled up onto his terminal, it beats hell out of him being gone for good. He read the report, frowning slightly at the short text. Infiltration successful. Mass accelerator under construction, no immediate danger of completion. Unforeseen complications encountered. Will brief in person. End of file. An hour after docking his stealthship in the SDF-17, Kris showed up in full dress uniform, which surprised Gryphon only slightly. The surprise hit when he saw Kris accompanied by a pale and still slightly unsteady Leeanna Zard'al herself, dressed in Kris' old Confederate flight suit. He did, however, manage to be polite. "Glad to see you back, Redneck," he said, waving him to a seat. "Pleased to meet you, Your Honor, and welcome to the Wayward Son. I hope you'll pardon me while I get the report from my officer here," he said in turn to Leeanna, who nodded in reply as she took a leisurely stance by the main door. After taking a few deep breaths, he continued, "First, I want to know why you showed up at the rendezvous point a full day later than you were supposed to, with no communications in the meantime. Second, I want to know just why you brought back the heir to the Zardon Empire when you DID come back. Third, I would be VERY INTERESTED TO KNOW what you plan on doing next." Kris took a deep breath, composed his thoughts, and spoke. "First- unforeseen problems kept me away from my ship longer than anticipated. Second- if you'd bothered to ask her, she'd tell you she's here of her own free will. Third..." A second deep breath, then, "I quit." Gryphon blinked, then blinked again. "Pardon me?" "I'm resigning my commission as a lieutenant in the Wedge Defense Force," Kris said. "Would you like to hear why?" "Yes..." Gryphon said. "Yes, I would." Kris skimmed over the general events of the mission, finally ending with his and Leeanna's joint decision to join the Zardon Resistance. At this point, Kris slid three pieces of paper across Gryphon's desk. The top sheet was Kris' official resignation, citing command differences and conflict of interest. The second sheet was a copy of the Zardon Declaration of Rebellion, a statement loosely related to the Declaration of Independence, with Khorin's name among forty signed at the bottom. Leeanna's and Kris' names were conspicuously absent. The third read as follows: CHARTER OF THE CONFEDERATE FREESPACERS MERCENARY FLEET I, the undersigned, pledge my service and loyalty to the Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet; And I pledge to honor and uphold this Charter, the regulations of the Fleet, and the laws of the civilian government set over that Fleet; And I pledge to obey the commands of the Commander of the Fleet, the civil government set over the Fleet, and any officers rightfully appointed above me by the Fleet; And I renounce all other loyalties, oaths and citizenships, becoming a Citizen of Free Space. As a member of the Fleet, I pledge a tithe of my earnings to support the Fleet, understanding that during my active service to the Fleet I shall be guaranteed of employment according to my skills; And I shall receive asylum and amnesty for any acts committed prior to my enlistment in the Fleet, for so long as I remain in active service; And, should I own a ship and contribute its service to the Fleet, I shall expect maintenance, repair and if necessary replacement by the Fleet; And, in the event of my death or disability in the line of duty, I shall expect proper care for my family (if any) and defrayment of medical and/or funeral expenses. Understanding that this Charter shall be the highest law of the Fleet, and pledging to uphold it to the best of my ability, I sign; Kris's signature, unusually legible, appeared underneath, followed by two Zardon names. Gryphon read the text very, very carefully. After a minute or two, he said, "And just what did you have planned after this?" Kris said, "Well, we ferry people off and onto Zardon for training as an army, we perform some hit and run raids- make them stretch out their starfleet... maybe capture a few of their starships... and then, when there's almost nothing left in the Salusal system in our way... then we do the uprising thing. Keep space superiority long enough for the masses to take out the palace... and no more Empire." "What about the army and the Judges?" Gryphon asked. Leeanna spoke this time: "The vast masses will be able to overpower whatever part of the army does not follow me... and I intend to persuade the Judges to see my view on the subject." She smiled thinly, implying have pity on those who disagreed with that viewpoint. "Hmm... " Gryphon considered the statements, looked over the papers again, then nodded. "Great! Brilliant! It's a great plan! I'm proud to be a part of it! Let's do it! You're fired! Don't let the door hit your ass!" Remembering whose presence he was in a bit late, he flushed slightly and said, "Uh, I beg your pardon, Your Honor." "I've heard worse, Commander," she said quietly. Kris held up his hand. "Pardon me, but if I could run a plan by you..." Thanks to the investigation done on Sparky back in 1996, the WDF and WWWA had a heaping pile of data on several pirate bands working in secret for the Zardons. These bands would on a regular basis hijack commercial freighters, swipe any cargo valuable to the Zardon military, and fade. The WDF had shut down some and let others go, infiltrating here and there to gain information on the various other bands as they came in. Now, Kris proposed to take advantage of that information to totally sever his ties with the WDF, at least as far as any outsider could tell. An empty Salusian container ship flew past a known ambush point the following day, secretly containing a slightly outsized Eight-Ball squadron; for one time only, Kris was flying in the premiere squadron in space. His primary thought: God, I hate Valkiryes. As the pirate Y-wings swooped in for the kill, seven Valkiryes swooped out of the cargo hatch and into attack formation. Everyone (except Haywire, who probably wouldn't have cared anyway) was in on the plan, which was simple: Gryphon would give a specific battle order, Redneck would ignore it, and he (and presumably Haywire) would go blowing up everything in space, excepting the freighter and the Valks (maybe). Gryphon would be covering Redneck's six, firing "warning shots" as he did, while the rest of the squadron watched Haywire and stayed out of the way. To make a long story short, the plan went off like clockwork. Haywire actually behaved himself (after seeing what Redneck was getting), and Redneck managed to get all eight Y-wings and even managed to dodge into one of Gryphon's shots to make the affair seem a little more serious. Finally, when they got back to the Wayward Son, Zoner personally called him "on the carpet"- specifically, to the bridge. The entire senior staff of the ship was there, plus some notable other members of the crew: Martin Rose, chief simulator demon and official ship Silly Person; Major Perry Alzjinal, senior Salusian officer on the ship; Junior Lieutenant Asrial Arconian, ranking Salusian royalty on the ship; Sparky, of course; and several other people who were, of course, all in on the gag. Zoner chewed Kris out for five minutes about endangering the mission and the other pilots, insubordination, how Kris had blown his shot at Eight Ball and ever getting his own squadron command, and whatever else he could think up- all while barely keeping a straight expression. Once he finally ran out of inspiration, he growled, "Is that understood, Lieutenant Overstreet?" Kris took a deep breath and ran through his speech one more time mentally, then began; "Sir, if you don't fucking care for the fucking way I fucking do my job, then you can fucking take my commission and shove it up a diarhetic rat's ass! For that matter, fuck it and fuck all of you! I QUIT! I'M GONE! And if I EVER decide to come back, you can just fuck me up the ass with a saguaro cactus sideways wrapped in fucking concertina wire and covered with a rubber taken from a syphilitic New Orleans whore from Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras..." At this point he pulled his pistol and pointed it a secondary computer substation; "...and a lemon twist." ZARK. Q looked up from his board. "Like all recorders on the bridge are like dead." The room broke into applause, and Kris bowed gracefully. Gryphon managed to ask, "What, no curare?" while keeping a straight face. Kris tried not to giggle. "Heh heh.... so I'm not masochistic." "Hey, Kris," Zoner said, "don't hold back. Let us know how you REALLY feel." Kris finally broke laughing. Zoner gestured to Asrial. "Take Mr. Popularity to the brig." Grinning, Asrial saluted. "Yes, sir, Captain Zoner, sir!" With the still-giggling Redneck in tow and disarmed, Asrial left the bridge, followed by most of the non-bridge crew. Before the bridge doors closed, Martin said, "The Get Lost Redneck party starts at seven! Everybody bring your best prison wear!" As the bridge composed itself and returned to normal, Eve's voice popped on. "I've got the bridge recorders working again," she said. "Of course, nothing important happened while they were down, right?" Still grinning, Zoner said, "No, nothing at all, Eve." 14) I love the night life- I love to boogie! ---Cardinal Torquemada The brig really isn't that bad a place to be, at least on the SDF-17 Wayward Son. Kris' bunk had a reasonably thick mattress, there were accommodating toilet facilities, and at the moment, a largish band and catering crew were setting up shop for one of the more unusual events ever on the ship. The banner hanging above the security station said it all: GOOD LUCK AND GET LOST, REDNECK. Beneath the banner, wearing a fairly plain but regal dress, Leeanna stared coolly at the cell which contained Kris. Standing on the other side of the force barrier from him, talking quietly with him, stood Princess Asrial of Salusia. As he spoke, she nodded now and again, asking the occasional question. Finally she wrote something on a notepad and deactivated the forcefield long enough to hand the note through. When Kris read the note, his eyes widened in astonishment. Smiling, Asrial left the brig, nodding politely to a staring Leeanna as she did so. Once the lift door slid closed behind Asrial, Leeanna strode over to Kris' cell. "What did she just hand you?" she asked, almost politely. "Uh, an address and contact name on Corellia... and a handwritten draft off the Imperial treasury for fifty thousand credits." Kris said, still shocked. "It's one thing to ask for help, but it's another to get it that easy." "Fifty thousand credits won't get us much of a fleet," Leeanna observed. "Seed money," Kris said. "This can be parlayed into more, invested properly. At worst, it's a down payment." "Hm. " Leeanna said. "Well, in any case, there are always others to contact." "True," Kris said, "but not tonight." Leeanna smiled. "That's what you think." The brig bulged at the seams as about two hundred crewmembers gathered to informally kick out a particular starfighter pilot from the WDF. The supply of food and drink dwindled and casual conversation grew, only to quiet as Asrial, Zoner and Gryphon strode from the lifts to the lone occupied cell, where sat Kris, under guard. The lights dimmed, and the final scripted part in the melodrama began. As Asrial deactivated the field, Zoner handed a piece of hardcopy to Kris. "Mr. Overstreet, all charges pending against you have been dropped, and your resignation is accepted as of 0700 hours tomorrow. Is there anything you would like to say?" Kris nodded, "Yes, there is." From nowhere, a mike dropped into his hands, and he launched into his own version of a chorus heard around the country-western world. Take this job and shove it! I ain't flyin' your ships no more! I done got tired of all the people I been riskin' my neck for! So take my helmet and take my suit, 'cause I'm walkin' out the door! Take this job and shove it! I ain't flyin' your ships no more! Kris bowed to the assorted laughter, groans and applause of the crowd, and he threw the mike to Martin, who had advised him against the full four-minute version. The band flowed into the opening riffs of "Life's Been Good," and the party began in earnest. Food and drink disappeared down various gullets, well-wishers shook Kris' hand until it was sore, and signatures failed to appear on the copy of the Freespacer Charter taped prominently on one wall. Stray credits, along with about a dozen files, hacksaws, and other implements of escape appeared in a large jar with a note taped to it reading, "Kris's Bail and Mercenary Fleet Fund- Please Contribute." (The note appealed to the weirdness factor of most of the Wedge Rats and a lot of the Salusians.) Various games broke out here and there, and the band played on, cheered by a large group of dancers and listeners. Someone slipped something into the fruit punch- whereupon Kris switched to soda. As things finally began to wind down, a large cake was rolled through the crowd towards the center of the room. The sheer size of the cake made plain its contents (probably female). Kris turned to Martin Rose and said, "Thanks, but do you think the venue is appropriate?" Martin looked at the red and white cake and said, "That wasn't my idea." "It what?" At about that point the band finished its current number. Before it could begin the next song, a loud bump-and-grind tune began playing from nowhere. The lights in the brig died, except for one which just happened (yeah, right) to be shining directly on the cake. As the intro to the song faded to the main theme, the top of the cake hinged open, and a shape hidden by two gigantic folding fans rose into view. Kris felt the glares from most of the female and half of the male guests through the back of his neck. Then, the fans parted, revealing a perfectly decently clad Washuu. "Hi, Kris!" the redhead smiled as Kris's head fell into the Why Oh Why God Why position. "I almost didn't make it, but I had to stop and pick up a few supplies." Supplies? Kris thought. "And now," Washuu said, "here's our chance to show Kris just what we think of him!" About twelve grayish portals into pocketspace opened centered on Kris. He felt unpleasantly like the one deer among thirty drunk hunters. He heard a faint WHOOSH... SPLUT. SPLUT-SPLUT-SPLUT SPLUT SPLUT. SPLUT. Kris was drenched in apple-blueberry-lemon-meringue-chocolate and coconut creme pie. For a second, he tried to wipe off the excess pastry from his eyes, but then the WHOOSH sounded again, and Kris dropped and rolled. WHOOSH WHOOSH SPLUT WHOOSH SPLUT SPLUT WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH SPLUT. No less than five people looked in Kris' general direction and uttered variations on a common theme: "Why... you..." The buffet tables, for no apparent reason, suddenly filled with pies. Various Wedge Rats, Salusians, and miscellaneous grabbed pies and started slinging. The band, having covered their instruments with plastic, joined in the melee. The resulting fracas was taped by Eve, and thanks to her the event would be forever remembered- with chuckles- as Apocalypse Pie. Meanwhile, Kris managed to crawl away from the press of attacking and counterattacking pie slingers, and he stood up near the security station dripping pie. Slinging creme and fruit filling from his face, he managed to get a glimpse of Leeanna, standing quiet and immaculately clean, near the lift. "Uh, Leeanna..." Kris stammered and shuffled, trying to organize his defense, "uh, I'm sure I can explain this... somehow. I'm sorry if I..." Kris noticed the large pie in Leeanna's right hand. "Embarrassed..." SPLUT. Kris didn't even dodge. "...You," he finished quietly. If he'd been able to see through the mass of strawberry creme, he would have seen Judge Princess Leeanna Zard'al smiling and barely stifling a case of the giggles. And the pies flew on, into the night. Asrial scanned through the headers on her email as she scrubbed the last residue of pie filling from her hair. Among the usual items- news from home, responses from alt.gun.nut.heavy.arms, and notes from other crew members, was a piece labeled, "Princess Seeks Princess." The address was Redneck's, but... Asrial opened the email and read it. You're cute. I'm hot. Interested? L. Z. Asrial typed up a short reply and sent it: Not tonight. Maybe when I know you better. A. A. Staring at the screen, Asrial considered the question. What, she wondered, would Jeremy think? Or, for that matter, Ichi? Oh, Jesus Christ, Kris thought, go away whoever you are! The clock on the wall read 3:14 hours. He'd planned to be off the ship no later than noon, and he needed his sleep. Unfortunately, playing possum was not working with whoever this was. Kris gave up. "Come in!" he yelled, pushing himself up on one arm in his bed. The door opened to admit Washuu. "Hi there!" her smiling face peeped as she walked into the room. "Are you done being homicidally mad at me?" Kris looked at her tiredly. He contemplated wringing her neck. He contemplated hugging her, saying all was forgiven, and apoligizing. He contemplated wringing her neck again. He then remembered an idea of his, which he had planned to pop to Rob Mandeville the next morning, which Washuu could probably do much better than ReRob could. Plus Washuu wasn't busy being Chief Engineer. He thought about wringing her neck again. It was still an attractive thought. "Washuu," he croaked, "I'm very tired, so I'm not going to kill you now. I'm still unhappy with you, but I'm going to forget that right now 'cause I need a favor from you..." 15)... And the best part is, appreciation is assured! ---Alexander Hamilton, 1777 The next morning, Leeanna walked onto Hangar Four's deck as Kris loaded his things into his old Y-wing, which various engineers had converted into a two-seater design. Sparky already sat in the droid socket behind the cockpit. "Good morrow, Kris," she said almost casually. "Feeling better?" Kris groaned. "After the third shower, yes." "Well..." Leeanna said quietly. "It just seemed like so... much FUN." Kris smiled good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it. You were hardly alone in there." Looking over Leeanna's garb- a utilitarian jump suit, holster with heavy blaster pistol, and a few other tastefully lethal accesories- he said, "Have you got everything packed?" Leeanna produced a small overnight case. "Where are we going next, anyway? Salusia?" "Not exactly," Kris said. "I made a few vid calls this morning, and made arrangements so that Salusia will be the last place we stop at." "Planitia, then?" "I already got an e-mail this morning from Lord Fahrvegnugen himself. Would you like the full text or the Reader's Digest Condensed edition?" "Uh, condensed," Leeanna said, not getting the reference. " 'Congratulations, sorry to lose you, good luck, and not one penny,' he said." Kris heaved the last bag of clothes into the ship and climbed up to sit on the edge of the open cockpit. "I figure our next stop should be Corellia." "Corellia?" "Hey," Kris smiled as he began powering up the ship for takeoff, "if you're going to recruit a mercenary fleet, go to the source." Corellia is a system of planets situated sqarely across three different galactic trade routes, inhabited by a race of humans obsessed with three things; money, guns and speed. As such, it became a galactic power very quickly, and Corellian Engineeering became second only to Utopia Plantia for fame in shipbuilding- and it built a lot more ships. Corellians may be found in any job any other race does, but on average they have a bent for jobs which involve high levels of danger, vehicles which go really fast, and huge amounts of cash. Naturally enough, a disproportionate number of Corellians turn to smuggling, piracy, or "security" for a living. For all of these Corellians who turned to less- than -noble spacefaring careers, there exist quiet support industries, such as repair docks, secret equipment manufacturers, suppliers and fences, and so forth. Many of these people held other jobs, and a notable few held alternate identities to maintain a semblance of respectability. One such person was Tal Bryar, chief executive of the Bryar Manufacturing Corporation, who overtly operated a respectable munitions and electronic components manufacturing company. On the side, he performed illegal modifications and repairs to sundry spaceships, and designed new very highly illegal equipment to aid the activities of said ships. His name, address and office hours had been on Asrial's notes, with the notation, "He owes me a favor!" After waiting a few minutes in a reception room, Kris and Washuu were admitted inside Bryar's office. "Asrial has contacted me and let me know you were in search of assistance," he said quietly. "In all honesty, I must point out that I have no way of supplying even one ship, much less funding to provide support. I really don't see how I can help you." Kris gestured to Washuu, who opened up a briefcase full of hardcopy and data solids. "We are not here today as representatives of the Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet, but as representatives of a corporation dedicated to the design and manufacture of economical weaponry. We represent RebelTech Manufacturing... and we are seeking a partner with whom to begin our first line of production." The designs covered a cross-section of already existing weaponry, plus items taken from the surviving books of Kris' old game books. A cheaper, but equally effective, thermal detonator. A fully portable heavy emplacement blaster. Expandable vibro-staves. Designs for blaster and slugger rifles, grenade launchers, and assorted other mayhem producers poured out from the briefcase. Before Kris had left the Wayward Son, he'd handed the West End Games books to Washuu, pointed out the appropriate pages, and said, "Make it work, better or cheaper. Preferably cheaper." By the time he and Leeanna arrived on Corellia, she had done just that. (How she got to Corellia ahead of them, Washuu refused to say.) "Basically, we're offering seventy per cent of all profits, plus cost of manufacture and distribution, for manufacture and sale of RebelTech designs for the first two years. After that, we'll have newer designs, and our own manufacturing base. All designs remain copyrighted property of RebelTech." As Bryar gaped at the designs, Kris pushed the point. "Do we have a deal?" A month later, the full color RebelTech catalog appeared in military quartermaster departments throughout the quadrant. Demonstrators began making tours. And the money began rolling in. Earth. The United States. Texas. A bald, gray-haired man relaxed in an old easy chair after a day of rebuilding the worn out trailer house and all its addons. Despite the modest success of his auction company- finally- and a state of financial well-being, he desired no other home than the one he lived in now. Alone, now, but still fairly happy. As he watched a golf program on TV, the man heard a soft wind blowing outside. Considering the thick forests and the time of year- May- that was really unusual. As he listened, the breeze grew into the whine of a large engine, idling down, roaring for a moment, then stopping. Standing, the old man looked out the kitchen windows, but saw no car or hovercraft in the driveway or outside the fence. After a moment's consideration, he searched for his flip-flops and walked out the door and to the highway. Looking up and down the road, he saw no vehicles, stopped or otherwise. Shrugging, he turned around and walked back to the house, stretching slightly to relieve stiff muscles. Inside the house, the old man found a young blond-headed man in a flight suit rummaging in the refrigerator, with a redheaded little girl and a green-haired vixen behind him. Hearing the old man walk in, the younger man looked up and grinned. "Hi, Dad," Kris said. "I'm home." "KRIS!" Butch Overstreet yelled, hugging his son fiercely. "You're alive!" Looking at his son's thick scalp, he continued, "You've got HAIR!" Looking over his son's shoulder, he said, "Who are the young ladies?" "Ah, well, this is Washuu Hakubi," Kris said, pointing to the redhead. Butch leaned down slightly to face Washuu. "Hello, honey," he smiled. "What grade are you in?" "Uh, Dad," Kris said before Washuu could speak, "she's a professor." Butch looked at Kris. "You ain't shittin' me, are ya?" When Kris shook his head no, he looked at Washuu again. "Education's a wonderful thing," he said. "And this," Kris said calmly, "is Her Royal Highness Her Honor Judge Princess Leeanna Zard'al of Zardon." PLEASE keep a civil tongue in your head... Butch knelt- actually KNELT- and kissed Leeanna's hand, saying, "It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you, milady." Leeanna cooly accepted the gesture, as Kris breathed a sigh of relief. No potentially deadly comments- Dad was going to be civil in front of strangers, for once. "How'd you get here, anyway?" Butch asked as he led the group into the main living room. "Last I heard from you, you sent a letter about a year 'fore the aliens came, said you had gone to officers' school." "I flew the Y-wing in," Kris said. "I... kinda resigned my commission." Butch smiled. "I told ya when you went to college, you ain't cut out for the military. Who'd you kill?" Kris thought for a second... "Uh... five Kilrathis, eight pirates, two Zardons and a Decepticon," he said quietly. "Well, maybe not the Decepticon. It's hard to tell for sure." Butch didn't even bat an eye. "But no one on your side, right?" "No, of course not!" Kris said testily. "Unless they were allergic to pie," Washuu put in. "Hey, who was the one who brought the entire Little Debbie bakery to the party, hmm?" "It was funny, wasn't it?" "As I recall, YOU weren't at ground zero." "Well, EX-CUUSE me!" Washuu pouted, and turned her back to the others. "Wait a minute," Butch asked. "Why exactly did you resign?" Kris gestured to Leeanna. "I'm joining her revolution." "Revolution?" "Let me explain..." "So you're going to start up a mercenary fleet, go up against a major power, and overthrow its government?" Butch was all seriousness as he sat on one of the couches and looked at each of the three in turn. "Sure are," Kris said. "We've already commissioned a ship, arranged for long-term funding, and right now we're looking for a fighter supplier, recruits, and people to train them." Butch didn't miss a beat. "No." "You haven't heard me out yet!" Kris said. "I said no," Butch continued. "I ain't going to go off somewhere in space and train troops, and I sure as hell ain't going to go back to being a grunt trooper. I've done my time. I'm too old. Find someone else." "Who said anything about you going anywhere?" Kris asked. "We've got thirty-five acres of fields, forests and lowlands, even if we don't go down to the creek. There's plenty of space to open up a training camp right here. "Besides," Kris said, handing over a large bundle of paper, "we've already arranged for a paid two-week stay on the planet Salusia. You could at least go and meet us there." After a bit of thought, Butch at last nodded. "All right, I guess I'll let Leroy run the business for a while." "We thank you for your assistance," Leeanna said. "However, I must ask what qualifications you would have as a military instructor." After looking pointedly at Kris, Butch continued, "Well, Your Highness, I spent two years as a Navy Seal... special forces, during wartime. I have also served as a peace officer and bar bouncer. I am a better than average shot and can kill a man forty-seven different ways." Looking directly at Leeanna, he continued, "Or would you like a demonstration?" "Dad..." "No, Kris, I know what I'm doin'," Butch rose to his feet. "If you would care to step outside..." Leeanna nodded and opened the door. Both princess and auctioneer strode out into the yard, with Butch closing the door behind him. Muffled thumps, strangled screams, and the occasional WHAM as something heavy hit the house filtered in to Washuu and Kris. After about two minutes, footsteps approached the front door, but before the door could be opened, a loud WHAM! shook the doorframe and several items inside the house. After another minute or so, the footsteps returned, and this time Leeanna made it inside, dusty and slightly bruised but still noble. "He's good," she said, her eyes glinting. Kris looked at Washuu, and she at Kris. "Do you think your father is all right?" she said. Kris walked out the front door and saw Butch sprawled on his back in the hard-packed dusty driveway. "Dad! Are you all right?" Kris said as he walked over to him. "No, I'm not all right!" Butch yelled, as he slowly stood up. He was bruised and scraped and covered with dirt and grass stains, but nothing was actually broken. "Who taught that woman to fight like that?" "You'll find out when we meet up on Salusia," Kris said. "Yeah," Butch said, "I expect I will." Saenar, jewel city of Salusia, despite the growing influence of Earther students, tourists and businessmen, still looked more like a giant park than the capitol city of an interstellar power. The streets alternated between wide, grassy parkways and narrow twisting cartpaths, opening up to outdoor cafes and sidewalk shops catering to the non-driver. Vast parklands spread out between magnificent buildings. Earther traditions like traffic gridlock, dormitory living, and urban sprawl had no place within the Salusian design world. In the center of this beautiful city lay the Imperial Palace, home of House Arconian, rulers of Salusia and the Interstellar Conglomerate. The King and Emperor, Jerka, was typical of his line in his bravery, justice, nobility, and randiness- in addition to the queen, he had over thirty concubines. Shiva, the Queen, was much different- cool, conservative and rational where Jerka was hotblooded, radical and foolhardy. While Jerka served to unite the Salusian people, Shiva actually kept the government running. However, to most outsiders Jerka was the ruler, and so Kris and his entourage- an old soldier, a princess, a mad scientist, and a liberated astromech- went to him first for an audience. As Jerka and his advisors listened, first Leeanna and then Kris spoke their cases to the throne; Leeanna for support in the coming revolution, and Kris for support and recognition of the CFMF as an independent entity. Once both had stated their cases, Jerka gestured to his advisors, and they gathered together to discuss the decision. After a few moments, Jerka stood and spoke: "We have heard your arguements and find merit in them. However, it is Our belief that it would not be in Our best interests to openly support rebellion on another world, even one currently at war with our own. However, when the time comes, We pledge our assistance on fronts other than the Zardon homeworld. "Furthermore, the knowledge that Leeanna Zard'al lives shall not go beyond this room, until such time as the information is no longer dangerous to her. The woman Leeanna shall be named a Honorary Citizen of Salusia for the interim, and shall have all the rights of a citizen when she is in Salusian space. "Finally, We hereby recognize the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet as an independent military force not hostile to Salusia. Ships of that force may make port at any Salusian port and may conduct business without restriction except those under standard Salusian law. We can at this time give no assistance to that fleet, but We will give no hindrance to it either. "I have spoken." Bowing and thanking the King, Kris and Leeanna led the others out of the throne room. As the doors shut behind them, Leeanna's face grew dark and angry. "Well, thanks ever so much for your help," she growled. "Actually, we got a lot more than I expected we would," Butch grinned. "I was half-expecting him to throw us out completely." "Not with his heir pushing an arranged marriage in his face and calling in debts," Kris said. "I'm really glad that he officially recognized the CFMF, though. That'll be a big help tomorrow when we go shopping for starfighters." "Well, what do we do now?" Leeanna asked. "Well, I'll wait here and get the paperwork from those proclamations," Kris said. "Other than that, there's not much we can do today, except maybe put an ad in the news services recruiting for the fleet." "I can handle that," Butch said. "We also need to check if we can't get hold of some training bases here, so we don't have to send everybody to Polk County for training." "Yeah, I'm working on that," Kris muttered. "Other than that, I suggest y'all have fun, see the sights, that sort of thing." "Well, what's there to see here, boss?" Sparky piped up. Kris didn't have a clue. After thinking for a moment, he saw a human walking down the hall. "Hey! Hey, buddy, can you help us out here?" The human turned around. He wore blue jeans, an old Army jacket and an old #13 football jersey like potato sacks, and his brown hair and eyes did nothing to accent a rather plain face. He smiled, and said, "Sure, what do you need?" "My friends and I are new in town, and we'd like some advice on things to see, that sort of thing." Kris looked at the human and thought, God, he looks familiar. "Oh," the young man said, "well, I'd recommend the Realmsheart shopping district. Any cab driver will know where it is." "Excellent," Kris said. "See you later, people." Leeanna stood stock still. She was staring at the young human, and had taken on one of those blank, teary looks Kris recognized as I'm-In-Love. The others tried to shake her out of it, but she wouldn't budge. "Uh, excuse me," Kris said, "but you wouldn't by any chance be Jeremy Feeple, would you?" "That's me," the young man nodded. "Have we met before?" Kris knew the truth at this point was a bad idea. "Not as such," he said, "but Asrial has told me a lot about you." "Did she say anything about me?" a voice came from above. Kris looked up, but could see no source for the voice. Lowering his gaze, he saw a young Japanese woman in a black leotard standing beside Jeremy, in what had to be called a proprietal stance. "You would be Ichi," Kris said. "She asked me to ask you how Jeremy's special training sessions were going." Jeremy blushed, while Ichikun Ichinohei glared at the Redneck. "Just fine, thank you," she growled. "Well," Butch said at last, "I think I'm gettin' hungry. See you later, Kris. You comin', Leeanna?" "Uh... if you don't mind, I'll stay with Kris," she said. Kris noted that under normal circumstances Leeanna would not have asked whether anyone minded or not. "I'm sorry, but what is your name?" Jeremy asked Kris. "Oh," Kris said, "my name is Kris Overstreet." "Nice to meet you," Jeremy smiled, shaking his hand. Kris gestured to the still half-comatose woman beside him. "And tis is Princess Leeanna of Zardon... officially deceased." "Pleasure to meet you, Leeanna," Jeremy said. Kris looked at Leeanna, who seemed ready to faint, and remembered how, in a different universe, they might have met. Instead of an evil seductress, the Princess-Heir of the Zardon Empire was a love-struck little girl. "Vaughn..." he muttered under his breath. Somehow, blaming it on Reality just felt right, merited or not. "What?" Jeremy said. "Nothing, just commenting on how strange life was," Kris said. "You don't know the half of it. See ya!" Jeremy said, as he trotted off with Ichi. Oh, yes I do, Kris thought. There is something deeply screwy with this universe... Kris turned to find the palace clerks' office, and almost slammed into Leeanna's staring form. "OOPS!" Kris stopped dead in his tracks, then stepped back a little. "Leeanna?" "Jeremy... Feeple..." Leeanna mumbled, still staring down the corridor. Kris considered the possible consequences of attempting to carry off a conscious Judge, and decided against it. Instead, he did something he'd wanted to do for a long time. He kissed Leeanna. Hard. For a second, Leeanna didn't resist, but suddenly she pushed him away and gaped at him. "Awake now?" Kris said quietly. In response, Leeanna grabbed his head, pulled it down slightly, and kissed him just as hard right back. When she disengaged, she said, "See you later." As she turned and walked towards the main entrance, where the cabs and litters loaded and unloaded, Kris shouted, "Hey, wait! Why didn't you want to jump my bones before?" Her voice echoed back as she strode away... "YOU'RE A CRIMINAL!" Oh yeah, Kris thought, I keep forgetting... As Kris turned again towards the clerks' office, he noticed a form down a small side hallway, half obscured by a drapery. As he looked closer, he heard a low, feminine voice coming from it. "Commander Overstreet?" For a second Kris didn't click on the title, and then he remembered that his current rank in the CFMF, theoretically, was Lieutenant Commander. "Ah, yes, that's me," he said, and walked towards the figure. The figure stepped out from the hallway; it was Queen Shiva. Oh, boy. "I have heard my husband's decision on your request," Shiva said, "amd although it is true we cannot openly support your fleet, there is nothing against, say, buying the goodwill of your armed force for the future." She handed a small coin purse to Kris, saying, "This will be of some aid to you." Kris bowed deeply, and said, "Thank you, your Majesty." When he straightened, Queen Shiva was gone. Looking inside the purse, he found a few paper bills and credit batons. The numbers visible on the bills impressed the hell out of him. Somehow, he expected the credit batons had equally impressive figures encoded into them. Humming, "We're In the Money," Kris strode towards the clerks' office at last. 16) Ain't it beautiful? ---Rerob The offices of Subpro Astronautics were situated in a large tower near the center of town, overlooking a large reflecting pool and with an excellent view of the palace grounds. Inside, however, the building was a standard office complex, and the office in which Kris and Washuu sat facing a well-fed Salusian sales representative was decorated in typical tasteful company-approved fashion. A glimpse through the door behind the desk of the sales rep, into the realm of the engineers and designers, said volumes about company-approved anything and where you could stick it. Kris presented his credentials to the sales representative and got right to the point. "We are looking to supplement our fleet's starfighter force with up-to-date, combat-proven starfighters which can be purchased and maintained cheaply. We are particularly interested in your line of Z-95 space superiority attack fighters." Calling a Z-95 a space superiority fighter was accurate and ludicrous at the same time. The Z-95 was designed as a space superiority fighter, but also to be manufactured on a planet without deep-space capability- specifically, Earth, around 1989. Despite several upgrades, the current version- the Mark III- was slower, lighter armed, and lighter armored than its main opponent, the Koensayr BTL-A4 Myrmidon. However, it was inexpensive, easy to maintain, and had a maneuverability the Y-Wing couldn't quite match. Important points to remember, those, if you're an ambitious mercenary fleet commander. "Ah, yes," the sales representative said, "well, we have the standard Mark III variant for sale, and we are tooling up now for a new production line; the Mark IV, which will have the added feature of hyperspace capability." He activated a monitor in the corner, which proceded to show a demonstration of the Mark IV. Whereas the Mark III had a fairly streamlined look, the Mark IV looked like it had a large backpack on its engine compartment. Furthermore, the video made it plain that powering up for hyperspeed left the ship vulnerable for a couple of seconds. Washuu passed Kris a note: I CAN DO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT, WITH BOBBY PINS AND A CHUNK OF SPAM. Kris was actually in a good enough mood to write back, WHAT ABOUT VIENNA SAUSAGES? The note came back a third time: WITH A TIN OF VIENNA SAUSAGES I CAN GET YOU WARP DRIVE. Kris scribbled DESIGN IT and passed the note back, saying, "My colleague and I feel that, considering the crudeness of your hyperdrive application, the Mark IV is not suitable for our needs. However, we are willing to make a proposal." Washuu scratched madly on a notepad, while Kris continued. "As of yet, you have not actually put the Mark IV into production, correct?" "That's correct," the sales representative mumbled. "We are willing, in exchange for a sizable discount on an initial purchase, to redesign the engine systems for the Mark IV so that the hyperdrive will fit within the current superstructure of the Mark III." Washuu finished scribbling, handed the pad to him, and winked. After a glance, he turned the diagram over to the sales representative. The sales rep took a long look at the design, then handed the pad back to them. "One moment, please," he mumbled, and left the room hurriedly. From outside, mumbled conversation took place, with several very anxious voices overriding the voice of the sales rep. When he returned, the sales representative looked considerably shaken. (As in, "but not stirred.") "What is your price for the new design?" he asked. Kris smiled. "In exchange for the new design and our pledge to make Subpro our exclusive supplier for starfighters and related equipment, we propose a 40% discount on all purchases within the next five years, with a permanent 20% discount after that period. The design patent becomes the sole property of Subpro. Future designs, of course, will require separate negotiation." The sales rep nodded, excused himelf, and stepped out again. The voices returned, and this time the eager voices failed to drown out the loud cries of protest of the sales representative. Washuu turned to Kris and said, "Aren't young engineer types wondeerful?" Kris laughed and wished he'd been able to deal with one of the creative minds outside instead of their hired Talking Head. A few seconds later, he returned, saying, "I must report that Subpro is only able to offer a maximum discount of 33% off its standard rates. However, we are willing to make that discount permanent. Does this pose an acceptable alternative?" Kris took a deep breath before saying, "Yes, that would be very acceptable. Now, if I may place an initial order and make a down payment..." Kris managed to get outside the doors of the Subpro offices before shouting, "YEEE-HAWWW!" Picking up Washuu, he span around holding her in midair. "We did it! We did it!" he kept saying. After a second, he put her down and said, "I'm so happy right now I'm going to forget about those pies. I might even forgive you for the lab session. We've got a fleet, and as soon as we can get a crew, we'll be all set!" Jumping and laughing, Kris ran down the street, ignoring the cabs waiting nearby. He also totally missed the look on Washuu's face. Hey, she was thinking, what about me? The next day, Kris led the others onto a shuttle bound for the ExoSalusia Ship Construction Yards, high over the planet. Kris wore a bright red surplus off-the-shelf flight suit, with a shoulder patch on either shoulder. On the left shoulder, a rectangular patch showed a stylized gold lightning bolt on a black field; the emblem of the CFMF. The round patch on his other shoulder had the bolt overlying a blue saltire cross outlined in white on a red field. Surrounding the design were the words MASS-01 REBEL * FIRST MOBILE ATTACK AND SUPPORT SQUADRON * CFMF . In different lettering on the red portion of the patch was written the phrase DEO VINDICE. On his collar, a gold cluster proclaimed him either as a major or a lieutenant commander. Kris was enjoying himself far, far too much. "Wait'll you see it," he kept saying, dancing about in one of his most manic moods yet. "It's gonna be great!" Finally, as the shuttle went into final approach for the yards' central depot, Kris pointed at one drydock not far away. "That's her!" he said. "Ain't she great?" In the drydock, various workers were applying thermoinsular paint to the hull of a small ship, roughly eighty yards in length. Several tender ports for starfighters lined the upper hull, and two large phaser emitters were being installed just above the bridge viewports on the bow. The ship itself looked like a lump of angles and wedges laid one on the other, producing a confusing but sleek design. Twin fins extended from the bottom of the ship, almost meeting at the bow and separating as the ship widened towards its stern. On the upper part of the hull, the name of the ship had already been painted; CFMF CONFEDERACY CFF-01. Butch said it first: "Kris, that is one UGLY ship." Most of the others nodded. From bow-on, the thing looked like it had large fangs and a bad attitude. "So sue me," Kris said. "Once the painting and weapons mounting is done, she'll be ready to fly. Then, all we need to do is pay off the remaining amount on the construction." "And how much is that, Mr. Moneybags?" Butch asked. "Three hundred thousand credits," Kris replied. "It might have been cheaper if I hadn't insisted on several design modifications. I wanted a ship with every major component modular, where an engineer could just yank out the part and stick in a new one. That way, I can fly her with a smaller crew." "How much smaller?" Butch asked. "I'll put it to you this way..." Kris said. "We launch today." In fact, he'd already arranged for their luggage to be ferried up to the ship. "Terrific," Butch said. That evening, with a cargo of eight disassembled Z-95s and related support equipment and spare parts in its hold, the CFMF Confederacy slowly pulled out of its hold, carrying a crew of five financially-embarrassed people. Its first stop was Zardon, where it managed to stealth its way through the defenses, drop off Leeanna, and pick up the two Zardon recruits for the fleet. As Leeanna lifted her duffel, she smiled at the others as they stood on the main gangplank. "I'll see you all later," she said. "Good luck, Commander, you'll need it." I expect I will, Kris thought, as he loaded up his third fleet recruit and about a dozen soldiers for army training into the ship. "Take care of yourself," he said back. A couple of days later, Butch and his twelve charges were dropped off in the deep woods of Texas, where he gave them their first training exercise; building a barracks. "Be seein' you later, I expect," he said as Kris loaded most of his things into the ship. Finally, Kris, Sparky, Washuu and three Zardons lifted off for deep space to await replies to the post on biz.merc.space: The Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet is hiring experienced starfighter pilots and privateer shipowners. Guaranteed pay, amnesty offered for past actions, excitement, adventure, and really wild things. Contact fleetcom@cfmf.com for rendevous info. CONFEDERATE FREESPACER MERCENARY FLEET We kill stuff so you don't have to. Several people saw the post and crossposted it, and several more crossposted it from there, and little by little, word got around... a new merc fleet, open to anyone. Refuge from one's enemies. Slowly, but surely, people began to make plans... ...and the next morning, Kris found three dozen e-mails in his box offering allegiance and service. To: fleetcom@cfmf.com From: angel@dialin.soronet.com Am bringing four pilots from the Veranian Mercenaries. Will require aid in escaping the No-Retirement-Save-Death clause in our contracts. Good luck, and glad to serve with you. Reina Sabre, Lt. Veranian Mercenaries To: fleetcom@cfmf.com From: grunt10842@aol.com Do you need any ground troops or marines? I can offer fifteen years experience. Transfer off of Earth requested ASAP. Interested in pension plans and/or family insurance. Charlotte Brigand, Staff Sergeant USMC To: fleetcom@cfmf.com From: mandrake@lilith.atlantanet.com Cool. Where do I sign? James "Mandrake" Diggers Kris read the e-mail and grinned. Gotta love it, he thought. 17) I just love it when things go kablooey. --- Admiral Hardbottom September 6, 2002, Terran Adjusted Calendar. A freighter lifts off from an orbital platform orbiting the Zardon prison colony of Choris, laden with supplies and raw materials for the Imperial military factories on other "colony" worlds. Escorting it is a full squadron of Myrmidon starfighters from the local fleet garrison. Two days before, the local cruiser had made its weekly stop there on its patrol route, and now it was far too far away for it to respond quickly to any distress calls from the Chorisian system. Perfect timing. Seven blue-and-gold Z-95 Headhunters and one modified Myrmidon, leaped out of hyperspace and bore down on the freighter. A few seconds later, a small corvette, half freighter and half warship, leaped in behind them, bearing on its flanks and upper hull the ensign of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet. Redneck, leading the attack in his Y-Wing, radioed to the CFMF Confederacy behind him, "Confederacy, this is Rebel One, Rebel Squadron all accounted for and ready for attack run. Have you isolated the enemy command channel yet?" The Confederacy's airboss, Chief Petty Officer Daeris Neraal, flipped a switch on his console. "Enemy command channel is isolated and locked in." "Great," Kris said. "Rebel One to all fighters, energize combat systems and prepare for attack run. Echelon right formation. Confederacy, give our friends the background music on my command." "Roger, Rebel One, awaiting your signal," Neraal replied. Kris switched over to the general broadcast band and said, "Good afternoon, gentlebeings, this is Lieutenant Commander Overstreet of the Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet. We request you to halt and submit to search for contraband of war, as per Article Seven of the United Galactica War Codes." The Zardon Y-Wing escort veered away from the freighter and towards the incoming fighters. "I take it that means no," Kris deadpanned into his helmet mike. "Your funeral." Switching back to the Freespacer command channel, he said, "Confederacy, this is Rebel One. "Sound Goldfish Warning." In the background of the command channels of both Freespacers and Zardons, an old Earther boogie-woogie song with heavy piano and brass began playing. Kris had gone through his immense pile of assorted junk, most of which had been in storage since 1996, and found the tape which had had the most manic song he could possibly think of to launch an attack to. Now the Zardons were being treated to the long, long version of the ending theme to an old Japanese children's cartoon show. Loosely translated, the song could be called, "Little Goldie, the Super Goldfish," which should give you an idea of the content of the show. The Zardons, who had never heard of the song before, all had the same reaction, which may be translated thus: "What the hell is that damn song?" Meanwhile, in echelon right order, the assembled fighters of the First Mobile Attack and Support Squadron banked and lined up targeting the freighter. "Arm one concussion missile, lock on freighter and fire," Redneck ordered. Moments later, eight concussion missiles launched and darted towards the still-distant freighter. Meanwhile, the Zardon Y-Wings grew nearer. "Arm two concussion missiles each, lock on bandit of your choice, and fire." Redneck said. Lining up his own shot, he launched missiles at 1.8 clicks from his target. Meanwhile, the other fighters did likewise, and soon most of the Y-Wings were scattering trying to evade the missiles. Two Y-Wings managed not to be targeted, and flew onward, opening laser fire. "Break into flights," Redneck said. "Flight one will take the lead bandit. Flight Two, grab the other. Save your remaining missiles if you can. Go." Redneck's Y-Wing and three Z-95's reformed into a diamond formation, while the four other Z-95s did likewise to starboard. As each of the remaining Zardon Y-Wings broke off their attacks and attempted to evade, the two flights opened fire, quickly dispatching the Zardon fighters. After making sure his flight's bandit was thoroughly hosed, Redneck checked his tactical display. Only one of the other six enemy fighters had been destroyed by the missiles, and the freighter's shields had dropped to 10%. "Confederacy, move in on the freighter and prepare for docking. Rebel Squadron, divide by wings. Wings Two, Three and Four will take out the rest of the enemy fighters, while Chaos and I disable the freighter. Go." The disorganized flights resolved into four pairs, wingleader and wingman, and while Kris' Y-Wing and his wingman, Ensign James "Chaos" Rodriguez, bore down on the weakened freighter, the other wings sprang into noisy action with the enemy fighters. "Le Fay, watch my back, dearest, I'm going in." "Always glad to be of assistance, life of my heart." "This is Mandrake, Chopper, let me at 'em!" "Boom Box, you've got one on your six! I'm coming!" As the chatter began in earnest, Redneck focused on his targeting scope, and through it the freighter. After a few rounds of laser fire brought down the weakened shields, Kris switched to ion cannons and began blasting. White static flares danced over the surface of the hull, and the running lights and engines dimmed and died. Redneck signaled to the Confederacy, "Confederacy, target is disabled. Gunny, you may dock and board the vessel." "Yes, sir, Redneck. Good hunting," the voice of Ship's Master Charlotte Brigand replied, as the Confederacy extended one of its docking tethers towards one of the freighter's airlocks. Once the clamps sealed, Master Brigand would lead a team of eight marines to secure the freighter for search and seizure. Redneck wheeled his ship back towards the fighting, which had pretty much died out. In fact, only one of the original eight enemy Y-Wings was still in the fight, pursued by Wing Three, composed of Elfie and Le Fay. "Please, dearest, go ahead and fire," Le Fay purred over the command channel. "No, darling, you have the better attack angle," Elfie replied. "But your aim is more accurate, my dear," Le Fay replied. "I don't particularly care who fires, just so long as SOMEONE fires!" Redneck said irritably. "He's right, dear. You shoot," Elfie said. "No, I insist, dear, you shoot," Le Fay replied. "SOMEBODY SHOOT!" Kris decided at the first possible opportunity, say when the two new corvettes under construction were finished, to transfer the two Eldarin to another squadron command. Two elves in love was almost more than he could stomach. "Tark, Mesha, better do what he says," Boom Box (alias Lieutenant Patricia McDowell) sang from her fighter. "Oh, very well," the two chimed, and, in unison, they blasted the Y-Wing into tiny fragments of duralloy. "All right, people," Kris grumbled, "form up as escort on the freighter. We have maybe two hours before more bad guys arrive, but I want us prepared for a quick exit, all right?" "Roger that, Redneck," Boom Box said, as the ships regrouped and entered stationary positions around the freighter. Fifty minutes later, the freighter had been searched and stripped of all Imperial cargo, plus surplus supplies and weapons. A few minutes afterwards, the CFMF Confederacy and MASS-01 Rebel Squadron pulled away from the freighter and entered hyperspace, leaving the freighter to be rescued by a Zardon cruiser. The Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet's first action in the Zardon Civil War had gone off perfectly. Of course, forming the MASS-01 and crewing the CFMF Confederacy in the first place had gone horrendously. As Redneck learned firsthand over the middle months of 2002, a mercenary fleet commander had no problem finding recruits; the problem was screening out the blatant killers and thieves, along with deserters, slackers, and goldbricks. He was looking for dissatisfied but loyal people, or pirates who went outlaw either by circumstance or for just cause. Whereas there were, frankly speaking, tons and tons of pirates in known space, there were very few honest pirates, and honest pirates were what Kris desperately needed. On the other hand, veteran mercenaries and military officers were fairly hard to get; not a few individuals sent notes to the effect that, although they were very interested, it would take some time to get free to join up. Although Kris was more than glad to get troops, he didn't want the organizations they came from to come hunting them down for desertion. Even with all these problems, Kris soon had more than enough pilots for the first squadron, and ship crewmen and marines were even easier to get. After some juggling, Kris picked out the seven best or most experienced pilots and assigned them to the Confederacy, along with the best balanced squad of marines and competent helmsmen and flight crew for the Confederacy and the MASS-01. The remainder were forwarded to Butch for remedial training, and Kris began looking for a location on some Salusian colony or other to establish a training camp for the inexperienced recruits to come later. There was one notable problem: the type of officer the CFMF attracted seemed to be... well, eccentric. Oh, most of the Salusian and Zardon recruits were stable enough, but aside from those, the group was a choice selection from the outcasts, misfits, and socially inadequate of half a dozen military or mercenary services. Tark and Mesha, the husband and wife elven starfighter wing, were mild cases. Even with the personnel problem licked, there was the problem of supply. The "seed fund" had been essentially killed off by the launching of the Confederacy, and while the checks from sales of RebelTech armaments were sizable (!) and growing steadily, they barely held back the overhead costs and installment payments on equipment, with the remainder going into payroll. The CFMF would be able to supply itself from shipping interdiction to a point, but if the fleet was ever going to be able to supply the rebel factions on Zardon with weapons, supplies and manpower, it would have to be totally self-sufficient, and preferably profitable. Oh, well, Kris thought, such are the drawbacks to hiring on with a revolution. Kris' most minor worry lay in the area of politics and diplomacy. After Kris' half-accidental sabotage of the planetary bombardment cannon and the Declaration of Revolution, Garth appeared to be willing to open a détente with the Salusians. In fact, almost immediately after the launch of the Confederacy, Garth had ordered a total cease-fire and invited the ambassador of Jerka's choice to a goodwill visit to Zardon. One month and at least four assassination attempts later (all by various factions from different worlds), Jeremy Feeple disappeared in Mega City One for about six hours, prompting a massive manhunt through the city. He finally turned up in a shopping center in the upper levels of the city, and in response to the many questions concerning where he'd gone to, he'd just replied, "I wanted to look around for myself a while." A week after Jeremy returned to Salusia, a large care package was sent to the CFMF for forwarding to Zardon, along with a message for Leeanna; "Hope to see you again. -J." This told Kris all he needed to know about the disappearance, at least as far as political angles went. (Personal matters were another thing altogether.) While Zardon and Salusia flirted with peace (which would be extremely bad for the purposes of the revolution), other powers, major and minor, caused their own headaches for the CFMF. The United Nations filed a formal protest against the training of alien soldiers in the United States. The United States pitched a hissy on the legality of passports issued by the Zardon Republic Provisional Government. Finally, as a minor annoyance, the Romulans placed a standing offer for the services of the CFMF. Against anyone. When he'd read that little note, Kris had chuckled and filed it away, thinking just how the slogans might sound: "The CFMF: Good Enough for the Romulan Empire." somehow lacked... well, a lot. So much for the problems of his position. In the meantime, an entirely new and personal problem had cropped up. One night, while fighting off sleep, Kris heard his door chime sound. Wrapping his blanket around himself, he walked to the door and keyed it open. For his trouble, he was doused with a bucket of freezing cold water. Dropping his blanket, Kris shivered, and looked angrily at the group of crewmen, led by Washuu, laughing their butts off. Kris just stood and glared at Washuu, in his sopping wet underwear (it had been a large bucket of water), and he took two steps forward. Then he noticed his reflection in the mirror. For about two seconds, a dull red aura danced around his body; when he noticed it, it disappeared. Turning back to the door, he saw only Washuu; the other crewmembers had fled. "Did I... just..." Kris searched for a word... "fluoresce?" Washuu nodded. She wasn't even smiling now. Kris sighed, looked around, and said, "I'll be in your lab in five minutes." The resulting examination revealed several things. First, Kris' regeneration was noticeably faster than it had been at first. Second, Kris' esper rating slightly higher, but still within human normal ranges. Finally, and most importantly, Kris' body was building up stores of not only biochemical energy, but electromagnetic energy as well. As Kris dressed, he said, "Well, so I have batteries. What does that prove?" Washuu looked at Kris. "I don't know," she smiled sweetly. "You're something I've never seen before. We'll just have to do MORE tests and MORE tests. Every night. Until I figure out just what those energy reserves are there for." Washuu actually leered at Kris and said, "Unless you'd like to show me what they're for yourself..." Kris made a very hasty retreat, but for the next couple of months, he spent one night every week strapped in Washuu's examination rack waiting on results from tests Kris couldn't even guess at. Needless to say, combat missions were the most relaxing time in Kris' schedule. Debriefing, September 6. The pilots gathered around the supply tent, pitched some distance from the landing field where the techs were doing post-flight work on the fighters and checking up on the Confederacy. The other seven pilots- Chaos, Boom Box, Dusty, Elfie, LeFay, Bullseye and Mandrake- all gathered around Redneck and Chief Neraal and listened. "Congratulations, people," Redneck said once everyone had gathered, "you did good. The operation had at most only minor flaws, and we'll be going over those in this debriefing. "First off, however, I want to compliment you on squadron and flight formations. The chief and I agree that the formations were flawless going in. Once engaged, everybody did their job and did good. I'm proud of all of you. "Okay, point to fix #1: wing co-ordination. Wings One and Four did exceptionally well, Chaos watching my back and Mandrake watching out for Bullseye, and vice versa. Good work, especially to Lieutenant Zott and Ensign Diggers. However, Boom Box, you were too busy playing exec officer to keep a good eye on Dusty- you left Bullseye to pick off a bandit from him while you were concentrating on Wing Three. Wing Three..." Kris looked dead at the two elves, holding hands and cringing guiltily. "When you take your shots, they are dead on- I won't argue that. However, when you spend forever deciding which one of you will take that shot- and never mind anything coming up behind you- you are wasting precious time and possibly endangering the rest of us. Remember each of you has a job. The wingleader picks a target, the wingman protects the wingleader. "Right. Point #2: wing formation. I've hit Wing Three already on that, but the rest of you need to remember this, too. Remember your assignments. Some outfits, like the Kilrathi and the WDF, can afford not to use a wingman system. They have numbers and technology on their side. We have cheap starfighters and limited resources, so we have to concentrate on teamwork more. Keep each other alive, and we might all live to retire." Laughter at that; the first in the briefing. "That's about it for now, although I would like to see some sim work done tonight. Briefing for tomorrow's run will be at 0700 local time tomorrow. Dismissed." The group broke up, and Kris took Boom Box aside. "Pat, I'd like to have a word with you." "Sure, Redneck, what's up?" she asked. "I'm serious about your mother-henning the squadron," Kris said. "I need a good wingleader as well as a good squadron exec." Pat smiled at him. "What you need," she smirked, "is a good woman." With that, she picked Kris up and folded him over her shoulder- she stood 6'4" and all muscle- and walked towards the Confederacy, to the cheers and applause of the pilots and crewpeople. Kris, attempting to maintain as much dignity as is possible while being carried bodily to someone's bedroom, managed to twist his head up and say, "May I ask what you're doing?" "Call it enforced relaxation," Pat chuckled as she strode up the ramp into the ship and towards her quarters. Several hours later, Kris, showered and dressed, stumbled into the ship's mess for a light snack. As he entered the mess, he noticed virtually the entire crew of the Confederacy gathered around a portable viewer. On the screen were Kris and Pat, in a particularly athletic position, doing things not approved of by most religious organizations. Washuu, who had been adjusting the viewer's controls, noticed Kris and turned towards him, clapping her hands. The rest of the crew joined in the applause a moment later. Kris went to bed hungry and glowing that night. 18) Where there is weakness, show strength. Where there is strength, show weakness. --- Sun Tzu Garth Zard'al had not held the throne of the Zardon Empire by being either weak or timid. In fact, Garth's ruthlessness in gaining and using power could be said to be his only redeeming quality. Obviously he was a poor parent; he'd tried to use Leeanna to subvert the Zardon Justice Department, and her two younger sisters were both locked away in boarding schools; he hadn't seen any of them for at least two years. Calling him a strategist, a tactician, and a mover of men was almost absurd; his absurdly short figure inspired no one, and his policy from the start of his reign had been rule by fear and the heavy hand of the Empire. His sole concept of warfare was to smash his opponent, and this policy had both offended most of his subjects and led to multiple defeats at the hands of the Salusians, and most recently, their Wedge Defense Force allies. Despite his blatant shortcomings as an Emperor, Garth still had a formidable power base to work from. The Lords Elector of Zardon, which had the traditional power of ratifying the ascension of an Emperor, had during Garth's rule been reduced to an advisory committee, composed of lords whose territories either were radioactive ash or were so far off in the Galactic Rim that the lords had never actually seen their lands. Any threats of impeachment by the Lords Elector had been defeated when the group failed to agree on a leader to replace Garth and squabbled for the position. All press and entertainment in the Empire had been rigorously censored, suppressed, or controlled, and peaceful protests had been turned into murderous block riots by the careful introduction of a few hired thugs. In short, Garth faced no serious threat to his throne. The fact that Garth was secure in his position was in no part due to Garth's personal skill as a politician, statesman, or leader. It was in every part due to the skill and manipulation of his wife, Empress Malificent, that he hadn't already been hauled off the throne already and been replaced by one of his daughters. Where Garth's dim, one-track mind only saw an enemy to be smashed, Malificent saw pawns to be manipulated, strings to be pulled, and threats to be nullified. In addition, she coached Garth into becoming at least a semblance of what an Emperor should look like, a stern, powerful leader with drive and vision. Malificent may be likened to Lady MacBeth, with one notable exception: Lady MacBeth had a conscience. Malificent had none whatsoever. On this particular day in the Imperial Palace, high above the skyline of Mega City One, Garth sat in his office and stared at a tactical display showing the disposition of Zardon's starfleet. Three weeks before, a small pirate group calling itself the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, under spurious orders from a group calling itself the Zardon Republic's Provisional Government, had begun raiding cargo vessels in the Outer Rim and confiscating goods purchased by the Imperial government, plus a list of alleged war contraband, including money, weaponry, and certain equipment. Every time Garth sent a task force to hunt out the pirates, they disappeared and reappeared in a new system. So far three task forces had been assigned to exterminate the pirates, with no luck, and now Garth contemplated sending another. Garth examined his ship deployment carefully. He had amassed large fleets here in the home system and in a couple of other key systems to counter threats from Salusian forces. Small garrison forces and patrolling cruisers guarded most of the other territories from pirates and the unknown, and five task forces moved from point to point to counter possible threats from within. Unfortunately, three of these five were lost to Garth, looking for that damnable pirate fleet! Malificent entered Garth's office and examined the display carefully. "What appears to be the problem, husband?" she said, voice cold and almost mocking. "These mercenary pirates are making fools out of our starfleet!" Garth grumbled. "Where am I going to find enough ships to actually corner and crush those thieves once and for all?" Garth gestured to the display. "It's all we can do to keep a balance of power with those damnable Salusian cretins, to say nothing of their disreputable allies!" "First, my husband, you do not see the full picture of our enemies' weaknesses," Malificent purred, massaging Garth's shoulders comfortingly. "Remember, we have a cease-fire with the Salusians, which we know from past experience they will not break. Even if the Salusians were to mount an offensive, they would be forced to do it without their Earther allies." She pointed to a tiny blip far off in the corner of the display, showing the SDF-17 serving as an escort carrier for Autobot supply convoys from Earth. Surrounding the convoy route were multiple pinpricks indicating Decepticon raiders and interdicts. "In fact, we may safely divert a great deal of our fleets from the homeworld and our colonies to deal with these revolutionaries," Malificent continued. "Ha! Who would ever take the so-called 'Zardon Republican Party' seriously, anyway?" Garth clicked a few keys on his display keyboard, and an image of a document appeared in the lower left-hand corner. "Earth at least has given the rebels recognition as a belligerent force, and those heathen Salusians have actually accepted rebel passports! In fact, my spies tell me there are training bases for the rebels all over both Salusia and Earth!" "Exaggerations, I am sure, husband," Malificent cooed. "No real threat could ever stand against the Imperial Zardon." "Of course not," Garth grumbled. "But it still infuriates me that I have to waste time and resources subduing a revolt when I could be defeating the Salusians and their conspirators once and for all! It's bad enough one of their spies set the Worldhammer project back two years!" "That was a rebel plot, dear," Malificent said. "We caught most of the rebels who attacked the base and executed them, remember?" "I still think it's a Salusian plot!" Garth said. "Salusians disguised as Zardons! It's what I would do if I had the chance!" "Well, not to worry," Malificent said. "Before long, you'll have smashed the rebels, and once the Worldhammer is completed, Salusia will be at your feet." "That's another problem," Garth muttered, shutting off the display. "The expansion of the fleet, to say nothing of work on the project, is moving far too slowly. Those workers need a taste of the lash to remind them who rules the Empire!" Malificent smiled grimly. "I think we should crack down this week on some... seditious political criminals," she said. "Yes..." Garth smiled to himself, "more workers in the labor camps. Send out two regiments of the White Guard and tell them..." Garth allowed himself a chuckle, "Tell them to be creative." Malificent laughed as well, a cold, cutting, evil laugh. September 29, 2002, found the MASS-01 stationed on Akrit'tar, a lightly settled Zardon penal colony world dedicated to producing foodstuffs for the Zardon homeworld. This was their fourth system in not quite as many weeks, as the Zardon starfleet maneuvered to capture the unit in each system, only to find the most ephemeral traces of a base left behind. Now, after two successful raids on Zardon convoys, Akrit'tar was already becoming too hot for the CFMF. Early that morning, as the Marine pickets changed shifts and the technicians began preflight work on the fighters, Kris began his briefing of the squadron pilots. "All right, today's operation will be a combination scouting and relocation move. Wing One will attract the attention of the Zardon ships in this system, while the other wings will revisit each system we've operated in so far. Wing Two, you'll hit Choris, Wing Three will check Sanir, and Wing Four will do a quick run past Bele Shaar. Each wing will get a quick estimate of enemy strength in their respective system, and then hyper out to Obroa-skai, where we will rendezvous with the Confederacy and resupply. "Once we have regrouped on Obroa-skai, pay vouchers for the month will be issued. Since Obroa-skai is a Salusian-friendly world, we should be able to stay there at least two weeks, during which time crew will be able to take liberty during off-duty hours. Try not to abuse your free time; we want to be able to go back there someday." Chuckles at this. "Any questions?" Kris looked around. Boom Box, naturally, raised her hand. "Yes, Pat?" "Do you want me to pick up a new supply of rubbers when I get there?" the Amazon grinned. Kris flushed, glowing slightly, and managed to say, "Uh, any questions of a non-personal type?" Mandrake raised his hand. "Should we engage the enemy if we encounter them?" Kris shook his head. "If you see the enemy, make sure he sees you, then hyper out. We want people to pass rumors around, make them think we're everywhere if we can. Also, facing off squadrons of Myrmidons in two Headhunters is not exactly the best idea in the world." No chuckles this time; Mandrake's Z-95 had had to be replaced two weeks back when he'd tried exactly that. After a lecture in public and a snubbing in private by the woman he'd been attempting to impress- "Gunny" Brigand- he'd shaped up. All things considered, he'd been lucky to get such a chance. "If there are no other questions, I suggest everybody get a good bite to eat, and I'll see you tonight on Obroa-skai." Nodding to the pilots, Kris jumped down and walked back to the Confederacy, which was already being loaded for departure by a couple of techs and Marines. Waiting by the door was Washuu, smiling gently. "Hi, Kris!" she chirped, pacing him as he strode up the gangplank to the ship and down the corridor to the mess. "I just wanted to let you know I'll be gone for a few days, while you're on Obroa-skai." Kris stopped and turned to Washuu. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Oh, here and there, checking on a few things." she said. "Don't worry, I'll be back again before you know it!" "Well, I'm sorry to see you go," Kris murmured. "You've been a real help..." and then in a harder voice, he added, "when you aren't making my life a living hell." "Is it my fault you leave yourself open so much?" Washuu smiled. Kris opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and closed it again. Washuu's definition of "open" left a lot to be desired in his opinion, but it was really useless to argue the point- he'd learned that much back at the Academy. Finally, he said, "Well, I hope I'll see you again soon, then." Before you see me, he added in his head. "Oh, don't worry about that," Washuu said. "I would never leave such an interesting specimen as you alone for long!" For a second Washuu brushed up close against Kris, snuggling closer than Kris thought proper; then, she was gone again, footsteps and giggles vanishing down the corridor. Maybe one of these centuries I'll understand her, Kris thought as he went to dial up the day's rations. Redneck and Chaos lifted their fighters a second after the Confederacy lifted itself off the soil of Akrit'tar, speeding upward directly towards the cordon of Zardon fighters and patrol boats which had been searching for them unsuccessfully over the past three days. In the disruption which followed the ships' passage, the other three wings of Rebel Squadron flew past and snuck into hyperspace. Unfortunately, a cruiser decided to interpose itself between the Confederacy and its intended flight path, and before long the Confederacy and its two remaining fighters were weaving and dodging, trying to find a hole to duck out of. Redneck pulled his Y-Wing into a lag-loop and managed to dodge a few bolts from three oncoming fighters and the cruiser. Things were definitely getting hairy, and unless they could get free fairly soon, they wouldn't likely get free at all. Coming out of his lag-loop, he relocated his target- a particularly annoying Zardon Y-Wing- and fired, managing to get in five hits before being forced to dodge more blasts from the cruiser. Suddenly, new shots flew past, this time aimed not at the Freespacers but at the Zardon cruiser. As the cruiser slowly turned away, a hole opened in the ring of Zardon ships. In the center of this hole, firing blasts at several smaller ships, was a cruiser, about 300 or so meters long, with the visage of a skull, underlined with a crossed knife and fork, covering the bow. Opening a hailing channel, Redneck spoke into his mike, "Unidentified ship, this is Rebel One, of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet. Thanks for the assist. May I have the pleasure of your name?" A voice crackled over Kris' speakers. "This is Captain Kalen of the Palendrom. We are always glad to assist those who fight oppression." Captain Kalen. Kris had hoped to recruit him for some time, and now seemed the best opportunity he'd have in a long while. "Captain, this is Lieutenant Commander Overstreet, commander of MASS-01. I would like very much to speak with you under more congenial conditions. Prepare to receive hyperspace coordinates." Kris transmitted a set of coordinates which opened out into deep space not far away, and continued, "We can discuss a rendezvous there." "Coordinates received, Commander," Kalen's voice replied. "I'm looking forward to meeting you. Palendrom out." Kris switched over to the Freespacer command channel and said, "Confederacy, Chaos, proceed to the rendezvous point. I'll catch up with you later. Redneck out." The three ships flew past the Palendrom, and shortly after the Confederacy and the Z-95 entered hyperspace, Kris and the Palendrom followed, leaving behind some very rattled Zardon naval officers and pilots. 19) The problem I have isn't getting generals. The problem is getting the generals who are worth getting! ---Abraham Lincoln Kalen Jerani sat in a small eatery in the city of Skai-ste, one of Obroa-skai's many spaceports. For the sake of his cover identity, he refrained from storming the kitchen and berating the chef for his substandard preparation of his roast deris. However, each grudging bite of the roast and its garnishes made the temptation harder to resist. No professional pride, Kalen thought, none at all. Of course, Kalen had been pampered in such matters, once upon a time. He'd been one of Jerka's many, many bastard children, and for a while, his favorite of the lot. He'd entered into the Salusian Navy at the appropriate time, and he'd gained recognition and honors, before he was caught trading recipes with a Zardon trader. Never mind that the Zardon was an outlaw on his homeworld, and had no ties at all with the Zardon military. No, he'd been given a simple choice: turn in the Zardon for kidnapping and espionage, or face dishonorable discharge from the Navy and permanent exile from his homeworld. Jerka had been livid; he'd been on the brink of proposing Kalen as his rightful heir, despite his birth, when the incident had occurred. Kalen had been no less angered; because a friend of his had been born a certain race, he was not only forbidden to speak to that friend, but also ordered to bring false witness against him. The two men had exchanged some very harsh, proud words, words which neither could ever take back, in the end, Jerka dismissed Kalen, and within the hour Kalen had been packed and on a passenger ship away from Salusia. Ever since that day, he'd been roaming the spaceways, finally joining up as an officer on the Palendrom. Five years ago, when the old captain had been killed in battle, Kalen had taken command and saved the vessel from certain defeat. Ever since, the crew had loyally followed him in battle, in dozens of systems, sometimes raiding for supplies, but more often striking a blow against evil wherever they could. Bandits here, Zardon prison camps there, little things which added up. Today, the infamous Captain Kalen, fifth- most- wanted man in the Interstellar Conglomerate, victor of space battles almost beyond count, dared not voice his opinion of the cook's handicraft for fear of drawing undue attention. His usual uniform, cape, cavalry pants, holstered blasters, blastersword and all, had been replaced by a simple jacket-and-vest combination, with a brilliant red undershirt, which would go unnoticed on most Salusian worlds, and without much notice wherever Salusians went. The reason he didn't want attention, he noticed, was just now walking into the eatery. A human of medium to upper height, with a large shock of blonde hair and a reddish beard, dressed in an old white shirt and denim pants of Earth manufacture, stood by the entrance, waiting for a waitress to seat him. When a waitress noticed him and offered a booth to sit in, he gestured towards Kalen and said something to the waitress. When the waitress looked at Kalen, he nodded confirmation, and with a shrug, she escorted the human to the table and asked if he would like to order a drink. After being disappointed by the unavailability of Earther soft drinks, he finally settled on orange juice. "And I'd also like the zerathstri with marinara sauce," he said, glancing only momentarily at the menu. Nodding, the waitress took the menu and trotted off to see how long the chef could delay delivery on the order. The human sipped on his complimentary glass of water and grimaced at the chlorination. "Bleah," he said. "The spring water I've been working on for the past four days tastes much better." "I'll bet," Kalen said, smiling slightly as he stuck his fork into the meat on his plate, trying to find some more savory portion to try. "I've been watching your people with great interest," he continued. "You've made a very good start for your organization." The human sipped at his water for a moment, then accepted his juice with gratitude. After a sip, he puckered his lips and went back to the water. "Idiots ground up the rind with the juice," he said. "Anyway, so far we've been pretty lucky. The Zardons have been slow to respond, we've been able to hide right under their noses, and we've got some good people. Problem is, if we're going to keep this up, we need to be able to hit on more than just one front at a time." Kalen scooped up a forkful of mixed vegetables, grimaced at the greasy taste, and said as he chewed, "Rrnt you gennin nny new recruiths?" "Loads," the human said, "but there's the problem of outfitting them and training them as units. In another month or so, we'll be able to field a second MASS unit, plus an extra corvette. Still, I'd like to be able to expand faster, which is why I've been sounding out shipowners as much as I have." "You want to add more ships faster, with experienced crews. Understandable." Kalen looked at his plate and seriously considered throwing it, discus-like, through the kitchen doors, hopefully clobbering the cretin inside. "Considering the circumstances, not to mention the number of... shipowners-" read pirates- "around, why haven't you picked some up already?" "There's a question of quality to be considered," the human said. "I need people I can trust to behave themselves, at least reasonably, and who won't cut and run when things get serious. Unfortunately, that kills off most of the kind of shipowner we tend to attract." "Hm." Kalen sipped his stone-cold kaf and gathered his thoughts. "And you wish to recruit me and my crew, because we aren't the killers and thieves other people would have you believe. Is that it?" If the human thought that, then he was more naive than Kalen had taken him for. The human shook his head. "I know for a fact you're thieves and killers. In all reality, I wouldn't expect anything else. But you're thieves when you have to be, not because it's what you want to be, and you don't kill without good reason. You don't abandon your friends, and you don't back down easy from your enemies. "More importantly, you have the advantage of about twenty years Naval experience over me. I need a good advisor, and a good captain, and a good ship. You happen to have all three." Kalen smiled a bit. "And what if I choose to challenge you for command of the fleet?" he asked. The human smiled back. "I figure whichever way such a challenge went, the fleet would be in good hands. It's worth the risk." Now, Kalen thought, to end the discussion. The new fleet was not a threat, and Kalen had his own people to look out for. "All of this assumes I would be willing to just sign my ship over to you and happily join your little crusade," Kalen said. "I am not by nature the joining kind. Perhaps I will provide some assistance on the side, but for now I don't believe I or my crew will be coming over to your force." The human looked disturbed. "We don't want to buy your ship. We just want your enlistment, long-term employment. We'd be providing more steady supplies than you're used to, upkeep on the ship, regular pay, amnesty..." Kalen frowned. "What good is amnesty given by a pirate fleet?" he grumbled. "Ask the King of Salusia," the human said, as he took a much- folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Kalen. It was a hardcopy printout of Jerka's recognition of the CFMF as an independent entity, with its own laws and regulations. Kalen read the paper slowly, and after a moment of careful consideration, returned it to the human. The possibilities... no. "My father's statements can change in an instant. Besides, there is my crew to consider as well. No, I believe it is best I stay relatively uninvolved-" Kalen's eyes focused on a small, yellow piece of paper from an Earther legal pad. On the top of the paper was written, in large, block English letters, "TEXAS' BEST BEEF AND BEAN BURRITOS." Beneath Kalen saw a list of ingredients. Beef, refried beans... The human snatched the paper away before Kalen could finish reading it. Kalen glared at the human angrily. "That, Commander, is a low blow," he growled. "Will you reconsider your refusal?" the human said, not smiling a bit. "I'll put the question to my crew," Kalen said at last. The human handed the paper over to Kalen. "There's more where that came from, if you are willing to meet me here again in twenty hours." he said. "It depends on the wishes of my crew," Kalen said, "but I believe you will find me waiting outside this... PLACE... in twenty hours." The human had done his homework, he'd admit that. "Great," the human said. "Now, unless you'd like to watch meZG: slam down some Salusian spaghetti, I expect I'll see you there." "No, thank you," Kalen said. "I believe I shall go before I do something unpleasant to the manager. Fair winds, Commander," he said, dumping the contents of his plate into his chair as he left. The waitress finally returned with the human's plate, and as she deposited the red and white mass of food in front of him, she asked, "What happened to the guy who was here before?" "He had to leave suddenly," the human said. "I believe he was feeling ill. I'll be paying his tab." "Suit yourself," the waitress said, as she went to retrieve the bill from wherever it was kept. The human picked up his fork, twirled a large mass of Salusian noodles and sauce onto it, and took a large bite. Almost immediately, he heard the unique crunch of a Pelepeno, plus other, more potent peppers. WHooooOOOOooooaaa... The human looked at the chlorine-filled glass of water, then at the glass of orange juice with the bits of peel floating in it, and finally, with a puff of smoke, said: ".... check... please..." Twenty hours later, Kris met Kalen in front of the eatery, which both were gratified to note had been closed by the local Department of Health. Both were in full uniform this time, and both had large satchels in hand. "Good day, Captain," Kris nodded as he lowered his duffel. "Have you and your crew made your decision?" "I have put ashore three men," Kalen said. "The rest decided to join your fleet. As have I." Obviously Kalen was not especially pleased with the result of the vote. "What's eating you?" Kris asked, as Kalen glared at him. "You play dirty pool, you and that burrito recipe," Kalen replied. "I play to win," Kris said. "Now, then... can I trouble you for a lift?" "I suppose... sir," Kalen said. "After all, we are under your command now." "Great," Kris said, ignoring the hard tones Kalen was putting on. "To Zardon, then... and then to Earth. I have some checking up to do..." 20) So I have a slightly independent nature. What's wrong with that? ---J. E. B. Stuart, 1863 To: biz.space.merc Path: Source: redneck@cfmf.com Title: CFMF INTERVIEWING NOW! The Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet will be interviewing new and experienced recruits for the Fleet. Please no prior commitments or legal entanglements. Meet in person October 3-6, 2002 TSAC at Earth, longitude 91 degrees 2 minutes 36.8 seconds west, latitude 30 degrees 12 minutes 12.3 seconds north. Must be willing to relocate at Fleet expense. CONFEDERATE FREESPACERS MERCENARY FLEET "We kill stuff so you don't have to." October 3, 2002 saw Kris, Kalen, Leeanna and Butch watching about forty troopers break in as many new recruits for the Zardon Republican Army. The old field which Kris' grandfather had cleared in an attempt at farming had been re-cleared and converted into a combination parade grounds and obstacle course, with barracks and mess hall built back into the woods. Outside the fence, a small cordon of state and federal troopers insured that the Zardons remained on the premises at all times, while the legal battle over the right-to-use argument over the property was hashed out in the courts. In addition, a small line of potential Freespacer recruits, mainly from the immediate area, stood by the gate. Kris had known a large number of the people in the line, mostly in their twenties and thirties, and what he knew made him doubtful of their usefulness. Still, he would interview each one, make sure they understood exactly what CFMF enlistment meant, and keep any person still interested under consideration. He wanted quality, but quantity has some things going for it, too. Meanwhile, in the clearing behind the Overstreet compound, the first cycle of training pilots for what would be the MASS-02 were about to land. As Kris looked overhead, he saw the Z-95 Mark I trainers being escorted in by F-20s; the federals were leaving as little to chance as possible until certain political problems were cleared up. Kris thanked goodness the ACLU, Libertarians, NRA, and various other political groups had come down hard in their favor, or else the Feds would have quite forcibly punted them off the planet. Of course, having friends in Salusian high government helped, too. Kris strolled through the dense woods from the field to the house, spooking feral cats and squirrels as he walked. Overhead, he heard the F-20s peel off and head back northeast towards Fort Polk, to refuel and await the evening's training run. Idly, Kris wondered if any of the F-20 pilots would be interested in switching rides. As Kris walked past the house and around the driveway towards the landing field, he heard a new noise, this one coming from the highway. At first, it sounded like one of the many, many log trucks which passed through the area constantly. Then, he noted the tone was deeper, and it was gearing down hard already. Something bigger than a log truck, probably a Peterbuilt... and stopping not far from... A loud horn sounded the opening bars of "Dixie" about two hundred meters from where Kris was standing. Stopping, Kris thought, HERE. The semi lumbered up the road, through the cordon of federals, and parked in front of the house, blocking a substantial portion of the road. The trailer of the truck had CONDORCET ENTERPRISES, UNLTD. in large, flashy letters painted on it, and a large air-conditioning unit stuck from the top. Sitting in the driver's seat of the rig was a man about Kris' age, with a shaggy head of blonde hair parted down the middle and mustache to match. In his teeth he held an unlit cigar, and he waved a large cowboy hat, headband lined with turquoise pendants, at Kris as he dismounted from the cab. He stood, roughly speaking, as tall as Kris, maybe a little taller even, and moved with a swagger which told everybody that yes, he DID think he was God. Kris met the new arrival at the gate. Before he could say anything, the man grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. "James Joseph Condorcet the Third, at your service!" he said. "I'm here to contribute the remainder of my security force to the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet!" "Bwha?" Kris said. "Y'see," Condorcet said, leaning on the aluminum fence with great familiarity, "I usedta own Condorcet Enterprises, Unlimited, a supplier of airplane, jet and fighter components and maintenance equipment for virtually everything that flies. Problem is, two weeks ago, we got bought out by the Rival Ninja Corporation, and so all I got left is me, the rig, my not inconsiderable fortune, and my personal air security squadron, ground crew, and personal staff!" Gesturing to the rig, he pressed a small button on a remote in his jacket pocket. The rear door of the rig opened, releasing what Kris guessed to be about thirty women, all young, beautiful, and wearing general-utility flight suits. As Condorcet introduced each and every one to Kris personally, Kris barely managed to catch the fact that ten of the girls were full-time pilots, while three of the ground crew also had flight hours. Five were unarmed-combat experts, four were expert marksmen- uh, sharpshooters- and each and every one of them was wrapped around the little finger of the man with the stogie. Kris had one other rational thought: I don't DARE tell Ted Nomura about this. "Anyway," Condorcet said, once his entourage had begun offloading their property from the rig, "now that you've met my girls, maybe you'd like to introduce me to your commanding officer." "Uh... that won't be necessary," Kris managed to say. "Lieutenant Commander Kris Overstreet, commanding the CFMF, at your service... Lieutenant Commander." "Call me JJ," the man said, smiling for a second, until the meaning of Kris' words kicked in. "Lieutenant Commander?" "If you want it," Kris said. "You've brought in your own unit, and as soon as your pilots are checked out on Z-95s, you'll have a mobile squadron to command." "WELL now..." JJ took the cigar from his mouth and waggled it thoughtfully. "LOO-TENANT Commander Condorcet, CONFEDERATE Frsdrfn emrmfg FLEET. I kinda like the sound of that." Kris wished he had either Sparky or Washuu with him, to help keep notes. Instead, he thought to himself, Remember: commission a new corvette and see about getting myself a promotion. "Ah, JJ," he said, as the man in question paced around repeating various variations on, "Lieutenant Commander." "JJ... do you have a name for your squadron?" JJ stopped, thought for a moment, and then said, "Let me discuss it with the girls." JJ called the women together, and for a few minutes, amid much giggling and cheering, they discussed various ideas. Finally, JJ walked over to Kris and said, "The girls have decided on a unit designation." "Great," Kris said. "What is it" The lead woman, Kate Something Unpronounceable But Russian as Kris remembered it, smiled and said, "We are the-" The rest of the girls joined in: "RIGHTEOUS FLYING PIGGY WRATH!" As the cheering and giggling continued, Kris' jaw dropped halfway to the ground. Recovering, he stammered, "R-righteous... Flyin'... Puh.. Puh... PIGGY Wrath?" One of the crew members, a young woman Kris could not place, said, "Well, piggies are just so CUTE... " "Uh... yeah..." Kris thought carefully. "Well... tomorrow, you start training in flight and maintenance of the Z-95 Headhunter Mark IV. Those of you not directly in pilot or support positions will be trained in shipboard positions and Marine tactics. Once training is complete, most of you should be posted together in the Third Mobile Attack and Support Squadron... the... Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath." Cheering and shouts went up from the girls, and Kris waved his hands to stop them. "Wait a minute, let me tell you the down side. "All of you will have to sign the Fleet Charter. You'll be pledging your loyalty to the Fleet, and renouncing your former citizenships. In exchange, you get amnesty from the fleet for past deeds, steady employment, medical and funeral expenses paid, and excitement, adventure and really wild things." More cheering. Kris thought, I have got to dump that last line. "Ahem. Ladies, please. Finally, the fleet is already committed to a contract with the Zardon Republican Party, as space support for their civil war. We will be facing incredibly superior odds and probably better equipped forces. If successful, all of us stand to be fairly well off. If not, we will all likely be dead. If you don't want any part of this, now's the time to say so. Once your name is on the charter, it's too late to back out." At this, the women again went into a huddle. JJ stood, chewing idly on his cigar, smiling broadly. Kris looked at JJ. "Well, JJ, what's your decision?" JJ smiled even more and said, "Well, Admiral, I s'ppose I'll join up. I'll already used to the idea of Lieutenant Commander. As for them..." The girls left their huddle, lined up in three rows of ten each, and chanted: WHO ARE WE? FREESPACERS! WHAT'S OUR JOB? BLOW THINGS UP! ONE TWO THREE FOUR! RIGHTEOUS FLYING PIGGY WRATH! RIGHTEOUS FLYING PIGGY WRATH! GOOOOOOO PIGGIES! GOOOOOOO PIGGIES! RIGHTEOUS FLYING PIGGY WRATH! LET THE PIGS FLY! As the group broke up into a cheering mob, Kris looked at JJ, who hit another button on his remote. From a speaker in the truck, the tune, "On Wisconsin!" blared, as the girls cheered and giggled, jumping and running about cutely. Kris held his head in his hand and groaned. He'd been set up. Obviously the group had planned something like this for the express puropse of being cute, loveable, and incredibly annoying. Recovering his composure, Kris said, "You wouldn't know a young girl about, oh, this tall, pink-red hair and a maniacal sense of humor?" "Can't say as I do," JJ said. "Just checking," Kris said. "I'll send someone to sign you all in in a moment. Right now, I need to take some Tylenol." "What's wrong?" JJ asked. "Coming down with something?" "No," Kris said, "just a little headache." Kris walked up to the back door of the house, where Butch waited for him. "What was that all about?" his father asked as he trudged up the porch steps. "That," Kris said, "is the CFMF's newest squadron-in-training. Why don't you see for yourself?" "Not me," Butch said. "That Leeanna needs me to get back to the practice field. And you need to get back and start interviewing those new recruits there." Kris groaned, and took two Tylenol with a glass of water. It would be a very long, long day. The next morning, Kris was awakened by a phone call from Houston Intercontinental Airport. "Yeah, this is Commander Overstreet speaking'. What want?" he grumbled. "Have we reached the recruiting officer for the Freespacer Mercenaries?" the person asked. "Speaking'," Kris said. "This is former Captain Hikaru Konishi, representing the members of the dissolved 801st Tactical Training Squadron, Japan Air Self Defense Force. We would like to present our squadron to your unit, sir... Can you pick us up?" "I'm sorry?" "We need a ride to your base. Can you send a van or something?" Butch arrived back at the Overstreet compound four hours later, just in time for Kris to finish screening the day's applicants. Riding with Butch in the old Chevy cargo van were six people, all of apparently Japanese extraction. The tallest, a bearded man with pilot's glasses and a brutally loud Hawaiian shirt on, stretched and moaned as he climbed out of the van. Following him out were four females in flight suits; one fairly normal-looking one with short, jet-black hair and a calculating expression, one brunette and one dark-skinned pilot, looking daggers at each other, and a short, redheaded girl with a blank expression and a small bat in her arms. Finally, a young man in tech's coveralls flowed out of the van and sagged into a standing position, obviously worn out by whatever had happened on the trip. Kris walked over to his father, who was looking a little the worse for wear himself. "Hey, Dad," he said. "How was the trip?" "The trip was shit, son," Butch said. "Two of the girls were fighting over the mechanic the whole way from Houston, the idiot CO kept yapping about kids and how they are, the tall woman took me for twenty bucks betting on license plate numbers, and the redhead's damn bat bit me. I'm going to go train some recruits and get some rest." So saying, Butch walked in the general direction of the drill field, pausing only a moment to say something to one of the senior recruits. Hm. Five pilots and one tech. Well, time to talk to JJ and see if he would be willing to part with three of his pilots to trim down his squadron and boost the new one. To the new recruits, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet. Before I go any farther, I must point out two things. One, we are currently contracted to the Zardon Republican Party and its Provisional Government for the duration of its civil war. Second, by joining the CFMF you renounce all other allegiances. You'll be giving up your national citizenship and probably all hope of serving with your old outfit again. If you have any problems, now's the time to speak." When none of them did, Kris said, "Great. Since you already have the core of your outfit together, I'll keep you as a unit. You will be known as the Fourth Mobile Attack and Support Squadron. We'll be adding extra techs, crew for your corvette, and a squad of marines. Your commanding officer will be given a pay grade of O4- Lieutenant Commander-, your squadron exec will be a full lieutenant, and the other pilots will be lieutenants junior grade." "What about Takuya?" the brunette asked, indicating the young man asleep on his feet. "Oh, he'll be a high enlisted, tech chief, something like a Chief Petty Officer or something." Kris said. "Come on, he deserves better than that," the dark-skinned one barked. "This was his idea, you know, after the Japan Air Self Defense Force dissolved our unit and discharged us." Kris read the discharge papers. Takuya Isarugi, the young tech, had been discharged after only six months of active service. The papers listed the reason for discharge as gross incompetence, but also listed no less than two citations for quick thinking and initiative. Scanning through the others, Kris noticed that all of them had been discharged for the same reason on the same day by a Major Kengamine. Each individual file was mixed with good and bad points, excellent pilot but bad discipline, or vice versa. Considering the Japanese military's general attitude towards women, Kris smelled a railroad job. Private Isarugi. Excellent scores, three letters of recommendation, and dishonorably discharged. Unit loyalty, in any other case, would have been the death of his military career. "Hm..." Kris said at last. "Considering the situation, I believe that Ensign Isarugi should report to Lieutenant Commander Sabre to begin training on maintenance of the Subpro Z-95." Commissioning a tech was unusual for a squadron, but there was no real reason why not to. "Zzzzzzz..." Takuya seemed unimpressed by his new rank. "Congratulations, Takuya!" newly Commandered Konichi hugged Takuya in one arm and came close to strangling him. "We're officers together now! Welcome to the club!" "...gasp... gasp..." Takuya escaped Konichi's grip and looked around frantically. "Forgive me, but what did you say?" Kris tched. Pointing towards the old house and a small barracks, he said, "Ensign Isarugi, please report to Ms. Sabre in the squadron training barracks along with the rest of your unit. She will assign you to your training duties for the CFMF." "Ah... thank you, Commander!" Takuya managed to say, and then the unit started over to the old house. Halfway there, Kris noticed the brunette and the dark-skinned woman already yelling at each other, with Takuya caught in the middle. That, Kris thought ruefully, is going to be a headache. Fighting Kilrathi is SO much easier... 21) ... As a gift I present to you the city of Savannah. --- William T. Sherman to Abraham Lincoln, Xmas 1864 January 12, 2003 On a small, marginally inhabitable planetoid one system over from the Zardon colony of Veredine, the massed forces of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet prepared for two major events in their short and incredibly successful history. The second event would be the fleet's first fleet battle, a small-scale ship capture operation against a local Imperial fleet. To this end, the entire contingent of CFMF Marines, about 500 all told, were assembled on the CFMF Palendrom and the CFMF Starraker. Meanwhile, all four MASS units- the veterans of MASS-01 and MASS-02, plus the newly active MASS-03 and MASS-04- prepared for their assignment; eliminate fighter resistance, assist Redneck in his Y-Wing in disabling the big ships, and generally keep the superior forces busy. The morning's event began with the delivery of a large bundle from Salusia, with postmarks from Earth, Salusia, and Planitia. Each parcel in the bundle had a similar label, with variations of a common phrase on each: HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRIS or HAPPY BIRTHDAY REDNECK. At about ten that morning, Kris sat down to his cake and ice cream in the Confederacy's mess, along with all his commanders: Patricia McDowell, his exec in the MASS-01; Reina Sabre, commander of the MASS-02 Cavaliers and the CFMF Custer; JJ Condorcet, commanding the MASS-03 Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath and the CFMF Tondeburrin; Hikaru Konichi, commanding the MASS-04 Airbats from the CFMF Ryoma Sakomoto; Kalen Jerani from the Palendrom; and Sheria Roi from the Starraker. Also present were Sparky, who had already prepped the Y-Wing for the mission, and Washuu, Kris blew out the candles easily, and after a small bowl of ice cream and a slice of cake, he set to the presents. In packages forwarded from his mother, he found a Ray Stevens CD and two pairs of blue jeans, plus fifty dollars American. His father sent a BlasTech BL-44 blaster pistol, which Kris knew he would get no use out of. (For whatever reason, any blaster's power pack would go dead after only a couple of shots.) Six packages were postmarked from friends on the Wayward Son, and although the various goodies were neat, his favorite came wrapped in paper with small hearts on it. "From the five of us," the tag read. Kris opened the package and discovered inside a specially prepared box. Inside the box, in a small magnetic field, hovered an object the size of a playing card, but with edges of molecular thickness. The front of the card was decorated in the design of Kris' favorite card from Magic: the Addiction, namely the Dancing Scimitar. A Bloody Card made up as a Dancing Scimitar. Utterly appropriate. From Kalen, a batch of cookies, made from a recipe from Butch. From JJ, a box of Havana cigars. From Sparky, a bomber jacket in the design of the Flying Tigers of WWII. From Boom Box, certain undergarments of a type best left undescribed, except that they were for males and made of black leather. From Reina and Sheria, gift certificates. Finally, Washuu handed Kris a white box wrapped in red ribbon, with a crab-shaped tag on it. Kris immediately handed it back to Washuu; he'd been on the receiving end of Washuu's "presents" too often not to be careful. "You open it," Kris said. "Oh, come on, Kris," Washuu said. "Do you really think I'd try to embarrass you at your own birthday party?" "In a heartbeat. You open it," Kris said. Washuu untied the ribbon, lifted the lid, and reached in and pulled out a goldfish bowl, complete with fish. The fish inside was about as big as Kris' doubled fists, pink with large googly eyes and an expressive face. As Kris looked at it, it blinked at him; not, Kris decided, an Earther fish. "What is it?" Kris asked, taking the bowl from Washuu. "His name is Gyopi," Washuu said. "He's a very rare breed of fish. About six hundred years back, his homeworld got destroyed in a supernova. All that's left is him and a few thousand others like him in my lab." Washuu pulled out a small bag of potato chips and opened it. Kris saw the fish zero in on the chips, and when Washuu held a chip out over the bowl, the little fish leaped out and caught it in its mouth. Then Kris watched as the fish hovered in midair, grasped the chip in its fins, and proceeded to munch away. As Washuu fed it another chip, she explained. "They can breathe in either air or water. They're borderline intelligent, but pretty much helpless without someone to look after them outside their environment. I'm still trying to figure out how they fly; as far as I can tell, they're just plain exempt from the law of gravity." The fish turned to Kris, swallowing the rest of the chip, and spoke: "Gyop gyop Kris?" The voice was very high pitched, and was obviously not well suited to English, but the fish managed. "Hello there, Gyopi," Kris smiled. "You like tater chips, huh?" Kris held out the small packet to the fish, who smiled and nodded... well, sort of. "Yummy pote-chips," the fish said. "Here you go, then," Kris said, and he spread out the chips on a plate. "Now don't get sick eating all those chips, now," he said, and the fish nodded obediently before floating down to munch to his heart's content. "He's an herbivore," Washuu continued, "but he can eat just about anything a human can. He loves junk food, especially potato chips and cream soda. He'll be a good friend, if you keep him safe." Kris was hardly listening; he was playing Catch-the-Chip with Gyopi, smiling happily. "Uh, Redneck," Boom Box said, "we have to be flying in a couple hours." Redneck stopped short. "Oh, yeah," he said. He handed the last chip to Gyopi, and said, "Thank all of you for the gifts. Enjoy the cake and everything, and briefing will begin for all squadrons and ship commanders in one hour." To Gyopi, he said, "Come on, little fella, let's get you nice and secure in my bunk, okay?" "Gyop-pi-pi!" the little fish said, as it floated over to its bowl and sank into the water. Goldfish bowl in hand, Kris left the mess hall, smiling happily and leaving several fairly surprised party guests behind him. Finally, JJ broke the silence: "Now, why didn't I get him a pet?" "Okay, people," Kris said, pointing to a schematic on the wall, "here's the flight plan. "The Palendrom and Starraker will exit hyperspace here, two light-minutes from the site of initial attack. All other ships will come out of hyperspace here," he indicated a spot near an orbital platform, "and commence attack. Ideally, we want to capture two ships, one cruiser size, one corvette size, and disable or destroy the rest. The fighters from Rebel Squadron will engage the capital ships, checking for weaknesses and providing information to the other ships. Cavalier Squadron will handle enemy fighter resistance. "Once we have a good idea of what's available, we'll designate the target capture ships. Rebel Squadron will be in charge of disabling those ships and guarding the capture operation. Cavalier will be joined by Airbat Squadron in fighter cover. Both will also assist Piggy Squadron and the Confederacy, Custer, Tondeburrin, and Sakomoto in taking out the other capitol ships. "Once the target ships are selected and disabled, the Palendrom and Starraker will be called in. Remember that while these ships are docking for boarding, they'll be vulnerable. Rebel Squadron will be guarding them, but you'll all be expected to lend assistance if needed. "Now, I want you all to be careful. We'll be seriously outnumbered, but surprise and speed will be on our side. Remember we can't afford to lose anyone; if you get hit, disengage and retreat to base. If we get into serious problems, we'll pull out with or without any captured ships. We will NOT leave anyone behind if we can help it, though. "Now, this morning's intelligence shows a task force with two cruisers and about a dozen corvette escorts here, plus maybe fifty starfighters. Problem is, we don't know if any new ships have come into the area since, or how many ships are within hollerin' range to come and help. We have one cruiser and five corvettes, with thirty-two fighters. We have to hit fast and hard. If we get into a long, drag-out fight, we have trouble. Keep it moving, keep hitting, and don't get caught alone. All right, any questions?" No one raised their hand. "Great. Ensign Isarugi, please keep an eye on things while we're gone. And take care of the goldfish for me, okay?" As Kris said the words, Washuu and Gyopi entered the room. Gyopi wore a little old-style aviation helmet with goggles pushed up on top of its head. "Gyop gyop vroom!" he said, to the giggles of the MASS-03 and the more normal laughter of the rest of the officers. Kris choked down his reprimand and said to Gyopi, "Gyopi, this is my friend Takuya," and he pointed to the crew chief for the MASS-04 Airbats. "I want you to play with him while I'm gone, okay?" "Okay!" The little fish floated over to the very confused Takuya, who was already flanked by his would-be paramours, Lts. Miyuki Haneda and Arisa Mitaka. "Oh, isn't he _CUTE!_" Miyuki cooed. "He's just adorable!" Arisa said, less convincingly. "I'm sure Takuya and I will take good care of him!" "You mean Takuya and I will!" Miyuki growled. "Uh, don't you have a mission?" Takuya said, very quietly. The two women looked at Takuya murderously for a moment, then noticed the Redneck glaring at them in irritation. Smiling nervously, the two sidled out of his way and towards the door to the landing field. As they left, Kris turned his attention to Takuya. "Mr. Isarugi," he said quietly, "you know and I know those two are fighting over you. It's causing problems in your unit, and I want it stopped. I don't care how you work it out, but work it out. Got it?" "Yes, sir," Takuya said, and both he and Gyopi saluted. "Oh, and one more thing, Ensign," Kris said, looking at Gyopi. "Don't encourage the goldfish." Sixteen fighters and four corvettes leaped out of hyperspace roughly two kilometers from the lead Zardon ship. The Zardon force included the two cruisers and twelve corvettes intelligence had suggested, plus four patrol corvettes from the local defense fleet and a potload of fighters. On the Zardon command ship, the fleet commander saw the blips on the main screen and ordered a full starfighter attack. As the captain gave the order, he thought furiously: the transponder codes were definitely those of the Freespacer pirates, but the That-Damn Music hadn't been broadcast yet. Something was not right here... As Cavalier Squadron fanned out into a protective wall formation in front of Rebel Squadron, Kris looked over his options. Both cruisers were too large to capture quickly against heavy fire, so they were out. Kris flagged a corvette and a patrol ship for capture and passed on the targets to the other members of the squadron. "Flight one, the patrol boat, flight two, the main-line corvette. One missile each. Lock and fire." The squadron split into halves, and as Kris turned his Y-Wing into position, he noticed Cavalier Squadron hitting the first wave of Zardon Myrmidons. "Rebel Squadron, watch your backs. We may have company very shortly." Acknowledgments echoed over the channel, and Kris targeted the patrol corvette and fired one torpedo. As the torpedoes flew, Kris ordered, "Split by wings. Fire all remaining missiles at chosen targets, by order of wing." To Chaos, he continued, "Transmitting chosen target now," and he locked onto the lead corvette and fired first a single torpedo, then a pair. This left him with two torps, whereas the others would have none. The corvette's shields flared and died under the impact of Kris' missiles, and Chaos' three missiles hit the hull almost dead on the ship's engines, detonating them. As the fireball expanded from the wounded corvette, two more Imperial ships took hits, taking varying levels of damage. "Excellent work," Kris said. "Form back into flights. Flight two, work on the enemy corvettes. Flight one, follow me- we're going to bring the target ships down!" Lieutenant Jielhad put the Confederacy into a series of full-power passes, raking the lead cruiser with fire and receiving few hits in return. "Damage report!" she shouted as two turbolaser bursts found the ship, making the ship buck and dance. "Shields down to eighty-four percent and recharging. All systems nominal," Lt. j. g. Carisian replied, and she added, "Trust me, when something goes wrong, I'll let you know." "All right," the Salusian helmswoman said, "then let's give those Zardons hell!" A grumble rose from the weapons station, and Jielhad said, "Uh, I mean those _Imperial_ Zardons." Similar sentiments were echoed on the Custer, Tondeburrin, and Sakomoto, as these ships made their own passes on the cruiser. Blast after blast knocked into the flank shields of the Zardon ship, and little by little they began to fade. Meanwhile, the Zardon corvettes lumbered into a defensive position, but their fire fell short of the smaller and much faster Freespacer corvettes. Reina Sabre, commanding Cavalier Squadron, finished off an Imperial fighter and paused for a second to check on the tactical situation. "Rebel Squadron! You've got eight bandits after you, 205 mark 167!" she said into her radio. "Thanks, Cavalier leader," Redneck replied, "keep the rest of 'em busy, will ya?" A couple of laser bolts found the wing of Reina's Z-95, and as she dodged and recharged her shields, she grumbled, "Keep them busy. NO PROBLEM." Things, Kris thought, are getting major-league tight. "Sparky, I need more power for the shields, see what you can do," he said as he dodged laser bolts from all directions. True, they'd already destroyed four enemy corvettes, disabled one and were about to disable their second, but the Zardons had managed to coordinate their starfighter cover, and now, as Kris made yet another ion-cannon pass over the patrol corvette, he was followed by three very angry Myrmidons, each blasting away at his aft shields. On this pass, however, the patrol corvette's shields finally collapsed, and Kris rolled around for a final pass, compromising between shield power, ion charge, and speed. A few bursts later, as electric discharges played over the corvette, and its engines died, Kris pulled up and away, and said, "All hands, this is Redneck. "Sound Goldfish Warning!" On the Zardon command ship, the captain commanding the task force heard the piano, organ, trumpet and seiyuu blaring out one of the most maniacally cheerful products of the Japanese television industry, and his heart sank into his boots. "Captain!" one of the ensigns yelled from his post. "I read multiple incoming blips, one cruiser, one corvette, multiple starfighters! Commanders requesting orders." The captain sat and stared at the viewscreen, watching the skull and cutlery of the Palendrom and the flat wedge of the Starraker appear, surrounded by Headhunters, and he said: "That... Damn... Music..." Chalk up three, Kris thought, balancing his shields as he flew through the pulverized remnants of the last of his three former pursuers. Off to port, he noticed two additional corvettes listing and smoking, and one of the cruisers lay dead in space, powerless and leaking oxygen. However, the remnant of the Zardon fleet was regrouping slightly, and a couple of people were having problems. "Airbat Seven, watch your six!" he said, watching as Lt. j.g. Shimorenjaku's fighter became the focus of two Zardon ships' fire. Yohko's fighter jumped like a scalded dog under Zardon fire, and she sceamed, "EEEEEEEEEEEK! HELP MEEEE!" Her fighter went into wild, uncontrolled evasives, confusing the Zardons- and Kris- with their sheer desperate energy. Seeing no one nearby to help, and squelching the radio to cut out Yohko's screaming, Kris dumped all power into his engines, loked onto one Zardon Y-Wing with a torpedo and fired. As the Zardon began rolling and turning to evade the torpedo, Kris rebalanced his shields and lasers and began blasting on the remaining fighter. "Oh, thank you, Captain!" Shimorenjaku's voice dithered over Kris' speakers. "Those fighters were just there and I didn't see them and I couldn't turn and I was so scared and I almost wet m-" Kris could almost hear the blush. "Don't worry," Kris replied. "Where's your wingman?" "Well..." Yohko trailed off, and Kris had a fair idea what that meant. "Never mind," he said, and he checked on the members of Rebel Squadron. The fight was gradually degenerating into a mop-up on the part of the CFMF, with the Freespacer corvettes' advantage in speed and the fleet's general maneuverability advantage totally negating the firepower of the cruisers. "Redneck to Rebel Squadron," Kris said, "let's get it together. Form up on my ship, let's finish off those last corvettes." And you can stick a fork in this fight, buddy, he thought to himself, 'cause we are done. As Redneck regrouped his own squadron, JJ led yet another attack run on the second cruiser. So far, the cruiser had absorbed an incredible amount of punishment, but now its shields were failing, and it and the remnant of the fleet were running in an attempt to enter hyperspace. "Hold it right there, you unholy radioactive mutant!" he said as he poured laser blasts into the hull of the cruiser. Behind him, each of the other MASS-03 flyers made their own run, while on the other side of the cruiser the Freespacer corvettes bore down on the cruiser. The cruiser's shields finally died away, and the laser blasts of the Rightrous Flying Piggy Wrath ripped open the ship's hull. As balls of flame erupted from the side of the cruiser, JJ thought to himself, Now that was a really cornball comic-book phrase. Wonder if I can doctor the flight recorder when we get back to base... With a thump, the Palendrom docked with the Zardon corvette Protector, and newly commissioned Major Charlotte Brigand yelled, "All right, let's go!" As the boarding hatch blew in the Zardon ship's hull, Freespacer Marines began pouring out. A few Zardon crewmen, thrown off-balance by the boarding party, tried to hold a couple of corridors, but the concentrated firepower of the Freespacers pushed them back. A few minutes later, roughly thirty Zardons behind a hastily contrived breastwork made their stand in front of the main bridge access hatch. In front of them, about two hundred Freespacers were piling into a small, enclosed space just out of firing angle from the ship's defenders. Laser blasts rained from one end of the corridor, while a couple of Freespacers braved the shots to reach around the corner and return fire. Major Brigand turned to some of the other Marines. "You and you bring up the E-Web from the ship," she said, pointing at two troopers. " The rest of you, find some stuff we can throw out into the corridor and use for cover. Move!" Shortly thereafter, chunks of bulkhead, loose furniture, and a few other large, bulky items were shoved out into the corridor, to the greeting of several laser bolts. As more material emerged from the secured portions of the ship, a handful of Marines crawled out into the corridor, some to provide cover fire, and others to finish building the breastwork. Finally, as the breastwork grew to knee-level, two troopers brought in a large, two-handled box, about the size of a big Igloo picnic cooler. On the side of the box hung a tripod, a longish gunbarrel, and a cable extending from the base of the gunbarrel into the box. A few seconds later, the gunbarrel sat on the tripod, a double-handed grip extended from its base, and the generator in the box began to whine. The RebelTech Emplacement Weapon, Heavy Blaster 2000- EWHB2000, or E-Web- was ready for service. "Fire when ready!" Major Brigand yelled, and almost immediately, rapid-fire laser bursts rained on the defenders, blowing away their breastwork and in one case puncturing a wall. A few seconds later, all the Zardons were either disabled, dead, or cowering on the deck behind the remnants of their defenses. A few minutes later, the engines were reactivated, and the CFMF Protector pulled away from the remnant of the fighting and began cleanup operations. With both ships secured and the local Zardon fleet wrecked, Kris decided to haul it in. "Redneck to all ships. Prepare for hyperspace." The CFMF, with two extra ships, leapt into hyperspace, leaving behind a defeated and devastated Zardon fleet. The Freespacers had lost two fighters and thirty Marines and sustained only minor damage to its capital ships, and it had captured two of the Zardon ships in the process. All in all, a resounding victory. 22) I'M SURROUNDED BY MORONS!!! ---Carface "I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" Garth bellowed at a shamefaced captain, formerly commander of the task force at Veredine. "Two fleet cruisers- ruined for any use. Twelve corvettes either destroyed or crippled. Two more corvettes captured. All but four of your starfighters destroyed. AGAINST COMMON PIRATES!!!" A viewscreen became the subject of Garth's anger, as he plowed his gauntleted fist into it, shattering the plastic, metal and crystal. "And what do we have to show for it? Two piles of debris and fragments of corpses. AND NOTHING ELSE!!!" "Your Highness, these were not any ordinary-" "DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?" Garth squeaked. The captain cowered even lower, silent. After a second, Garth said, "I could give you a chance to redeem yourself in battle..." The captain looked up, fear replaced by a hopeful smile. "... but I won't." Garth smiled himself, cruelly. To one of the White Guards flanking the captain, he said, "Hang this man in Traitor's Row, and make sure the people know the price of failing the Empire." The captain panicked. "My liege, please! Give me another chance! I have my wife and children to consider, would you have them left without a father?" Garth held up his hand, halting the White Guard. "True, true... it would be wrong to leave your family alone like that..." After a second, he smiled and said, "Hang them, too." The captain screamed and cried as the guardsmen dragged him away from the audience hall. The doors thudded shut, and Garth looked balefully at them. "Shameful," he said, "that such cretins form the cream of my navy!" From behind the throne, Malificent's voice hissed, "Shameful that you misuse what talent is available in a pointless show of discipline." Garth rounded on Malificent. "How dare you criticize my dealing with traitors! It is my right as Imperial Zardon!" "A true Imperial Zardon would have the sense to use him elsewhere!" Malificent growled. "When will you grow an ounce of sense and THINK?" "My decisions are MINE, woman, and NOT yours! Is that understood?" Garth replied. When he said, "woman," that meant any discussion was over, at least for any useful purpose. "CLEARLY," Malificent growled, and she spun backwards to the door which led to her private suite. Not until she entered the privacy of her rooms did she allow a smile to reach her lips. Every once in a while, a minor point, an argument, to reinforce his illusion that he was in command. Garth was an idiot, but he had his uses, at least in distracting the people from the person truly in power. And she needed his distractions more than ever now. Civil unrest was at an all-time high, and armed resistance was now a definite reality on several minor colony worlds. Why, recently one of the penal worlds had almost had a break-out, before the guards had massacred the rioting inmates. To combat these threats, both heavy and gentle measures would be needed... ... and perhaps, just perhaps, those measures would end with the death of the obnoxious little man she called husband, once he was no longer of any use. "You wanted to see me, Captain?" Lt. Commander Konichi said as he stood at attention in Kris' office on the Confederacy. Both he and Kris were in full dress uniform, long grey overtunic belted over the duty shirt and grey slacks. "Yes, I did," Kris turned the viewscreen on his desk so that Konichi could see the screen. On it played and replayed the computer tactical analysis of the battle, focusing on Konichi's Airbats. "I have been reviewing the Airbats' performance very, very carefully since two days ago. The only two starfighter casualties came from your squadron- Ensign Kfir and Ensign Koolhoven. Both of them deserved better. "In both instances, the pilots called for assistance well before their deaths. In one case, you were the closest friendly pilot, and in the other you were one of three. However, in neither case did you attempt either to send help or help them yourself, as you were too busy dodging fire to pay attention to anything else." "But Captain," Konichi said, "you saw how thick it was up there for awhile. At any given time, we could all have been destroyed." Kris took a very deep breath, trying not to scream at the man. "Your ship can handle a few hits, Mr. Konichi. You chose not to take the chance. Or maybe you really couldn't take time to make the decision. In any case, two pilots died, virtually all your ships got shot up, and I have to send a MASS unit down to inactive indefinitely. I'm not thrilled with you at all at the moment." Konichi, to his credit, said nothing. Kris stood up. "In a moment, I'm going to walk into the assembly deck of the Palendrom and give the funeral address for those two pilots. I'm going to blather on about their heroism and self-sacrifice, and I'm not going to mention might-haves or should- haves. Unofficially, you are on probation. Officially, I'm promoting Isarugi to Lieutenant J. G. and making him your airboss, AND pitboss, AND second officer. Based on his past record, he should do well as an airboss, and I know he's a damn good pitboss already. When the MASS-04 is back up to full strength, you'll have someone competent to watch your backs." Kris sighed. He hated having to bypass command structure like this, but Konichi had proven, both in training and in the recent combat, that he was at best an average pilot, a slightly better than average teacher, and a Godawful flight commander. If Kris didn't put some form of oversight on him, he'd screw up royally, and maybe take the entire squadron with him... and that just plain could not be allowed. "There will be no official inquiry into your actions at Veredine," he said at last. "Just bear in mind... you will be watched VERY closely. Understood?" "Yes, sir!" Konichi said. "Good." Kris stood, trying to steel himself for the service to come. "You are dismissed, Commander." Konichi saluted, turned and left, and Kris stared back after him. After four years, he thought, you'd think a little of the pain of death would go away. If it didn't, he thought, considering himself sadly, he would be in for a lot a lot of pain. Over and over again. The next day, the fleet entered orbit around Ammuuz. The newly captured corvettes, Protector and Overseer, were placed into drydock for modification and update, while a proper crew for each vessel could be recruited or trained. The new ships would eat up the last bit of regular income from RebelTech sales on maintenance and payroll; the fleet was, temporarily, as big as it could get. That night, Kris suggested shore leave to the commanders of the other ships, and before long nine-tenths of the active Freespacer forces were on the surface of the planet, seeing the few sights, but mostly getting drunk and releasing tension. Kris was strolling through a shopping district that night, looking at some charming hand-carved toy ExoSalusia MegaDamage popguns, when he heard the distinct sound of brawling down the street. Sure enough, bodies were flying from the front window of a small bar a couple blocks away. One or two of them were in the white shirts and grey slacks of the CFMF duty uniform. As he ran closer, he saw the badges of three MASS units and the Palendrom represented among the shoulder patches. Dodging a flying Salusian brawler, Kris entered the bar- read war zone- and managed to penetrate the mass of fist-fighting Salusians, Zardons, humans, and what-not and reach the bar, where the bartender, a grizzled Salusian with entirely white fur, polished a glass idly and whistled to himself. "Excuse me," Kris said to the barman over the noise of breaking objects and breaking people, "do you know there's a fight going on?" "Sure do," the barkeep said, looking the glass over appraisingly. "Don't worry, the human with the cigar paid in advance," he continued, as he held up an impressive wad of mixed American, Japanese, Salusian, and other currencies. Kris searched the room for a man with a stogie, and sure enough, one JJ Condorcet was encouraging two Salusians to have a meeting of the minds... the hard and painful way. Frowning, Kris pulled a couple bills out of his own wallet, and said, "Did he cover the cops not showing up?" The barkeep smiled even wider. "Since most of 'em are already here, I don't think that'll be much of a problem." "Teriffic," Kris grumbled, and he waded through the fighters, administering a couple of judicious blows here and there, finally confronting JJ as he wrecked both a chair and a large Salusian's state of consciousness. "JJ, what the hell are you doing?" he yelled. "Shucks, Captain, we're just havin' a friendly little fight," JJ replied. "I mean, just ask anybody." JJ grabbed a combatant at random: an older Salusian with, Kris was sorry to note, a red badge sewn on his tunic- local constabulary. "Hey, buddy, ain't we just havin' a little fun?" JJ asked the man. "Hello," the Salusian replied, "you must be Captain Overstreet. I'm Chief Duris of the local police. Don't mind us, this kind of thing happens all the time. Just some healthy fun, eh?" Saying this, he slammed a fist into JJ's jaw, causing him to stumble and collapse backwards over a table. "Would you like to join us, Captain?" the police chief continued. Kris thought for a minute, sighed, and said, "Well..." ***COLDCOCK*** "...I suppose..." he said, rubbing his fist as Chief Duris sank to the floor. Funny, he thought, he'd always hated fights when he was a kid... ...but what the hell. The bar was a shambles, and most of the participants had gone somewhere else to buy each other drinks, and possibly prepare for Round Two. Kris rose groggily from the floor, pushing off one of the few remaining unconscious brawlers from his leg, and staggered to the bar. Shaking the fuzz from his mind, he noticed another person in a Freespacer duty uniform. wearing the two collar bars of a full lieutenant. The short-cropped red hair and huge female frame were enough to identify Boom Box, and her flushed face and unsteady position told Kris she'd been here a little too long. "Pat," Kris said quietly, "let's go back to the ship, okay?" Pat turned unsteadily to Kris. "Oh, hey, Redneck," she slurred. "Shure, I'll go wherever you wanna!" Kris helped Pat to her feet, pulled one of her arms over his shoulder, and slowly headed out the door, pausing only to deposit a couple more credits in the TIPS jug. As he walked, Pat kept up a monologue, just her and the booze talking: "Good ol' Redneck, lookin' out for his people. Y'know why I like you, Redneck? You don' look at me funny, for bein' so big. I wuz always big, big in kindergarten, big in high school, big in the Army, had to wait 'till I got out to get my pilot's license, said I wuz too big. Always too damn big. "Never dated 'n high school, scared boys off. Made 'em feel inferior. Got in da army, scared EVERYBODY. Had to tackle an MP to bust my cherry. Ever'one callin' me freak, gimme funny looks... you never do that, Redneck. You treat me like ever'body else...ev'n when I act like a big blowhard like ev'rbuddy 'spects a me." Pat put her other arm around Kris' neck and pulled herself up close, forcing Kris to stop walking. "My sweet little Redneck..." Kris held still for a few moments, then heard Pat begin snoring quietly. Oh no. Oh no. Help. At sunup the next morning, JJ found Kris gritting his teeth trying not to collapse under Boom Box's weight. "Mornin', Captain, rough night last night?" he said chuckling. "JJ..." Kris groaned, "shut up and help me carry Pat back to the Confederacy... and then tell Kalen he's in command until I can get some sleep." Later that week, Kris took command of the Overseer, leaving command of Rebel Squadron to Boom Box. She'd smiled in public when he'd openly commended her for her loyalty, courage, and devotion to her command. In private, however, she sighed as he told her, very quietly, how he couldn't take advantage of her. After the most gentle breakup speech he could manage, he said, "You have to find someone who loves you totally, unconditionally, and although I do love you... well, it's just not that way, and I don't feel right about this." Before Kris could turn to leave, Boom Box said quietly, "You ever hear of the Japanese insult, 'Christmas Candy?' " "Uh, no, not that I can remember." " 'A woman is like a Christmas candy... no one wants them after the twenty-fifth.'" Kris tried, but couldn't think of an answer, and instead kissed Pat lightly and left the room. Oh, yeah, he thought, great idea, Mr. Noble breaking off probably the only long-term relationship she's had... fucking smart, Mr. Fleet Commander! Halfway down the corridor, Kris slammed the bulkhead in frustration, and was treated to the sight of two naked, sweaty elves startled out of what must have been very entertaining sex. The two stared through the collapsed bulkhead at Kris, who blushed and walked quietly away. Tark looked at Mesha, and vice versa, and they both said: "Pervert." 23) Escapeproof? Ha! ---Arsene Lupin III May 24, 2003 "Live! from a secret location somewhere near you, it's the Free Zardon Network- ON THE AIR!" From the jury-rigged control box behind what had been the main recreational deck of the Palendrom, Kris watched as Salis Carisian, the Corellian helmswoman from the CFMF Confederacy, strode to the center of the stage, to the cheers of the studio audience, who for tonight's show had been taken from Salusia itself. The rec deck had been re-designed tastefully into a modern talk show set, with subsets for bands and for the news broadcast, all visible for the studio audience to applaud and boo as desired. Tonight, the band had warmed up the crowd wonderfully, with first a love ballad from Salusia itself, then two driving rock songs from Earth; the Zardons had taken to calling Earth rock-and-roll, in all varieties, something called khisthre music, which didn't translate from what he knew as Modern Zardon. One of these days, he'd learn what it meant, but for now... His attention returned to the broadcast, as Lt. Carisian introduced the news, read by a male Zardon from Cavalier Squadron, Ran Theris. "Today, the Imperial Zardon called out two battalions of the White Guard to suppress civil unrest in Mega City One and Port City. The citizens involved were standing in food lines when they were captured by the White Guard and arrested for mass demonstration. It is expected the citizens will be sent to one of the penal colonies to join the other accused dissidents at hard labor. "The Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, combined with elements from the newly formed Zardon Republican Armed Forces, captured the cruiser Infallible in orbit around Boriske early this afternoon, Mega City One time. The cruiser will become the second ship of the Republican Space Navy, and will join the CFMF's effort to disrupt supplies and movements of the Imperial forces holding our people in bondage. "In local news, the citizens of Mega City One took yet another tax hike and curfew announcement from the Justice Department in stride. Currently, the citizens of Mega City pay an average of sixty percent of their incomes in taxes, forty-five percent to the Empire, seven percent to the District Governor and local royalty, and the remaining eight percent to the Justice Department. Protest against taxes and restricted liberties have been suppressed by the White Guard and street Judges, and so such quiet acceptance is now to be expected. "Finally, the Imperial cruiser Courageous attacked the Salusian outpost of Melendria VII, breaking the cease-fire agreement which has held for almost a full year. Peace talks, which have been stalled almost since the cease-fire began, have now been broken off, and renewed hostilities have erupted in all sectors of Salusian and Zardon space. The Zardon Republic Provisional Government has announced its intentions to provide aid for those Zardons who suffer as a cost of both the Zardon Civil War and the ancient war between ourselves and the Salusians. "Now back to you, Salis." As Salis cheerfully announced the show's guests and musical entertainment, someone tugged at Kris' shirt sleeve. Kris looked back, and then down, and saw Sparky looking (?) up at him. "Boss, we got a message from Zardon..." Kris hushed the droid and quietly left the control booth, emerging in a cramped corridor outside the rec area. "What's the problem?" he asked quietly. "Khorin got caught in that round-up today," the droid said. "They're taking him and several other members of the Provisional Government to Bespin to serve hard labor manufacturing weapons and mining tibanna gas." Kris groaned. "Call in all commanders, request meetings from whoever's left on the Republican staff, and call in Dad and Leeanna from Earth. Arrange a meeting point somewhere halfway convenient, maybe even here. We need a war council, fast." Bespin labor... not at all the worst, but still a good place to disappear someone... and if the Imperials ever got wind of just who they'd grabbed, disappear would be the luckiest thing that could happen. The captain's launch from the Palendrom returned to its customary berth alongside its mother ship, carrying four passengers to add to the assembled commanders of the CFMF already on board. Inside the Palendrom, Kris waited anxiously for the group to debark, impatient to get the meeting underway. The first person off the launch was Leeanna, dressed in standard civilian Earth clothes, yet still managing to appear both military and regal as she passed by. "Good morrow, Captain," she said as she passed Kris, headed for the main briefing room. Following her were two male Zardons, Generals Doest and Orsin, heads of the fledgling Republican Army and Navy. Since the army only had at most a few thousand troops, and the navy consisted of two ships and a lot of trainees, their presence was more a courtesy than anything else. Finally, an exhausted Butch Overstreet, wearing- to Kris' surprise- the uniform of a colonel in the Zardon Republican Army, dragged his feet across the airlock seal. He walked slowly and stiffly, and barely even bothered to front for his son as he boarded the ship. "Permission to board, Captain?" he asked. "Uh, granted," Kris said. "Dad, what the hell happened to you?" "Kris," Butch replied, "if that woman ever gets you into her bedroom and locks the door behind her... pray to Heaven for mercy, 'cause she ain't got none." Kris blushed. Butch squinted slightly. "Kris, since when did you start glowin'?" "Long story, Dad." "Bespin is the most heavily-guarded prison facility off of the Zardon homeworld," General Doest said. "The main facility, Cloud City colony, floats in a layer of oxygen and water vapor in Bespin's atmosphere. Updrafts lift tibanna gas from the lower levels of the atmosphere, where it is collected for use in blasters and other laser-based weaponry. In addition to the weapons factory- which is under constant observation- there is a small resort on the upper levels of the city, which includes a gambling casino, hotels, shops, what have you. "An Imperial task force is in constant orbit around Bespin to protect the manufacturing center, and also to prevent breakout attempts from the outside. No breakout from the inside is possible without the assistance of the guards. Standard procedure in the event of a prisoner uprising is to seal off the affected area and inject nerve gas into it. Then, after cleanup, new workers are brought in, and the manufacturing goes on as before. "In order to effect a breakout, the Imperial fleet must be eliminated as a threat, boarding parties must penetrate the defenses of the base and take over the control stations, and the automated riot systems must be deactivated. All of this must be accomplished before the station's self-destruct mechanism can be activated." Where Doest left off, Kalen continued. "The best intelligence we can get places about 5,000 troops on Bespin, overseeing roughly four times that many prisoners. At any given time there may also be a thousand or so tourists on the station. The tourist and station operations center are above the docking level, in the top fifth of the station; the rest is devoted to weapons manufacturing or tibanna storage." JJ raised his hand. "If those prisoners're makin' all those weapons, what keeps 'em from turnin' on their guards with 'em?" "A gun is no good without ammunition," General Doest replied, "and although thousands of weapons are made on Bespin, not one power source or bullet is produced. All the working guns are in the hands of the guards." Everyone fell silent for a moment, until Butch asked, "Do civilian ships make port at Bespin?" "Yes," Doest said, "but each one is inspected upon landing before any personnel or cargo can be offloaded. The landing pads and docking rings are all ejectable from the main complex." "So who says we have to use them?" Butch replied. Smiles spread through the group. The plan was simple. Three civilian freighters would make port at Bespin, followed by two others. Once the group of freighters was assembled, they would breach the hull of the Bespin station and debark about 1,000 troops to make a beachhead. Once the beachhead was established, the CFMF and Republican warships would keep the task force occupied, allowing additional troops and weapons to reach Bespin. Once the control centers of Cloud City were taken, the troops would assist the CFMF in bombarding the enemy fleet as they wrapped up eliminating the Imperial garrison. As soon as possible, the station would then be evacuated; once the Imperials could bring in heavy enough force, they could just shoot down Cloud City rather than expend manpower to retake it. The odds, to be honest, were very, very long. The CFMF/Republican fleet would be outnumbered and outgunned 3 to 1 at minimum, with more Imperial ships within range to assist, and the ground forces would be fighting corridor-to-corridor on a station specifically designed to repel such fighting. Finally, the officers and men on the Imperial side would be some of the best they had. There was one bright point, however; none of the personnel on the station were Judges. Kris sat in the command chair of the CFMF Overseer, wishing wholeheartedly for his Y-Wing and direct combat. Instead, he was treated to the view of hyperspace for a few moments, before the ship, along with the other eight ships and thirty-two fighters in the fleet, completed its short hop into the neighborhood of Bespin. "Fleet report status," he said quietly. A few seconds later, the comm officer, Lt. j.g. Darris Troyan said, "All ships and fighters report ready, Captain." Kris thumbed the collar insignia on his tunic for a moment, the hollowed eight-pointed star of Fleet Captain, before ordering, "Sound Goldfish Warning." From over his shoulder, a little voice said, "Goldfish? Where gyop?" Gyopi floated up beside Kris and perched on his shoulder. "How'd you get here?" Kris asked the little fish. "Gyop gyop flew." "I'd guessed that," he said, and turned back to the main screen, facing four cruisers and assorted other craft. To his astonishment, two cruisers were heeling to port and breaking orbit, and a large contingent of the starfighters were following suit. The third had shut its engines down, along with two corvettes, while the fourth was actually opening fire on the third. "Captain!" Lt. Troyan blurted from his position. "Three of the Imperial ships are surrendering! The enemy fleet is in chaos, they're actually shooting at each other! A third of the fleet is actually pulling out, I'm intercepting orders for hyperspace from the lead cruiser!" "Damn," Kris whispered. "All we did was play some music at them..." Idly, he wondered if he could borrow a couple CDs or tapes from MegaZone and maybe win the war at once. "Incoming message from surrendered cruiser," Lt. Troyan continued. "On screen," Kris said. The Zardon figure on the screen was being shaken by the blows his ship was receiving on its shields. "Freespacer commander, this is Captain Zoys of the Imperial Zardon cruiser Waraxe. Representing the majority of my crew, I surrender my ship to your forces. Please transmit terms... while there's a ship left to surrender." "This is Fleet Captain Overstreet, commanding the Bespin Joint Task Force," Kris replied. "Captain, we request you either evacuate the battle zone or else defend yourself as seems best. If you still wish to surrender your vessel after the battle, then we can discuss terms. Please relay that to the other captains who may wish to surrender." "Thank you, Captain," Zoys replied, "and good luck to you." The viewscreen on the Overseer returned to viewing the battle. The Waraxe slowly pulled away from its companions, trailing several pursuing ships and exchanging fire. Behind it, a corvette exploded, followed shortly by its attackers, a group of Myrmidons. Kris watched in astonishment. "Overstreet to all ships," he continued, "move into a position between the Imperial ships and Bespin. Do not fire on any Zardon ship which does not fire on one of our ships first. Signal reinforcement ships to land, and keep a watch out for incoming Imperial ships." Now, if only I had some popcorn, he thought, as the Zardon fleet, with some help from the CFMF, proceeded to destroy itself. JJ Condorcet pulled his Headhunter into a tight Immelmaun turn and dove through his pursuers, leaving the seven Myrmidons speeding away behind him. Ahead of him, the Imperial fleet continued to tear itself to pieces, with defecting ships and retreating ships taking a beating from those attempting to uphold their duty to the Imperial Zardon. "Piggy leader, this is Overseer, repeat this is Overseer," Redneck's voice echoed over JJ's headset. "JJ, we got some Imperial corvettes getting a little too cozy down here, bring your people down here." JJ keyed his mike, saying, "Roger that, Overseer. Piggy squadron, this is Piggy leader. Form up on my wing, echelon right, and let's persuade those Impies to go away." Even as he spoke, JJ noticed laser fire open up from a group of seven Imperial corvettes, belatedly answered by the Freespacer and Republican ships. As JJ watched, the one remaining Zardon cruiser began to drift towards the Freespacer fleet as well. Great. "All right, Piggies, we got our work cut out for us," he said. "Divide by wings, pick a corvette, fire three torpedoes each at targets of wingleaders' choice. Let's give our people some breathing room." After a second, he said, "Piggy leader to Cavalier leader, can we get some help down here?" Reina Sabre replied coldly, "I'll see what I can do. Cavalier leader out." JJ felt a chill through the headset. Damn, he thought, what's with her anyway? Lieutenant Commander McDowell, known as "Boom Box," led her group of eight Headhunters on a bombing run against two of the corvettes still attacking the corvettes of the Freespacer fleet. Gone was her bluster, her rough, brazen exterior; in the cockpit, she was all business. "Linked torpedoes, fire on target at two klicks," she ordered, dodging fire from a squadron of Myrmidons closing fast behind them. Breaking formation, Boom Box flew directly into the middle of the Zardon flight formation, scattering the fighters. Returning to her original heading, she quickly locked her torpedoes on target and launched. She lingered for a second, making sure the torpedoes were on target, before turning to regroup her squadron. A second too long. WHAM WHAM WHAM! Bolts slammed into her ship, knocking out shields and engines almost at once. As she reached for the eject rings on her seat, another bolt shattered her canopy, sending fragments into her leg. Immediately, her flightsuit sealed off the damaged leg from the rest of the suit, maintaining suit integrity as the Zardons found a new target. None of which mattered to Boom Box; she had passed out from shock and pain. With circulation cut off to one leg and limited pressurization for the rest of her body, she drifted out of the fight, emergency beacon quietly chittering to itself. Major Brigand carefully piled the captured rifles from the surrendered Zardon guards in the far corner of the control room, watching the group carefully for any signs of sudden movement. For a short while, the fighting had been hellacious, with the Freespacers and Republican troops unable to expand beyond their initial breaking point. Then, the Goldfish Warning song had begun playing on the intercom, and with a loud shout the Freespacers had charged, throwing the defenders into a panic. Not a few of the defenders, in fact, had thrown down their guns and pleaded for amnesty, and if the statements she'd taken were true, no less than a third of the station personnel wished to defect to the Republican cause, or else to the CFMF. Now, resistance was confined to a scattered handful of locations, and the prisoners were being loaded onto every transport the facility had to offer. Thankfully, a spaceliner of tourists had landed not long before the operation, so it had been a simple matter to commandeer the ship and load it up with former prisoners. Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. It just plain didn't make sense. Why should so many troops simply give up at the hint of the Freespacers? As she thought, two former prisoners walked past, headed for one of the CFMF transports docked outside. One was speaking at length to the other: "You see? These freespacers, they fight like wild men! Why, I saw a Freespacer tearing one of the White Guard in two, while kicking another one in the gut! Honestly, I'm glad they're on our side- I'd hate to fight against them!" As Charlotte Brigand watched the Zardon named Khorin walk away, with his one-person audience listening raptly, she nodded to herself. Any race which would buy that load of crap would believe fairies took the milk from the cat's bowl at night... and would have little problem believing in invincible warriors. Besides, with the Judges, they already knew about invincible warriors. 24) There is no victory without a price. ---Julius Caesar Kris pulled his Y-Wing into a tight turn, scanning yet another suited body for life signs. Too many bodies, Zardon, human, others, floating in spacesuits- or occasionally only parts of spacesuits. Even as the victorious Zardon Republic/Freespacer fleet processed the prisoners and defectors from the defeated fleet, various volunteers from the starfighter corps of all the fleets were looking for survivors of the starfighter combat. Kris's mind ran through the lists once again, trying to add up the tally. Of the Republican starfighter force, the thirty-six Freespacer pilots had been about a third. Of those fighters, twenty-two were still flying. Three missing from the MASS-01; Chaos would not live to see his planet's liberation, Mandrake had been recovered from the dead hulk of his fighter, and Boom Box was still missing. Reina Sabre's unit, MASS-02, was down four ships, as was the MASS-03. From the Airbats, three ships were lost; two pilots dead, and the third, Yohko, would never fly a starfighter again. In addition to a shattered left arm, several broken ribs and heavy internal injury spelled the end of her flying career. On the up side, Konichi had actually done as good a job as anyone else with his command; in particular, he'd made sure a particular Imperial fighter never had a chance to finish off Yohko's crippled fighter. The capitol ships had not been spared the carnage. The Protector and Starraker were crippled, powerless hulks, currently being evacuated until their power systems could be repaired. All the other Freespacer ships had been damaged, ranging from the Tondeburrin's light damage to the heavily scarred Palendrom. Casualties of the crews of the different ships ranged likewise, with half the complements of the Protector, Starraker and Palendrom out of action. In general, the Freespacer fleet was in no condition to fight... but compared to the handful of ships remaining to the Republican fleet, the Freespacers had gotten off lightly. Christ, Kris thought, if the Zardons had stayed together, they could have had us for lunch. Kris typed in the location of another pilot- this one, from the MASS-03, had strong life signs and needed pickup fast- and locked onto a new locator beacon, this one far out on the edge of the battle area. After a few seconds, a note scrolled across Kris' computer display; HEY, THAT'S BOOM BOX'S SIGNAL, BOSS! Kris read Sparky's note, channeled full power to the engines, and blasted across the former battle zone towards the signal. Minutes later, he found the fractured remnant of a Headhunter speeding at nearly combat speed, engines dead, left wing blown off, and cockpit ruptured. The life signs from the fighter were faint, very faint. Switching on his com system, Kris said, "This is Redneck. I have located Boom Box's fighter. She's alive, but I need a ship with a tractor beam and medics right now." As Kris moved into formation behind the powerless fighter, a dark, cold feeling settled into his gut. A moment later, anger followed it; dammit, why was he worried for a commander and not for a lover? Why didn't he love her? The sickbay of the Palendrom overflowed with the wounded not only of its own crew, but the more serious cases from the rest of the fleet as well. In one bed, Diana Oberlicht of the Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath lay with right leg in a cast. Next to her, "Mandrake" Diggers recovered from light shock and a broken arm, and beside him Takuya Isarugi lay sleeping, scalp and arm bandaged from where his communications panel from the Sakomoto had overloaded and exploded. Next to Takuya, two crewmen were carrying in a barely stable Patricia McDowell, minus one leg and her right hand. Her skin ran with burst capillaries from the minimal pressure her flight suit had provided. Outside the cramped Sickbay, officers and crewmen awaited news from within; Kris brooded quietly beneath a support column, Arisa and Miyuki sat side by side, Miyuki's head in Arisa's lap, by the bulkhead; JJ Condorcet, grimly chewing his cigar, paced the floor anxiously. Each time a crewman exited the Sickbay, everyone in the corridor looked up; when the crewman walked past on his errand, they slumped back into place, more worried than ever. At last, a young Salusian, blond-haired and wearing glasses, trudged out of the Sickbay. "Well, that's it," he said to the assembled people in the corridor. "Everybody you brought in here alive will stay that way. There are a few who can leave as early as tomorrow, but they'll be out of action for some time afterwards. Let's see..." Consulting a list, the doctor continued, "All right, Lieutenant Oberlicht will be able to assume light duties in four weeks, and the cast can come off in eight weeks... give it two full months before she goes back to fighter duty. Same for Ensign Diggers. "Lieutenant Commander McDowell is different. I'll have to run a couple more tests, but from the looks of things, her body's going to reject bionics, so she'll have to settle for a prosthetic leg... and learn to write with her left hand. Obviously, she'll never fly again." Kris groaned at this, not noticing the crimp his hand was putting into the support column he was leaning against. "Lieutenant Isarugi will be just fine... basically his wounds are all sewn up, and tests show no serious cranial trauma. He can return to full duty in about a week." At this, Miyuki and Arisa laughed and actually hugged each other. "Let's see, I think those are the more serious cases, so if you'll all excuse me, you can visit the patients, quietly." Kris managed to say, "Thanks, Doctor... Doctor..." Fumbling for the name, he finally said, "What was your name again?" "Bifran Peers," the doctor said. "Nice to meet you." "Peers?" Kris tried to recall why the name sounded familiar. JJ smirked and said, "Mind if we call ya Hawkeye?" Dr. Peers looked oddly at JJ. "Why would you want to do that?" "Never mind." Orderlies ran privacy curtains between each of the recovery bunks, as visitors began to file into the Sickbay. In one booth, JJ stood beside the smiling Diana Oberlicht. "Honey, I'm sorry," JJ said. "Next time, we'll get ever last one of those Imperial bastards, won't we?" "We sure will, JJ," Diana said. "Now, would you please quit leaning on my cast?" JJ jerked his hand away very quickly. In the next enclosure, a messenger led a grumbling Major Brigand in to meet James "Mandrake" Diggers. His smile threatened to split his face in two as he said charmingly, "At last, the face of my true love! Behold, I return wounded from the field of battle, having defended the honor of my one-" "Shut up and listen," Charlotte barked. "Let me make this so blatantly plain as to penetrate your testosterone- soaked head. I'M NOT INTERESTED IN YOU. Got it? Do you have any idea how old I am?" "My darling, age surely has no place in the discussion of your-" "Thirty-nine," Charlotte said. "I have a son almost as old as you are, serving out his time in the United States Army. I've spent my entire life busting my butt in the trenches, and I am not interested in some space-case hotshot jet jockey with delusions of grandeur." Mandrake's face fell into quiet disappointment. "So, no date, huh?" The CRUNCH of Mandrake's cast was audible in the corridor. So were his screams. In the next bunk over, Lt. j.g. Arisa Mitaka and Lt. j.g. Miyuki Haneda cuddled around a barely awake Lt. j.g. Takuya Isarugi. "Oh, Takuya, you had me so worried!" Miyuki sighed as she cuddled up against Takuya's chest, causing him to grit his teeth slightly as his wounded arm was crushed under her. "You had both of us worried," Arisa said. "We were actually afraid we were going to lose you for awhile." "I... I'm all right," Takuya managed to say. "And then we started talking," Arisa continued. "We discussed how dumb it would be if you died and we were still bickering over which one of us would be your widow..." "And then, we thought about settling it ourselves, but we couldn't..." Miyuki chimed in. "And I said to Miyuki, 'it's a damn shame the law won't allow multiple marriages,' and then she said, 'Whose law?' " "And we checked the regs, and guess what?" Miyuki smiled. "There's no Freespacer regulation prohibiting multiple marriages! So we decided, instead of one or the other of us getting you..." "... we'll BOTH get you." Arisa finished. Takuya looked from Arisa to Miyuki in shock. The expressions he saw were more than just a little bit predatory. "...help..." Kris sat in the next cordoned space, looking at the still- sleeping form of Pat McDowell. More than anything else, he felt guilty, guilty for leaving her, guilty for not being there, and above all, guilty for not being her Mr. Right. Behind him, unnoticed, a short redheaded form and a shorter metallic form came in and stood beside him. Washuu's normally cheerful and perky face looked sadly at the dark and clouded face of her personal Guinea Pig. Sparky's inexpressive form simply sat in a position of readiness, looking impassively at the humanoids and keeping his thoughts to himself. They waited there for a long while. Life continues, and so does work. A day later, no Imperial fleet had arrived to retake Bespin, and in a council of war, the commanders of the CFMF and Republican forces decided to attempt to hold the facility, rather than abandon it. This decision had been more than a little influenced by the addition of four ships to the Republican fleet, including a heavy cruiser. (It had also been influenced by the fact that only a third of the combined fleet was currently capable of breaking orbit.) As the injured were returned to their commands within the CFMF, Kris began shuffling his remaining forces. The MASS-02 and MASS-03 went to inactive status to recruit and re-equip, with the remaining fighters being used to fill gaps in the MASS-01 and MASS-04. The Starraker and Protector were rigged for towing to a Salusian drydock facility. The remaining ships, except the Palindrom, landed at Bespin for their more minor repairs. Furthermore, a new twist had presented itself regarding the fleet. One of the ships which had been hired to land troops on Bespin, a small Salusian-make freighter named the Blue Devil, was now officially a Freespacer vessel; its owner had signed the Charter and pledged his services. However, the ship was totally unsuited for combat; only one laser cannon and weak armament and shields, and a captain-operator with no prior combat experience. Oh, well, Kris thought, looks like I'll have to start a new registration series, for a civilian fleet. When the reorganization turned to personnel, Kris attempted to preserve unit integrity. For example, Kris reassigned Yohko Shimorenjaku as helm officer on the Sakomoto. In Boom Box's case, however, the situation was radically different; she would be spending an extended period of time in an advanced Salusian medical facility anyway, and if she did reject bionic replacements for her leg and hand, her ability to perform any duty would be severely hampered. He finally assigned her as a flight instructor, based on Earth, and hoped for the best. Maybe she'd find a new place, or something... Kris signed the order, turned to the next page, and buried himself in his paperwork. The next day, Kris began inspecting the repairs on the various ships in the CFMF fleet, beginning with the Confederacy. That night, he took a bunk on the Sakomoto, head spinning with damage estimates, repair costs, projected time schedules, and caffeine. Some hours later, he crawled back out of the bunk; the stress headache from all the worry over the fleet wouldn't let him rest. He fastened a bathrobe around himself and ventured out into the corridor in search of the ship's sickbay. His head throbbed with each step, and he swayed dangerously from one side of the corridor to the other. Finally, Kris' half-closed eyes read the legend SICKBAY on one of the doors, and touching a pad, he stepped through the doors and slapped the light switch clumsily. On the Sickbay's one bed Takuya Isarugi, stripped to the sheets, lay beneath a totally nude Miyuki Haneda. Both stared at the man who stood gaping in the doorway, catching an eyeful. "T-Takuya! Miyuki!" Kris' shock gave way to indignation. "What the hell are you-" Kris' rant tapered off, as a smiling Arisa Mitaka sashayed out of the sickbay's head, also nude. "ARISA?" Kris failed to cope... "Well, Captain," Takuya managed to say, "you did order us to work it out..." Kris groaned quietly and turned his back to the lovers, holding out an open palm behind him. "Tylenol," he said quietly. A small paper packet was pressed into his palm. "Thank you. Good night," he said, and left. The three lovers looked at each other and said, Arisa said, "Pervert." "At least he could have turned out the light," Miyuki chimed in. Garth fumed in one of his private chambers, occasionally roaring his frustration to the empty room. Around him lay the shards of almost everything breakable the room had possessed. As he hefted one of the last such items, Malificent walked in, taking the damage in stride. "What disturbs you this morning, my husband?" she said sweetly. "I'M SERVED BY TRAITORS!" Garth roared. "First the defensive fleet at Bespin disintegrates because of the cowardice or outright betrayal of the commanders, and now every time I order a ship to attack, its crew stages a mutiny or refuses to attack! How can I maintain discipline if I can't be there?" "I suppose the conscripts require a more immediate sign of your Imperial discipline," Malificent said. "Perhaps a platoon of the White Guard for each hundred crewmen should be assigned to each ship..." "Hm," Garth's rage subsided into consideration. "I hate to weaken our forces here, with so many subversive rebels about." "Don't worry," Malificient cooed, "our White Guard can easily stamp out any minor rebellion." "True, true," Garth grumbled. "Very well, make it so, and give the guard permission to shoot traitors on sight. We cannot tolerate disobedience in the ranks." "Very wise, my husband," Malificient said. "In any case, we have a more serious problem before us. One of our U-Boats near Salusia has been destroyed. Apparently the Salusians are keeping a tighter watch on their homeworld. Perhaps we should pull our observers away for now and concentrate on other threats." Garth's eyes lit. "And perhaps the fear of U-Boats can also be made to serve Our discipline," he cackled. "Order half the crews of all the U-Boats replaced with the White Guard, and have more commissioned. Post them one by one within the fleets and task forces, and order them to make examples of any disobedient ships." Garth's smile grew, showing teeth and giving his eyes even more of a maniacal gleam. "Soon the fleet shall be loyal to me again... or it shall be destroyed." Malificent smiled on the outside, but inside she was in nearly as much of a fury as Garth had been earlier. The fool was willing to use up his entire fleet as "examples" in order to maintain his "order". It would take much subtle manipulation to minimize the damage, but hopefully soon she could dispose of the petty man once and for all. Alas for Leeanna. Malificent discounted the rumors of her continued existence and her devotion to the rebellion as the wishes of an overly devoted populace. No, her daughter was dead, probably long since recycled on the Red Market, liver, heart, glands all sold to the highest bidder. A pity, really; Leeanna was the only one of her three daughters intelligent enough to rule well and subservient enough to follow her mother's lead in things. Now, if and when Garth met his "unfortunate end," she would have to settle for Zerina or Thalona. The elder was a fool, and the younger asked far, far too many questions. But not to worry, Malificent thought. They can be made to serve. After all, she chuckled to herself, watching as Garth began writing up proclamations for the fleet, what are people for, other than to be servants? 25) Time to face the music... --- Jim Bakker April 2, 2005 "Ran Theris, Free Zardon Network News. "Imperial forces attempting to invade the liberated Republican colony of Giersten were repulsed by a joint army and navy effort yesterday. Imperial casualties include over two thousand dead, three thousand wounded, and fifteen thousand taken prisoner. Republican casualties are under four thousand killed, wounded and missing total. This attack represents the third attempt to retake the former slave labor prison colony since its liberation over a year ago. "Seven hundred citizens of Mega City One were arrested in this week's crackdown on illegal broadcasting. Of these, three hundred were detained by the Justice Department, the rest by the White Guard and loyal Imperial troops. Charges filed ranged from conspiracy to overthrow the government to illegal reception of an illegal and subversive broadcast. "A Salusian freighter was destroyed while attempting to escape an Imperial siege line around the Salusian colony of Cheris Station. The vessel, the Rogan's Pride, was outbound from a run carrying medical supplies to the station, which has been under intermittent bombardment and attack from the Imperial forces for four days. "The Confederate Freespacer Mercenary Fleet reports four engagements over the past thirty-six hours, resulting in the capture or destruction of a cruiser, three corvettes, and twenty-five fighters. No losses were reported on the CFMF side. The Zardon Republican Provisional Government has issued an official writ of commendation for the commanders involved in the separate engagements. "Finally, three more ships of the Imperial Navy have defected en masse to the Republican fleet. Thus far, over a third of the former Imperial Navy has either defected or deserted, despite the threat of execution or destruction of the ships, and according to inside reports, disaffection has been reduced by the defection or execution of those not totally loyal to Emperor Garth. "Now back to you, Salis..." The war council had been called this time by Khorin and Leeanna, who had arrived via the Freespacer civilian freighter CFA Blue Devil. Also in attendance were Kris and his commanders from the CFMF, Butch, and, by request, a representative from the Salusian Secret Service, who would pass information up to King Jerka himself. Khorin's opening statement was brief and to the point: "It is time." Leeanna continued, "We believe that the civilian populace of Zardon, particularly in Mega City One, is ready to rise up to overthrow the government, provided they can be shown that such an uprising has a chance of success. Furthermore, about a third of the Judges have been persuaded to, at the least, not interfere. However, there is only one way of bringing them to our side, and that is to persuade the Supreme Judiciary that Garth must be tried for his crimes." "Hm," JJ grunted, "and how are you going to get them to listen?" Leeanna looked at Kris instead of JJ. "In certain, high-profile cases, instead of summary judgment, a Judge may pass a case up to the Supreme Judiciary for review. This will allow us to present our case to them, and hopefully to persuade them to see our side of things." "What are our chances of that, realistically?" Kris asked. "Better than they were," Leeanna replied. "Fargo has become the senior Judge on the Judiciary council, and I believe we can persuade at least two others on the council to rule in our favor." "Who's Fargo?" three different voices asked. "Judge Fargo was my teacher," Leeanna said. "He has what I thought at the time were strange ideas about law and justice being different... he believes that sometimes one must look beyond the law, to see the greater good. I never understood... until I began opening my eyes..." Leeanna stopped to compose herself. "Anyway, he has already made many statements about Imperial interference and violation of the Book of Law, so I believe he will be more than happy to back us." "How is he on insurrection?" Kris asked. "I've read the Book of Law, and it's pretty clear about insurrection, incitement to riot, the whole bit." Reading the Book had been a chore, but he'd managed it, and he'd underlined some important lines in its Declaration of Purpose for just such an argument. "Hmm... that I can't say..." Leeanna frowned. That statement killed discussion for a second, as each one contemplated the situation. Finally, Butch said, "We might as well try now, with or without the Judges. From what I see here, we've got the Imperial forces tied down in five different systems, trying either to suppress rebellion or to retake rebelled worlds and stations. If we can distract the Imperials just a little bit more, then concentrate our full forces on Zardon's defenses, I figger we can knock 'em out in maybe an hour." Kris nodded. "Once the defenses are down, that makes the fight a ground fight, and between the Marines and the Republican regulars, I think we have a good shot. We aren't likely to have a better shot than this anytime soon, anyway," "There is another factor to consider," the Salusian officer grumbled from his seat. "We have reliable intelligence that the planetary mass driver is close to operational status. If that cannon becomes operational, Salusia will have no choice but to bombard Zardon in turn, until we achieve total surrender or annihilation." "Truly, the time is now," Khorin said. "If we do not move, we shall lose our opportunity... and perhaps everything." "Fine," Kris said, "but where do we get started at?" "We start," Leeanna said, "when you choose your legal counsel." "WHAT??" Kris choked. Leeanna stood up and said, "Kristan Overstreet of Free Space, I hereby arrest you for the crimes of multiple murder, subversion, treason in aiding enemies of the Empire, treason in spreading subversive and dissenting opinions in the Empire, treason in waging war against the Empire, sabotage, espionage, and piracy. Due to the serious and sensitive nature of these charges I refer your case to the Supreme Judiciary." "Bwah?" "I suggest you secure a very good legal counsel. Under the circumstances, I believe rather than actually trying to find someone expert in Zardon law, you should select a skilled public speaker." "What, you ain't goin' ta represent me?" Kris asked. "Represent you?" Leeanna said. "I'll be prosecuting you." Kris sagged backwards in his chair; after a moment, he pushed the chair back with his legs and stared at the ceiling. Wheels turned frantically in his head... and then the solution fell into place so quickly, so clearly, that Kris jumped when it hit him, forcing the chair backwards even farther and causing Kris to fall backwards and knock his head on the bulkhead. As three different people scrambled over to help him up, Kris sat and chuckled slightly. Clumsily rising over the overturned chair, Kris looked directly at the Salusian intelligence officer. "I need to see Jeremy Feeple. Now." "This closed session of the Court of the Supreme Judiciary will come to order," Justice Fargo intoned from the center of the bench which dominated the main courtroom of the Mega City One Hall of Justice. On either side of him sat two other middle-aged to elderly judges, each one impressive in his or her own right. Before them lay two tables; behind one sat Judge Leeanna Zard'al, and behind the other sat Lord Ambassador Jeremy Feeple and his client, Fleet Captain Kristan Overstreet. No one else sat in the room. "Based on the briefs prepared by both the prosecuting Judge and by the defense, the Supreme Judiciary has agreed to defense's motion for closed session and total secrecy. This court appreciates the arguments presented concerning the sensitive nature of this trial, whether or not the court necessarily agrees with them. Also, the desire to keep the presence of the counsel for the defense secret does not interfere with due process, and so will be accommodated. "There are two orders of business on the docket for this closed session. We shall begin with the People versus Kristan Overstreet. Prosecutor, read the charges." Leeanna keyed up a list from her pad; "One count of espionage against the Imperial Zardon government; one count of sabotage against the Imperial Zardon government; one count of jailbreak from an Imperial Army military installation; multiple counts of associating with known felons and insurrectionists; thirty-eight counts of piracy against ships under Imperial Zardon protection; eight counts of murder, second degree; one count of inciting insurrection." Fargo turned to the defense table. "How does the defendant plead?" Jeremy looked at the justices. "To all counts listed, my client wishes to plead not guilty, by reason of legitimate acts of war." "With all due respect, young man," another Justice, a middle aged woman named Maccinnoc, "your client does not think small." Kris groaned in his chair. It would be a LONG 48 hours... 48 hours until, with or without him, the fate of Zardon would be decided. Sneaking past the defenses of the home planet of the Zardon Empire had never been easy, and in this period, when the Imperial government was fighting a losing war on two fronts, the task became incredibly difficult. Still, supply ships for the Republicans and their increasing number of refugee dependents snuck in by the dozens daily, assisted by slightly better-than-cutting-edge stealth technology. Not a true cloak, but good enough to pass by the multiple sensors and weapons of the Zardon orbital stations and guard fleet without attracting attention. Today, the ships were laden not with weaponry or with food, but with the amassed ground forces of the Republican Army, supplemented by the battalion of Freespacer Marines led by Major Brigand. To the cities of lesser importance, such as East City, Oz, Port City, Newport City and Mega City Two, small forces were landed to prepare for the uprising. The rest congregated in Mega City One. The denizens of the Undercity, mutants and outlaws alike, took one look at the now seasoned regular troops, veterans of months and months of hard fighting in the Outer Rim, and decided to lie low. Rifles slung on their backs, pistols at their hips, and blood in their eyes, the troops ascended the twisting paths from the caves where the transports landed through the darkened, crumbling passages of the Undercity to the secret bases just beneath street level, where they would await the signal to begin the attack. Each of the native Zardons in the army, thousands strong and growing as each transport dropped its load and sped back to pick up more, kept a tiny haunted expression in their eyes. For the first time in millennia, the right of the Imperial Zardon to rule would be questioned. Each of the troopers had grown up believing that the rule of the Empire was eternal and just, until one by one they had become victims of Garth's tyranny. Each one believed in their minds that what they were going to do was right... but in their hearts, deep down, lay a tiny speck of doubt. In one of the transports to land on this particular day sat a human, dressed in the uniform of a Brigadier General. Arlin Bruce Overstreet, known to very many of the troopers as either Chief or Butch, considered the last time he'd gone into a firefight. That time, he'd taken a round in the butt from a North Vietnamese soldier and spent the rest of his U. S. Navy enlistment bouncing around the Pacific Ocean. Now, he was an officer, a commander, a leader of troops. Most of all, he thought to himself, I'm _old._ Fifty-five was too damn old to be going into a live-fire zone, even if you were one of the High Brass. Next to Butch sat a tall woman, red hair now flecked with gray, with a missing hand and a prosthetic leg. Her eyes stared off into a space no one else could see, as her remaining hand roamed across a small datapad on her lap. Pat McDowell had refused to sit and wait on Earth; she would be coordinating the different Republican units with the CFMF troopers. Beyond the two officers sat about three dozen troopers, here and there on crates and in corners, waiting as the ship skimmed the surface seeking its landing site. The troopers, all members of the last wave of trainees, looked around nervously, trying to reassure each other. How many, Butch wondered, would get laid toes-up in the next few days? How long since I was one of those troopers, fresh out from the hell of Navy SEAL training and marching up north of the DMZ? Dammit, son or not, I am WAY too old for this, he thought. A hand closed on his gently, and Butch glanced over to meet Patricia's gaze. He covered her hand with his other hand and stared back. No one said a word. Khorin watched as people scrambled up and down the ramps and conduits with supplies and munitions. Most wore the black fatigues of the Republican Army; occasionally, a grey-clad member of the Confederate Freespacer Marines would rush by on an errand; and, guiding several of the larger crates up the passages of the Undercity, guarded heavily from potential thieves, were a handful of techs who wore the red and white jumpsuits of RebelTech Industries. Occasionally, one of these latter men asked him directions to one of the dozens of weapons caches around the city. The crates came in many sizes and colors; in addition to the RebelTech label, labels from ExoSalusia, Winchester, BlasTech, and even BudgetArms could be made out. Armor-piercing sluggers, blaster rifles, mortars, RPGs, and E-Webs piled up around the city as fast as they could be moved. Finally, a squad of female Freespacer Marines wearing some sort of backpack and carrying what appeared to be a laser rifle with a thumb trigger strode up, surrounding half a dozen RebelTech workers toting several crates. The lead Marine waved at Khorin and said, "Excuse me, friend, but where's the depot for the Freespacer Marines?" Khorin looked oddly at the weapon in the young woman's hands. A small yellow light just above the large thumb trigger glowed in the dim Undercity corridor. From the point on the rifle where the stock belonged, a cable ran to the back of the pack, which, Khorin now observed, gave off an soft, extremely high-pitched whine. "Ah... ah, yes, the Marine cache is depot number forty-seven on the chart," Khorin said. "Perhaps I could show you to it?" "Just be careful," the woman said. "This is the first load of P-Webs from the factory. Wouldn't want these in the wrong hands at all." "P-Web?" "P. W. H. B.- a one-man version of the E-Web, for infantry use," the girl said. "We like to call it the Proton Pack." "I ain't afraid of no ghost!" one of the other girls piped, sending the others into giggles. "If you would like to follow me..." Khorin sighed, deciding he'd never understand Earther jokes. "You heard the man, Piggies! Let's move out!" the leader said, and the Marine detachment of the Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath followed Khorin into the darkness, occasionally giggling as they went. Washuu Hakubi, the self-proclaimed Greatest Genius Scientist in the Universe, walked through one of the sections of her lab complex devoted to medical research. Behind her, a small platform half-filled with medical equipment of all sorts floated in midair. "Let's see... protoplasers, protoplasers, protoplasers..." Washuu mumbled, digging through drawers and cabinets. One of these days I really ought to clean this place out, she thought to herself. With a cry of triumph, she pulled out three instruments vaguely resembling penlights and placed them onto the pile of equipment. Washuu leaned back onto the platform, tilting it slightly, and thought about what else she would need. Blood and plasma would have to come from the fleet stores, and after that willing donors. Heavy equipment also would be limited to whatever the local situation had available. However, she was damned if she'd rely on primitive tools if and when she went into surgery. Sighing, she stood and walked onward, followed obediently by the platform. Just a few years ago, she thought, I wouldn't have had anything to do with a war. Just let life go on as it was intended, performing my experiments and watching the universe go by. And then I fell in love. Oh well, she thought, as she began looking for some extra surgical sponges, you fall in love, you get involved. And Kris is going to pay for this, whether he knows it or not, she smirked to herself. "... On all counts save those of consorting with felons and insurrectionists, this court finds the defendant not guilty by reason of war. On these counts of consorting, etc., this court finds the defendant guilty, and sentences him to no less than five years confinement to the Iso-Cubes, and elects to suspend sentence pending the good behavior of the defendant. The defendant is remanded into the custody of Judge Zard'al for the duration of the conflict, as a prisoner of war." As Justice Fargo finished speaking, two of the Judges on the panel with him handed papers to the secretary; written dissents to the judgment. Despite the open opposition to the ruling, Fargo had convinced two of the other Justices to rule with him on the admissibility of the "legitimate acts of war" defense. The dissenters were basically making a statement to the effect that the Law didn't care about war or peace, only guilt or innocence. All of which was academic to Kris; he had been given the most lenient sentencing possible under a conviction, and he'd been given freedom of a sort. Most importantly, the less important aspect of the trial was over... and the true reason he, Leeanna and Jeremy were here was now going to be addressed. "Case closed," Fargo intoned, "now for the next item of business, a preliminary hearing on 'The People v. Garth Zard'al.' Prosecutor, read the charges..." Leeanna read from her datapad, "Gross malfeasance and corrupt practice in public office, specifically the office of the Imperial Zardon; willful prosecution of a war, specifically against the Salusians and their allies; interference in due process of justice; false arrest, and the enactment of laws against the general populace; unlawful search and seizure; and violation of the rights of the people, as enumerated within the Declaration of Intent of the Book of Law of Zardon." Judge Maccinnoc, who had been the swing vote in the earlier decision, said, "The prosecution will note that there has never been a prosecution for offenses against the Declaration of Intent in the recorded history of the Justice Department." Jeremy spoke up, "Your Honor, this hearing is to establish whether or not there should be one." "In any case," Fargo said, "it is late, and the court must summon a public defender to speak on behalf of Garth. This court shall reconvene at nine tomorrow morning. Court adjourned." The gavel sounded, and the justices stood slowly and filed out from the room. In turn, Kris, Leeanna and Jeremy strode out to the rooms set aside for their stay. Less than thirty-six hours remained... thirty-six hours until the planet Zardon would be turned upside down... Kris hoped. That night, Kris had curled his arms around his pillow in an attempt to get comfortable when the door chime sounded. Wrapping his blanket around himself, he rose and opened the door testily. On the other side was a scowling, blushing (???) Leeanna, holding a bundle of clothes. "Here," she said, throwing the clothes at Kris, " put these on." Kris looked over the clothes carefully. A cotton football jersey... an old Army jacket... blue jeans... Kris felt a sinking feeling come over him. "Uh... what are these for?" he asked quietly. "You'll find out," Leeanna said, smiling nastily... ...and she locked the door behind her... 26) Because he's a lying, cheating, thieving, two-faced rat-bastard, that's why! --- Oliver Cromwell, 1648 At nine the next morning, Leeanna Zard'al stood sharp and alert in her dress uniform. Kris Overstreet sagged in his chair, rumpling his own dress uniform and nearly impaling himself on the pommel of his ceremonial saber. Jeremy Feeple, dressed in the most casual clothes permitted by the court, sat beside Kris and thumbed through his notes as they waited for the judges. A couple of minutes later, the court was called to order, and Justice Fargo gestured to a pale, skinny Judge seated in the position Kris and Jeremy had occupied earlier. "Judge Thomis shall represent the defense in this preliminary hearing of the People versus Garth Zard'al. Prosecutor, please present your arguments." Leeanna gestured to Jeremy. "I wish to defer to the counsel of the people for the opening arguments." "Proceed, Ambassador," Fargo said. Jeremy rose and spoke, "Your Honors, there is no position of greater power within an absolute monarchy than that of the monarch, in this case the Imperial Zardon. To this individual is entrusted the care of a nation, over which he has absolute power and absolute responsibility. A good and just ruler in such a system can lead a nation to great power and prosperity. A poor ruler can ruin the people and nation he rules over, with excessive taxes and condemnation, cruel and unusual punishments, and other gross abuses of power. "When such a ruler comes to power and leads his nation to the brink of collapse, the question which must be asked is whether the power of that monarch emanates from the monarch, or the people he rules over." Jeremy paused for breath and continued, "The philosophy of the founders of the Justice Department of Zardon, as set down in the Declaration of Intent which prefaces your Book of Law, is that the power ultimately comes from the common people." "Objection," Judge Thomis called out from his seat. "Judge Thomis, how can you object to an opening statement? Save it for later. Proceed, Ambassador," Fargo intoned. "Thank you, Your Honor," Jeremy replied. "If you will allow me to read from this Declaration of Intent, and I quote: 'We, the Judges of the Justice Department, are sworn to uphold the law of the people, and to protect and serve the citizens of Zardon, to preserve their natural rights from criminal acts.' The Declaration goes on to state, 'For the purpose of preserving the people's rights to life, liberty, and property, we the Judges of Zardon ordain and establish this Law of the people of Zardon.' "These words, written seemingly in passing, present the supreme responsibility of the Justice Department; to protect the people with the shield of law. Here, fundamental rights are assumed- assumed- to be inherent to the people; rights to life, liberty, and property. The right to live, the right to choose how to live, and the right to possess property secure from theft. In short, supreme sovereignty over themselves. "However, in order to better protect these rights, people agree to certain arrangements within a society, which take the forms of law and government. The purpose of law is to define what actions are and are not permissible; the purpose of government is to refine and enforce the laws. When laws fail, they are rewritten or replaced; when government fails, it must be reformed or replaced. "Even as we speak, a section of the populace of the Zardon Empire is engaged in an effort to replace the old government, which is in all essentials one man, a man who has violated the rights of the people by proclamations and military force. This man has stolen the very food from the mouths of the people, has pressed the people into labor on false charges, has committed vast atrocities not only against his enemies, but against his own people. This man, Garth Zard'al, has proven either unfit or unwilling to perform his primary duty; protecting the rights and prosperity of his people. "These people have resorted to the final act- the armed overthrow of a government- in order to reform their government. They are demonstrating the right of the people to hold their government responsible for its actions. No matter what is ruled in this court today, the culpability of the Emperor shall be decided by force of arms within the next few days. However, we believe this matter goes beyond the realm of just one war; it is a question for the ages, which we must settle today. "Either the Emperor is responsible to no one, or else he is responsible to the people over whom he rules. If the latter is true, then he is subject to the same laws as the people, which prohibit corruption, theft, enslavement, and murder. If this is so, then the laws say he must stand trial. We ask that you impeach the Imperial Zardon, Garth Zard'al, for his crimes against the people of Zardon and its colonies." Jeremy returned to his seat, pulled out a pen, and opened his yellow legal pad to a blank page and prepared to take notes. Judge Thomis, looking nervously from Jeremy to the Justices on the panel, muttered, "The defense has no statement at this time." Butch paced in the small room, barricaded on all sides against the inhabitants of the Undercity, filled to bursting with two platoons of Republican soldiers and their equipment. Most of the troopers, and Boom Box, were still sleeping, at his orders; the next morning, they'd be up way early preparing for combat. Didn't I swear I'd never do this again? Butch thought, looking at the two or three troopers who were awake; one was attempting to prepare an MRE in one corner, another was reading a book, and a third was fooling with a compact stereo system with headphones. This trooper, seemingly oblivious to the gloomy surroundings, slipped a compact disk into the stereo system and settled back to listen blissfully. Butch walked quietly over to the trooper, carefully avoiding the prone bodies of the sleeping men, and tapped his shoulder. For a second, the trooper reached for his sidearm; then, seeing Butch standing over him, he relaxed and removed his headphones. "You wanted to talk to me, Chief?" "What kind of stereo you got there?" Butch asked. "It's the latest in Earther stereo tech," the trooper said. "It plays CDs, cassettes, data solids and zip tapes." "Can you patch that into a speaker system, like a PA or somethin'?" Butch asked. "I can go one better," the trooper said. "This thing has a microtransmitter inside it. All you have to do is clamp a receiver into a broadcast system, and you got your own radio station." Butch smiled, fingering a small cassette Kris had slipped him. "What's your name, trooper?" "Private Wil Karmona," the trooper replied. "Well, Wil," Butch said, "how'd you like to be a lieutenant on my personal staff? Morale Officer?" "Aw, that don't sound like much fun, Chief," Wil replied. "I wanna be someplace where I can shoot stuff." Butch chuckled, and patted his own pistol. "Don't worry 'bout that," he said. "We'll all get a chance to get shot at. Whether you shoot back is up to you." "...and on the point of prosecuting an aggressive war, the defense would like to object strenuously. The Imperial Zardon has acted in the best interests of the Empire, protecting it from its hereditary enemies and deflecting the aggressive actions of the greedy Salusian people." Judge Thomis slammed his table to add emphasis to his words. "Counselor," Jeremy said quietly, "is it not true that for the last three years of the previous Imperial Zardon's life, a cease-fire had been in effect, and negotiations were underway for a settlement in the war which would end the conflict once and for all?" "Yes," Thomis said, "but I hardly see what-" "And is it not true that, within two days of assuming the crown, Garth had the Salusian negotiators on Zardon executed as spies and opened a wide offensive, sending the war into perhaps the most destructive phase in its entire history?" "I object to the speculation on the part of the prosecutor," Thomis barked. "The ambassador is asked to keep his personal insights within the subject of this hearing," Fargo replied. "However, counsel, would you be so kind as to answer the question?" "... Yes, Garth ordered an offensive." "And how many times have negotiations resumed in the interim?" Jeremy asked. "Once," Thomis mumbled. "And who broke that cease-fire?" Jeremy persisted. "The Zardons," Thomis groaned. "During the entire period of Garth's reign, have the Salusians launched any military offensives?" Jeremy asked. "Two," Thomis said. "And how many have the Zardons launched in the last decade?" Jeremy finished. "Nine," Thomis said, "including two in the last three years." "I believe the prosecution has established just cause for trial on the charge of prosecuting an offensive war," Jeremy said. Kris grinned behind him. "Very good, Ambassador," Judge Maccinnoc drolled. "Now, if the prosecution would be so kind as to explain how waging an offensive war is a crime, it might accomplish something." Kris' grin vanished, and Jeremy groaned slightly. Oh, brother. "Airbats, prepare for hyperspace," Lt. Commander Konishi barked over the command channel. "Sakomoto reading you, Airbat Squadron, standing by," Takuya Isarugi replied. "Be careful, Takuya darling!" Arisa cooed from her fighter. "Hey!" Takuya's blush could almost be heard over the speaker. "Don't speak like that in public... uh, I mean..." "Don't be so uptight, Takuya," Miyuki purred. "It's not like everybody doesn't know, anyway." "Anyone else want to bet on the wedding date?" Sakura said from her own fighter. "Please, people!" Konishi shouted. "We have more important concerns than Lieutenant Isarugi's personal life! No matter how juicy the gossip might be, how incredibly hot and heavy the sex is, how scandalous and unheard of such an unnatural relationship is, we must maintain our professional detachment and performance! Now check your coordinates for hyperspace!" Affirmative replies echoed over the channel. Takuya sighed and said, "Thank you, Commander." "Sure... you lucky guy, you," Konishi said. Giggles from the female pilots echoed over the channel, until with a sudden blur the eight starfighters and the CFMF Sakomoto leaped into hyperspace. "So, Captain, you interviewed the prisoners at Bespin, correct?" Jeremy asked Kris. "Some of them, yes," Kris replied. "Under what circumstances, on average, were the inmates arrested and jailed?" Jeremy asked. "With a couple of exceptions, the story was the same," Kris said. "The inmate would be in the lower levels, shopping or visiting friends, basically minding their business, when out of nowhere a company of the White Guard comes in and charges them with loitering, illegal assembly, some lame trumped-up charge. A few hours later, they're on a transport to a penal camp... you can spell that slave labor camp, by the way." "Objection," Judge Thomis said. "The witness' personal feelings are irrelevant in this instance." "Sustained," Fargo grumbled. "The remark concerning slave labor shall be stricken from the record." "No further questions," Jeremy said, and Thomis walked up to Kris with a smile. "Did you find any evidence that the charges against the inmates were wrongful or false?" "No," Kris said, "but the charges themselves were based on-" "SO," Thomis said over Kris' protest, "would Garth then have been basically enforcing the laws and edicts which, by the nature of his office, he has the power, right, and obligation to make?" "Garth was enforcing laws specifically designed to gain him cheap labor quickly and efficiently-" "YES OR NO?" Thomis said. "In the strictest phrasing of your question," Kris grumbled, "my answer would be no." Thomis hadn't planned on Kris not giving the obvious answer. "Ah... would you like to, ah, elaborate?" Thomis said. "If you wouldn't mind," Kris sneered. "Witness is in danger of contempt," Fargo warned. "Sorry," Kris mumbled. "Anyway, Garth has no need to enforce his edicts- the Justice Department does that anyway. The only two reasons Garth would want to supplement their enforcement is either to aid the Department in times of crisis- or to bypass the Department. Most of the 'crimes' the inmates were charged with would have resulted in a fine, or at most a few days in the Iso-Cubes. Garth could stretch that into a life sentence at hard labor." "Uh... no further questions," Thomis said quietly. "The court would like to ask a question at this point," Fargo said. "Was there ample proof that this was actually what Garth intended?" "According to station records, no prisoner had been released or transferred since the station was nationalized some eighteen years ago," Kris said. "We met a few of the original prisoners after the battle who verified the data. The only way out of Bespin was the disposal chute. Furthermore, the inmates regularly worked twelve-hour shifts, with two thirty-minute breaks. The work conditions were abominable, and the punishments for lax performance severe. Medical records are available to verify, as are personal accounts." "We would appreciate that," Judge Maccinnoc said. "In any case, I would like to pass on to the charge of malfeasance, if we may." "As would I," Fargo agreed. "You may step down for now, Captain," he said to Kris. Kris returned to his seat beside Leeanna and Jeremy. Jeremy, in turn, rose and said, "If I may call Judge Leeanna to testify, Your Honors..." In a small arms depot just under "street" level, a lone CFMF Marine from the MASS-01 held his laser rifle through the gunslot on the door. Outside, roughly half a dozen derelicts from the Undercity stood in the shadows, looking at the holes already punched by their older firearms through the walls and door. In front of them lay two dozen or more of their comrades, dead or dying. Chief Warrant Officer Jed Saxon stared through the tiny gap, careful not to move, waiting for the remaining Undercitizens to make a move. He'd been dispatched here to guard the depot when the main guard outpost on this sector of the Undercity had fallen to an organized Undercity force. He'd managed to get to the depot before the outlaws had found it, and for the past six hours he'd held off about a company's worth of attackers single-handedly. Adrenaline pulsed through Jed's body, keeping him awake. Sweat dripped off his brow and ran down his back in rivulets. His trigger hand developed a slight twitch; Jed forced himself to relax and removed his hand from the trigger. As Jed settled back slightly, the barrel of his rifle rose slightly. From outside, an incoherent shout prefaced a burst of fire from various blunderbusses and rifles. Jed dropped to the floor, too slow to avoid one bullet, which cut a shallow trough down his right arm before embedding itself in a plastic crate. Another shout, and the sound of running feet grew loud in Jed's ears. Jed raised his rifle and prepared to shoot at the first thing that punched through the door. ZSHRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMP! The shouts turned to screams, and the running feet faltered and fled. One set of footsteps grew closer, cautious and careful. From a few feet away, a feminine voice hummed a few notes of "Little Goldie." Jed relaxed for the first time in hours, stood and unlatched the door. On the other side of the door stood a shapely young woman in a black jumpsuit, wielding a P-Web and eyeing the darkness around them carefully. The only patch of color on her clothing adorned her right shoulder; a pink pig wearing a cape, the mascot of the MASS-03. "Able-bodied Spacewoman Toots Woolf relieving you, sir!" the woman said. "C.W.O. Jed Saxon accepting relief," Jed said. "Thanks for showing up when you did." "No problem," Toots replied. Noticing the shallow wound seeping blood on Jed's arm, she said, "C'mon, let's get inside and get that taken care of." "It's nothing," Jed said offhandedly. "Oh, come on," Toots said. "I can't let such a good-looking guy bleed to death on me, can I?" Jed looked at Toots and smiled. Toots smiled right back as she latched and barred the door and began searching for a medic kit in the piles of crates. "...and in short, I remind the Justices that the Justice Department has never interfered in the rightful government of Zardon, including the Imperial government. This Department has always accepted the laws of the Zardon government in addition to the Book of Law and has never, heretofore, seen fit to overturn any such law. To accuse the very embodiment of that government of so-called crimes, which are in reality merely the regular exercise of his office, is not only an absurdity, but totally outside the purview of this Department. Thank you." Judge Thomis returned to his seat, as Jeremy, Kris and Leeanna looked on. They'd done their best, and now all they could do was wait for the final decision. The Justices turned away from the advocates and began discussing the case. Fargo's voice rumbled quietly through the discussion, and before long it dominated completely. After a moment, the Justices faced the near-empty room, faces uniformly grim. Fargo said, "This court finds just cause to arrest Garth for trial on all charges presented in this hearing, with the proviso that we do not necessarily believe the accused guilty of any of these crimes. Arrest proceedings will commence immediately. This court stands adjourned." Kris breathed a small breath of relief. The Justice Department on their side, at least for the moment... and already moving forward. In a few hours, the fleet would arrive, and the final battle would begin, and one way or another, the issue would be decided. Now, Kris thought, let's see about making all those woulds into dids. Garth sat at his dinner table, eating his usual fifteen-course dinner, when the messenger burst into the room and gasped, "Your Majesty! The Judges are attacking the Palace! They demand you give yourself up for trial!" Garth glared at the messenger, but before he could say anything, Malificent said, "Call out all our forces! The Palace must be defended at all costs! We order that all Judges be shot on sight as traitors to the Empire! Go!" The messenger looked to Garth for confirmation. Garth glared at Malificent and said, "We order it so." The messenger, relieved, scampered out of the room, leaving Garth and Malificent alone. "You had no right," Garth growled. "My pardon, husband, I was distraught by the serious threat," Malificent said. "If the Judges have turned against you, then the subversives have been more successful than we realized." And, Malificent did not say, I have made a severe miscalculation somewhere. Now I shall have to work fast to salvage the situation, before all is lost. "It is well your suggestions were sound," Garth grumbled. "Otherwise, both you and that messenger would be spending some time in the dungeons learning not to anger me." "As your wisdom requires, my husband," Malificent growled. Garth stood and paced, brow furrowed. "I must show the people the true power of the Imperial Zardon," he said. "How much longer until the Worldhammer is ready?" "The engineers say the weapon may be fired in a few hours, once final calibration of the magnetic accelerator coils is completed," Malificent said. "Tell them to work faster," Garth said. "Also, order the ships and stations in orbit to monitor the cities. If the people should take the opportunity to revolt, the ships are to fire on any large concentrations of civilians. This insurrection must NOT succeed." "As you command, husband," Malificent said. For the moment, she thought, I shall obey... but should I support this fool, or should I throw him to the wolves? Which way should I turn? Chapter 27) We're not gonna take it anymore! ---Quiet Riot The command center of the Mega City One Hall of Justice lay deep beneath layers of concrete and steel, heavily reinforced and secured. However, the occupants of this room were anything but secure- the room rang with frantic shouts as reports came in from locations throughout the area. The five members of the Supreme Judiciary stood gathered around a central display, indicating tiny dots where Judges were besieged or under attack by Imperial troops. Now and again, the sound of an orbital turbolaser blast echoed through the room. Kris burst through the door, followed by a pair of cadets who had been posted to guard his room the previous night. "Your Honor!" he shouted, drawing the attention of all five Justices. "Your Honor, can I offer some assistance?" Fargo looked angrily at Kris. "At the moment, I doubt you could do a thing, especially since you are supposed to be a prisoner! Why did you bring this man here?" Before the cadets could reply, Kris said, "I outrank them. Plus, I told them they'd have to shoot me to stop me." Fargo turned to the cadets. "And you didn't shoot him?" "Uh... well, we did, sir." one cadet replied lamely. "Hurts like hell, too," Kris replied, reaching beneath his shirt and pulling out a slug, dripping only a couple of drops of blood. "nnnnnggg... I hate it when that happens. What's your status?" Fargo sighed. "Lousy. Our initial attempt to arrest Garth was repulsed. The Imperial troops are currently overrunning the city. Here and there, the citizens are fighting them, but those shots from the orbiting platforms are murdering them." Kris examined the tactical display for a moment and said, "Listen, in the next few minutes, my people- hell, the entire Zardon Republic armed forces- will be attacking the orbiting defenses. Shortly thereafter, our ground forces will be coming out from the Undercity- with enough weapons to arm every able-bodied person in the lower thirty levels of the city. All I want is an agreement to cooperate, until such time as Garth is dealt with." "You planned this from the beginning, didn't you?" Fargo said. "Unfortunately, yes," Kris grumbled. "And from the look of things, I really screwed it up, too. Now, will you cooperate with us, or do we waste lives by not working together?" Fargo looked like he was swallowing a piece of lye soap. "We will cooperate," he said at last. "Can you move immediately?" "Not until that bombardment stops," Kris said. "The fleet should be about to attack, however, so..." Even as Kris spoke, the bombardment stopped. On one display screen, a small fleet of about thirty ships of various size, plus a swarm of starfighters, attacked the platforms over Mega City, while about twenty other ships, listed as Imperial ships, moved to intercept the Republican fleet. Kris looked at the blips, watched for a few minutes as the two fleets engaged, and once the two fleets were thoroughly engaged, he said, "I need a radio. Set it to Zardon Command Channel 14." A few seconds later, a microphone was pressed into Kris' hand. "Channel 14?" the tech asked. "That's right," Kris said. Keying the mike on, he said, "This is Nathan Hale calling all Continentals. Repeat, Nathan Hale calling all Continentals. The hanging is off. John Paul Jones is here. Cross the Delaware. Over." After a few seconds, a female voice replied, "Nathan Hale, this is the Continental Congress. Any further orders?" Kris smiled. "Sound Goldfish Warning," he said. "Roger wilco, Nathan Hale, Continentals out," the voice replied. Charlotte Brigand turned off the old Zardon command radio and turned on the central communications panel. "To all Republican and Freespacer forces: Commence attack, repeat commence attack. Sound Goldfish Warning," she said. Turning off the radio, she picked up a blaster rifle and said to the squad from the MASS-01, "Move out, people! Let's get some space clear topside! Move, move, move!" From a dozen boltholes, troops began pouring up from the Undercity and into the streets. Imperial troops fell back at first, surprised by the sudden influx of armed opponents, and block by block, the Republicans and Freespacers pressed forward towards the Palace. Behind them, civilians followed, some afraid, some curious, and some eager to dish out what they'd been taking for so long. Here and there, Judges fell in with the Republicans, regaining ground, advancing alongside them. The Imperial line throughout the city bent backwards, formed a circle around the Palace, and fell backward. The revolutionaries surged forward, tasting victory. Then the White Guard counterattacked... and all hell broke loose. Lieutenant Sakura Saginomiya, second in command of the MASS-04 Airbats, pulled her Z-95 into a tight roll, leaving the trailing Zardon Y-Wing behind. A tight corkscrew later, the Zardon fighter met a rain of laser fire from Sakura's guns. Sakura passed through the debris field, her ship vibrating slightly as her deflectors shoved away the paperweight-sized bits of the former starfighter. Three down, Sakura thought, two more and I collect that bet from Hikaru. Most people who knew Sakura referred to her as a gambler, a person with a cold passion for any bet under the sun. Sakura would bet- and win- on any given person's handedness, age, weight, sexual preference and shoe size. She would make book on leaves falling, lights burning out, which pickup line JJ Condorcet would use next, anything... and win. Aside from her intense love of animals, nothing seemed to disturb the woman. Most people were wrong, at least according to Sakura herself. Sakura never gambled, not if she could help it. She studied the probabilities of any possible event, carefully weighing the odds, and placed her wagers on the "sure thing". Even odds were loser's odds, as far as Sakura was concerned. Sakura had just begun to sight in her next target when, in the corner of her eye, space began to shimmer. As she glanced over at the ripple, it resolved into an surfacing Zardon U-boat, arming weapons. Sakura watched as the smallish cruiser fired a few shots at the CFMF Starraker, scoring some powerful hits, and then submerged. Hm, Sakura thought, this deserves some further observation... Butch shouted at a group of Republican troopers working hard to assemble a roadblock in the street, as two blocks away the main rebel line began to disintegrate under the assault of the White Guard. "Come on, let's go! The more you build means the less you get hit!" From an old storefront, he grabbed a large sheet of metal and hauled it into the street himself. With a shout, the White Guard charged the main line, and the troopers and citizens broke and ran. "Form up!" Butch yelled, dropping the sheet of metal and grabbing for his rifle. "Form up and cover 'em! Let's get it together!" As the main rebel force ran past the makeshift breastwork, Butch shouted at them, "Rally! Rally, dammit!" Firing a few armor-piercing rounds into the oncoming White Guard troopers, he shouted, "Dammit, you cowards, let 'em have it!" Giving up on the retreating men, Butch concentrated on putting bullet after bullet through the hearts of Imperial troopers. In a few seconds, the Guardsmen were on the breastworks, firing over the crates, trash cans, vehicles and assorted garbage into the remaining Republican troopers. Butch reached for a fresh magazine, looked up into the faceplate of a White Guard sergeant, and froze for half a second. The trooper lowered his blaster; Butch reached for his knife, knowing he could never make it in time... ZARK! Butch turned around to see the trooper with the boom box- what's his name, uh, Karmona- kneeling beside Boom Box and holding a smoking blaster rifle. "Burned out the chamber, but I got him," he said, discarding the useless firearm. As he spoke, the wave of White Guard troopers fell back to cover and began firing heavily on the breastworks. "Great job, kid," Butch said. "Now gimme somethin' that'll get people fightin' again on that stereo of yours." "I know just the piece," the trooper said, and with a smile, he punched a button on his stereo. From its speakers, a hard, driving rock line blared, cutting through the gunfire and blaster shots. We're not gonna take it! NO! We ain't gonna take it! We're not gonna take it anymore! The song echoed through the streets, catching the ears of trooper and civilian alike. Some of them laughed bitterly, and hid deeper; more stood up and walked or ran back to the line, not knowing why except that they should. A few didn't stop at the line, but ran past and charged the White Guard. We're right! We're free! We'll fight! You'll see! Butch watched as a handful of civilians jumped the barricade and ran through the firezone. Two were shot almost at once; the others gunned down a group of Guardsmen and took their position, firing into the rear of the Imperials. Butch whistled quietly to himself as he saw this; damn, he thought, these people are nuts. But ain't we all? "Let's go get 'em!" Butch yelled, and he leaped the barricade, followed by most of the troopers and civilians. The charge was without a doubt stupid, wasteful, and doomed. It worked anyway. The White Guards were mowed down where they stood or sat, or else they broke and ran as fast as the rebels had a moment earlier. In front of them, Butch kept running and shooting, yelling for the rest to hurry up and follow. I'm too old to be a damn hero, he grumbled to himself, but here I am. And the sooner we get rid of those Imperials, the sooner I can go home. "Y'know something, Butch?" a feminine voice called behind him. Butch turned to see Boom Box with a pistol in her remaining hand. "You're halfway handsome when you're in a fight." "Aw, don't flatter an ugly old bastard like me," Butch chuckled. "No, really," Patricia said. "I see a lot of your son in you." Butch replied, "I hope you don't see a lot of me in my son. I tried to raise him better." "Only the good parts," Pat said. "The parts I want to marry." "Marry?" Butch asked. "If we live, yes," Pat said. Butch stopped, lowered his gun, thought for a few seconds, and said, "What the hell. Yeah, let's get married. After we finish off these Imperial bastards." "With pleasure, Chief!" Boom Box said, as she walked behind the troops, picking off Guardsmen where she could. You only need one hand, she thought, to shoot a gun. But it makes reloading a bitch and a half. Charlotte Brigand, monitoring the status reports on her headset, noted the counterattack in two sections of the lines. Even as the reports of mass Imperial retreats came in, she heard the fire from the Imperial troops slacken off around her. Looking around the side of the building she was using for shelter, she saw the White Guard pulling out, probably back to a better position. Well, Charlotte thought, if it worked for them, maybe it'll work here. She leaped into the street, firing her blaster rifle into the Guardsmen, shouting incoherently. A few Republican troopers and Freespacer marines followed her, and some of the White Guard broke. Others stood for a few moments, fired a few times at the rebels, and then fell back a little at a time, providing a rearguard for the retreating Imperials. Charlotte waved on the rebel soldiers, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. As she looked around her, checking for enemy movement, a Guardsman who hadn't ran raised his rifle and fired. Charlotte fell dead to the pavement without a sound. Sakura watched as the U-boat resurfaced and fired a few more shots, this time at the Republican cruiser Freedom, from precisely the point she had expected it to emerge. As I thought, she smiled to herself, he's following a pattern... and he can't raise shields while cloaked, so... As the U-boat dove, Sakura guided her fighter alongside what Sakura guessed would be its path, careful not to outspeed it or get too close until the time was right. She armed her two remaining concussion missiles, checked her shield and laser levels, and waited... ...and on cue, the U-boat surfaced and powered its weapons. Before it could fire, Sakura slammed her throttle to full and launched her missiles. The U-boat took both missiles in its bow, shuddering with the impact. Secondary explosions rocked its forward sections, and Sakura dove in, lasers blasting, to finish the job. BWAM! Sakura's fighter shook with the impact of a torpedo. Her controls and indicator panels went dead. Looking up through her canopy, she saw a second U-boat, weapons trained on her. Damn, she thought to herself, the game was rigged. The next shot hit the canopy of the fighter, killing Sakura instantly. Spinning wildly, the fighter tumbled through space, hitting the crippled U-boat and loosing a great fireball which finally engulfed the Imperial ship. And the battle raged on. Kris listened to radio broadcasts inside the central command of the Hall of Justice, relaying status reports and issuing commands to both the fleet above the city and the Freespacer forces within it. Around him, Justice Department dispatchers did likewise on a smaller scale, directing Judges to this or that weak point in the Republican lines, prodding on the slow Imperial collapse. Through one of the doors walked Jeremy Feeple and a Judge. Kris looked up, noted Jeremy's presence, and returned to the tactical displays- then jerked up again and took a closer look. The Judge with Jeremy wasn't Leeanna. Discarding his headset, Kris ran over to Jeremy. "Where's Leeanna?" he asked. "I thought she was watching you!" Jeremy said. Turning to one of the dispatchers, Kris said, "Where is Judge Zard'al?" The dispatcher shrugged. "I have had no reports from her since the fighting began." Kris looked at Jeremy. "Stay put," he ordered. To the dispatcher, he said, "I'm going to help Judge Zard'al. As soon as you can, send all available backup to the Imperial Palace." "You think that's where she's gone?" Jeremy asked. "Only place," Kris said. "As soon as she can get through the lines, she'll head straight for home... by herself." Kris grumbled, "You'd think she'd learn about backup..." "Why, Kris," Jeremy chuckled, "are you in love?" "Maybe," Kris replied. "More likely I want her to live to get into your pants." Jeremy blushed. "How did-" "Don't ask," Kris said. Vaulting a control panel, he ran for a nearby door, yelling behind him, "Be back in a little bit, Fargo!" Fargo looked up just in time to watch a gray-clad figure brush past a messenger and through a door. "Damn!" the Justice spat. "Should we stop him, sir?" one of the dispatchers said. Fargo frowned, staring at the closing door. "No," he said, "give him whatever he asks for... but when I see him again, his ass is mine." Kalen whooped wildly as the last Zardon ship pulled away from the bloodied, but intact, Republican fleet. "Kalen to Freespacer unit commanders! Report!" he said into the intercom. "Jielhad here, with the Confederacy. No fatalities, minor casualties, one fighter lost, pilot rescued." "Sabre here, two fighters lost, one fatality, CFMF Custer fully operational." "JJ speakin', two fighters lost, both pilots dead. Tondeburrin's on auxiliary power, but still maneuverable." "Starraker, Petty Officer Murphy here, heavy damage. The captain and first mate are both in Sickbay with heavy injuries. Life support on batteries." "Sakomoto, Isarugi here. Three fighters lost, one pilot presumed dead. Commander Konishi is seriously injured, we're moving to dock with the Palindrom to evac our wounded." "Flying Dutchman, Blake speaking. Minor damage, twenty-three wounded, two dead. We are still fully combat-ready." The Protector and Overseer did not reply by radio; from each, light-flashes told of extensive damage and casualties. The Zardon-built ships throughout the combined fleet bore the brunt of the punishment the Imperial fleet had inflicted. All in all, though, the majority of the rebel fleet was still ready to fight, whereas the Imperial fleet had been obliterated. The starfighters of the various MASS units were polishing off the last of the orbital defense platforms, and those few Imperial ships capable of moving were drawing off and away from the planet. "All right," Kalen said. "Starraker, Protector, Overseer, move off and begin repairs. Broadway, begin conveying casualties to the Flying Dutchman and Palendrom. All other ships, maintain orbit. All starfighters, provide air support to our troops on the ground. Good work, people. Palendrom out." As Kalen's communications officer closed the connection, he smiled to his first mate. "Well, Nestle, I feel like celebrating. Shall we retire to the galley?" "My pleasure, Captain!" Nestle replied. Leeanna lowered her Lawgiver and reached for a new magazine. In front of her lay dozens of dead Imperial troops. Beyond the bodies, the street lay empty straight up to the darkened service gate of the Imperial Palace. The gate was unguarded. Into her radio, Leeanna said, "Zard'al to base. Have broken the Imperial line on Gorolis Way. Repeat, the Imperial line is broken. I am en route to apprehend the suspect. Zard'al out." Time to settle this, old man, Leeanna thought. You and me. Prepare to be judged. 28) Family's always embarrassing, isn't it? ---Ford Prefect After a short and sharp argument with the garage supervisor, Kris managed to check out a Lawmaster. Throttle wide open, the skycycle flashed down the streets of town, rising higher and higher as he guided the vehicle towards the Imperial Palace. Around him were empty skies, for once; civilians with the money for flitters didn't dare take them out in the fighting, and the Judges were keeping the Imperial air power occupied. Kris finally set the cycle down in the empty courtyard of the Palace. As he dismounted, he reached for his pistol, and found nothing. Whoops. Left it back with the fleet. No guns in court, remember? Kris sat back down on the cycle. No gun, just him. Wonderful. A smart person would get right back on the bike, ride back to a CFMF depot, and pick up something. And get back to maybe find Leeanna dead? Nope, nope, nope, won't work, Kris sighed as he stood and looked around for an entrance. Oh, well, he thought as he walked away, maybe the guardhouse has something... Leeanna walked through the empty halls of the palace, deep within the levels relegated to the kitchens and servants' quarters. The servants were gone, the kitchens emptied, but Leeanna kept her guard up, ready in case a guard might be waiting in ambush around the next corner.. At the end of one corridor, Leeanna stopped and considered one of the service elevators carefully. Apparently, all the guards in the palace were elsewhere, out fighting off the rebels. Still, if there were any left in the palace- -Kris ducked behind a potted plant, dodging the blaster fire of roughly half a dozen ceremonial royal guardsmen. The mostly young and inexperienced- whose idea was that?- troopers ran behind him, firing wildly down the passageway. I gotta find some better cover, Kris thought. Maybe I could fight and take the punishment, but I don't wanna find out! A shot cut the plant's stem in two, and Kris leaped up and ran, seeking new cover. Why, why, WHY, he thought, couldn't they all have been out in the streets? Leeanna climbed the staircases quietly and slowly, pausing at each landing to check for guards. The dimly lit stairwell was only used when the elevators were being serviced, and the dust and still air tickled her nose. Stifling her urge to sneeze, she eased around the corner of a landing... nothing. Twenty levels, and no opposition. Maybe there was no one left to stop her after all... ...but better safe than sorry. A siren wailed high above her, echoing down the stairwell. Hm, Leeanna thought, so much for getting in quietly. Maybe, just maybe, the guards will be distracted by whoever that is. I'm sure it wasn't me... Garth ran through the empty Imperial apartments, panicking. Sirens wailed around him, and the occasional blaster shot could be heard through the walls. "INTRUDERS! Guards, to me! GUARDS!" From bedroom to audience hall to offices Garth ran, shrieking, "GUARDS!" Only the sirens and distant gunshots answered his wild cries. After a few minutes of running, shouting, and making a bigger fool of himself than usual, Garth finally realized that the guards weren't coming. "Malificent!" he shouted instead. "Malificent, where are you?" The queen wasn't in her chambers, or the audience hall, or indeed anywhere to be found at all. Neither, Garth soon found, were Zerina and Thalona. Finally, Garth fell to his knees and screamed angrily, "TRAITORS! You've all betrayed me!" For a moment, he fell silent, and then a wild gleam entered into the little man's eyes. "Everyone has betrayed me... but I'll show them!" A crazed giggle erupted from his throat. "Yes, I'll show them! I'll show them ALL! I AM THE IMPERIAL ZARDON!" Garth's cackle echoed through the halls. Sirens chased Kris through the halls of the Imperial Palace, as well as a handful of guards. I am definitely getting tired of this, he thought as he rounded another corner and paused to catch his breath. In two spots, blaster bolts had burned through his clothes, and his shoulder and back still ached even after the wound had regenerated. As he stood up again and prepared to run, the first guard skidded around the corner. Shouting, Kris tackled the overeager guardsman, stripping the gun from his arms. The guard went down hard onto the floor, knocking his head on the marble. Kris scrambled to the fallen gun, raising it just in time for the other guards to come into the open. Kris' first shot made one guardsman fold, clutching his stomach in silent agony as he dropped.. The second caught a bolt in his helmet, collapsing to the marble floor in a heap. The third fired two shots, then dodged for cover; he fell dead before he took the third step. The final guardsman ducked behind a column and hid; Kris watched as the tip of his rifle quivered. The whole process took less than six seconds. Well, Kris thought, that wasn't so hard, was it? Quietly, balancing on the balls of his feet, he took a few quiet steps down the corridor. With a final look backward to make sure the guard hadn't moved from his cover, Kris broke and ran, this time seeking out the royal apartments. Now, at least I have a chance, Kris thought. I'm coming, Leeanna... "Come along, Thalona!" Malificent barked. "We must leave at once!" The rebels had actually made it inside the palace. What a sorry state of affairs... and it was all that fool Garth's fault, allowing things to come to such a state. Now, she would have to rebuild everything... without that fool in charge. I should have known better, Malificent thought, than to trust anything to that buffoon of an Emperor. From now on, I will run things myself! "But Mother, why are we leaving? Where is Father? Why are the alarms going off?" The young girl in lace looked up in confusion at her mother. "Be silent and follow me," Malificent growled. "I will explain on the ship." Malificent could fly a shuttle herself, if need be, and the royal personal courier shuttle lay just outside the palace, in the rear gardens. However, the problem lay in getting to it before the rebel intruders found it- or them. "But MOTHER," Zerina, recently a debutante into Zardon royal society, whined, "why do we have to leave? Aren't we royalty? Don't they know we're royalty?" "They know very well that we're royalty," Malificent growled. "That is precisely the point. Now be silent and hurry!" Down a staircase the three went, Malificent, Zerina, and Thalona, gowns rustling behind them. From the staircase, so into a corridor, deserted by all save the sirens nobody had bothered to silence. Urged on by the sirens, the Empress and her daughters walked faster, down the corridor, then turning a corner- -and there, emerging from a service entrance, stood a woman in the uniform and helmet of a street Judge, long green hair flowing down to her shoulders. Her badge gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the windows; ZARD'AL. Malificent stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the tall woman aiming a large pistol directly at her heart. "Leeanna..." "Where is Father?" Leeanna asked bluntly. "Where are you going?" "I presume your father is up in the family apartments," Malificent said. "I am attempting to get your sisters to safety before the mob arrives." "You are attempting to escape justice, Mother," Leeanna said. "You will come with me." Malificent frowned. "Daughter, listen to me. Whether or not your father receives justice, the rebel mob outside will not care about justice. They will come here and kill your father, and myself, and both your sisters. I ask you- as your mother- to let me at least save my daughters, before it is too late!" Leeanna's stared, apparently impassive, expression masked by her faceplate. Finally, she waved her pistol, gesturing behind her. "Get out," she said. "Get out and pray I never meet you again. I came for my father... but I know who the true monster is, Mother." "Bless you, daughter!" Malificent almost sobbed. Grasping Zerina's hand, she ran past Leeanna towards the door to the gardens. "Come, Thalona, we are leaving!" she shouted behind her without breaking stride. Thalona followed a few steps, then stopped. Slowly, she turned to Leeanna. After a few seconds, she said quietly, "Thank you, Leeanna..." Leeanna waved her pistol again, this time without threat. "Go in peace, Thalona... and stay pure." Thalona nodded, and then turned and ran for the doors. Leeanna turned away, and without a sound, the sisters parted ways. Outside the palace, the whine of a shuttle's ion engines rose over the sirens, roaring into the thunder of liftoff, finally fading back to nothingness. Leeanna didn't look back. Today, she hunted her father. Her mother would have to wait for another day. Kris turned a corner, stopped cold, and dodged back around it. Out in the corridor before him stood that lone remaining guardsman, still tucked behind his column, hiding from the rebel menace. Kris had gone in a huge circle through the palace. And that damn guardsman was still cowering there... Christ, Kris thought, some people are _dense_... Tiptoeing down the hallway, Kris held his stolen rifle before him, watching the guard stand half-looking around the column, too frightened to peek out into the open and totally oblivious to the man sneaking up behind him. Five steps away, Kris paused. Then four, and three, and then his rifle tip poked the guardsman in the back. "Freeze," Kris said quietly. The guard stiffened, shaking even more violently than before. "Drop your rifle and start walking," he continued, and the guard's gun clattered to the floor. The guard started walking very stiffly and nervously forward, prodded on by the blaster rifle digging into his back. "You know what?" Kris asked. "You're going to live. You're going to take me to the Emperor's chambers... and you're going to be very quiet while you do it, too. Get the picture?" The guard nodded, sweat pouring down his face. "This way, sir," he said, voice breaking with youth and terror alike. Kris followed closely, carefully reminding his guide now and again where the rifle was. Now we're getting somewhere, Kris thought. Leeanna strode into the main audience chamber, gun in hand. On the other end of the hall, shrunken down within the giant throne and cackling softly, sat Garth, Imperial Zardon, totally mad. Leeanna's footsteps echoed through the giant hall, cutting a cadence through the howling sirens (hasn't someone turned those damn things off yet?). "Garth Zard'al, Imperial Zardon, Absolute Ruler of Zardon, its colonies, possessions and conquests, Supreme Commander of its Armies and Navies, and Protector of the People," Leeanna said. "You are under arrest for malfeasance in public office, sundry war crimes against the peoples of the galaxy, obstruction of justice, and multiple counts of murder, false arrest, wrongful imprisonment, and the enslavement of the people of Zardon." "Leeanna..." Garth chuckled quietly to himself. "Leeanna, come at last. I knew it was you. Clever, clever girl, my sweet Leeanna." Garth chuckled slightly louder, a slow, high-pitched cackle grating at Leeanna's nerve endings. "You will come with me to stand trial and impeachment before the Supreme Judiciary for your crimes," Leeanna said. "Come peacefully and you will not be hurt." Garth didn't even hear the words. "You know, I killed your grandfather. Poisoned his wine during a peace conference, back when you were just a baby. No one ever suspected that it wasn't some disgruntled Salusian. And now it's my turn. How fitting." Leeanna stopped about ten feet from the throne. "You will come with me now, Father," she mumbled. "Justice will be served, and we will have peace." Garth stood, even on the raised dais of the throne standing shorter than his daughter. "I just want to let you know one thing, Leeanna..." The doors of the chamber opened again, admitting a guardsman held at gunpoint by a red-bearded, blond-headed human, wearing an alien dress uniform with four or five burned holes in it. Leeanna and Garth paid no attention. "Say it," Leeanna said. Garth's hands flashed, and a blaster bolt echoed through the chamber. Leeanna fell to the ground, blasted at point-blank range by the tiny derringer blaster smoking in Garth's hand. "I'm so proud of you, my daughter," he said. "NO!" For the first time, Garth noticed the human running like mad towards him, rifle training on him. For a second, he froze, as the man stopped and pulled the trigger. A tiny glow appeared at the tip of the barrel, and then nothing. The man pumped the trigger a couple times, cursed, and threw the thing to the ground. Garth, seeing an opportunity, ran back behind the throne and disappeared behind a curtain. The man almost followed, then paused beside Leeanna. "I'll come back for you," he said. Then, a grim and determined Fleet Captain Overstreet followed Garth through the curtain to a hidden staircase, spiraling up to the top of the palace. And then the earth shook. 29) Perhaps we could negotiate... --- Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, 1836 Kris shook off the feeling of unreality left from the Deja View- damn dumb dreams, he thought- and ran up the staircase, bouncing off the walls of the narrow passage as the building shook. The sirens finally died, replaced by a loud rumbling noise which thundered through the palace and straight into the bottom of Kris' stomach. If I didn't know better, Kris thought as he ran, I'd say the palace was taking off. The passage opened up into a small room, walls covered in metal and lights, viewscreens here and there showing scenes of the battle down in Mega City. In one, Kris saw Washuu with a landing party from the Palendrom, coordinating triage for the Republican wounded. In another, he noted Butch leading a huge mass of Republican soldiers and armed civilians against a small pocket of Imperial resistance. In others, Judges advanced resolutely against the fading White Guard resistance, followed by masses of people wielding anything from pointed sticks to the most advanced blaster rifles available. And, through an open window, Kris saw the walls of Mega City passing underneath him. Rushing up to the window, he looked down to see the entire palace thundering above the Cursed Earth, supported by starship-grade engines. I'll be damned, Kris thought. Talk about your getaway cars. But enough sightseeing, he frowned, I have a job to do. Across the room from the staircase doorway was a metal hatchway which opened automatically at Kris' approach. Inside was a complex control room, worthy of the bridge of any starship. On a giant tactical display dominating the room lay a trajectory spiraling out from Zardon, curling around the Salusal sun and connecting with Salusia. Beneath the display, in front of the huge, black control panel, a lone chair spun slowly in place. Kris ran forward to the controls, looking around to see where Garth was hiding. A flickering display on the panel caught his attention; in Zardon numerals, the display read roughly three minutes, and was counting down. Kris scanned the panel, looking for anything with a label such as ABORT, CANCEL, or I CHANGE MY MIND. "Yes, yes," Garth's voice hissed from the shadows. "No one can stop it now. Soon, the Salusians shall feel the true power of the Imperial Zardon! All the galaxy shall tremble! Starting... with you!" The metallic thud behind Kris gave the only warning he needed. Dropping and rolling, he barely avoided the giant metal fist which dented the metal-plated floor where he had been standing. Standing, Kris turned to face a giant black exo-suit, roughly twelve feet tall, metal plating concealing its diminutive pilot. Despite its bulk, the suit moved swiftly, and Kris barely dodged a punch which would have slammed him into the opposite wall. "Hold still so I can kill you!" Garth's voice screamed from speakers in the suit's 'head.' Kris ducked again, only to be grabbed by the exosuit and thrown across the room. Kris hit the wall hard, sliding to the floor, winded. Still dazed from the impact, Kris watched two or three exosuits stride across the room towards him. Gathering his feet beneath him, Kris tried to jump out of the way- -and flew up to the ceiling, grabbing a support beam and kicking the head of the exosuit as hard as he could. The head, with its optical sensors and speakers, flew off the shoulders of the suit and into a corner. All right! Kris thought as he dropped to the floor, feeling his body come alive with extra power. He punched the chest of the robot once, twice, three times, punching holes in the metal hull. Then grasping the holes, Kris braced his feet and pulled, wrenching the chestplate off. Inside the now unprotected chest cavity, Garth gripped hand controls and worked pedals, as sparks flew from various wires shorted from the damage. "How dare you damage the royal battlesuit?!?" Garth yelled, as the suit's arm came around and slammed Kris in the head. Ears ringing, Kris fell hard to the floor. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees, but got no farther; his inner ear refused to work. As Kris wobbled, the exo-suit's foot came around and caught Kris in the midsection, breaking ribs and hurling him into a computer terminal in the far wall. Kris slid helplessly to the floor, barely conscious, twitching as his body worked like mad to repair the damage. Garth brought the exo-suit over to stand over Kris' body. The dwarf grinned maniacally down upon Kris. "And now, human... you die!" he said, and his fist pulled back for the final blow. "GARTH ZARD'AL!" The exo-suit spun around, and Garth's grin vanished, replaced by astonishment. "YOU!" Standing in the doorway, blood seeping through her uniform blouse, stood Leeanna Zard'al, aiming her Lawgiver at Garth. In a low, steady, cold voice, she said, "Assault on a Judge with intent to kill. The sentence: death." Into her Lawgiver, she whispered, "Rapid fire." BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRATT. The exo-suit froze in place, then stiffened, and finally fell back on its heels, landing prone just short of the control console. Garth stared out of the cockpit, staring at nothing, smiling beatifically. "How... how beautiful..." he whispered, and Garth, Imperial Zardon, died. Leeanna took one step forward, stumbled, and collapsed. Kris staggered to his feet, walked over to her, and picked her up, balancing her over his shoulder. "I thought you were dead," Kris said, grunting as his ribs shifted back into their proper place. "You didn't bother to take a pulse," Leeanna said. "Still hurts like hell, though..." Looking over Kris' shoulder, she asked, "What's that on the control?" "SHIT!" Kris yelled. "The countdown! Gotta stop it!" Running as much as they could, the two reached the console and looked at the panel: 0:03 0:02 0:01 0:00 Above the control panel, the giant display read WORLDHAMMER FIRED. Kris and Leeanna sagged slightly, sensing defeat. Then, the display read, MALFUNCTION. MALFUNCTION. CATASTROPHIC MALFUNCTION. WORLDHAMMER DEACTIVATED. A muffled explosion filtered through the rumbling of the palace's engines. Kris looked through one of the windows of the room to see smoke and fire rise above the side of Mega City, presumably from the base which had gotten Kris into this mess three years before. WARNING: PROJECTILE INCOMING PALACE DESTRUCTION IMMINENT Leeanna leaned onto the control panel and typed in a few commands. The tactical display focused on the Palace, which lay underneath a parabolic trajectory being carved by an object slightly larger than the palace itself. "Shit," she said, "that planetbuster's going to hit us!" "Key in a mayday call," Kris said. "We're gonna have to jump." "Maybe I can steer this thing clear-" Leeanna's fingers danced, and the palace lurched, turning slightly, but far too slowly to escape. "No time!" Kris said, and he picked up Leeanna and ran to the window. He tapped the pane; transparent steel. Making a fist and pulling back, Kris thought, Please, please let it work... Kris punched through the pane easily, and with Leeanna in his arms he climbed up into the windowframe and stood crouched, looking up at the giant mass of metal screaming down on them. Looking down, he saw the Cursed Earth far, far beneath him. If anyone's listening up there, Kris thought, give me a miracle... ...and he leaped. JJ Condorcet throttled down his Headhunter, trailing the flying Imperial Palace at a short distance. Looking up, he saw the giant hunk of metal from the misfired Worldhammer screaming down on the palace. Then, looking back at the palace, he saw a figure jump from one of the highest towers. Looking closer, he could discern one figure dressed in grey, another in blue and gold. Without thinking, JJ gunned the fighter's engines, rushing to intercept the falling forms. Pushing the Headhunter into a steep dive, he reached the falling pair and pulled up, gently bumping them against the port wing, balancing them carefully on its edge as he brushed past the ground at high speed. As JJ reached the bottom of his dive, the grey-clad figure grabbed the leading edge of the wing with one hand, holding onto the blue-clad figure with the other. Above the Headhunter, the Worldhammer shot hit the Imperial Palace. Debris flew from the point of impact, scattering to the earth. Beneath the added weight of the enormous ball of metal, the palace's engines overloaded and exploded, dropping the palace and projectile both to the Cursed Earth. WHOOOOOOOOOOM. JJ slowed the Headhunter to land in a clear spot a safe distance from the burning remains of the former seat of power of the Zardon Empire. Once the fighter landed, Kris rose from the wing on one arm. As the canopy opened and JJ removed his helmet, Kris said, "Call for help, we have wounded here. Get a chest-cutter scrubbed, get a cardiac team out here..." Kris collapsed, slid down the wing, and fell onto the ground. Rolling over onto his back, he mumbled, "...and get me some food. I'm _starved,_" and fell asleep. Across the city from the remains of the Palace, just outside the Worldhammer base (or remains thereof), a small red starship arose from the desert and began speeding towards space. Inside, two WWWA agents were bickering (as usual) about the conduct of the mission. "Hey, it's not my fault they tried to fire the thing!" Kei yelled at Yuri. "Oh, come on," Yuri said. "I said we should take out the firing mechanism, but no, you wanted the main magnetic coil. You wanted to wreck the whole thing at once!" "And what's wrong with that, Ms. Mass Destruction?" "You should talk, Ms. Mass Destruction yourself!" Mughi rumbled and turned over in his sleep. After all, as far as he was concerned, all was right with the universe. Epilogue) You can get what you want and still not be very happy. --- Pope Cerebus I A small shuttle docked with a U-boat in orbit far, far above Zardon. The occupants, Malificent and her younger daughters, were greeted by the captain of the White Guard contingent on the ship. "The captain tried to defect and was executed. This ship is loyal to the Empire," he said. "How may we serve the Empress?" "Take us away from here," Malificent said. "Contact all remaining loyal ships. We must regroup, rebuild, and strike back. Zardon is lost, for now... but the war is far from over." "As you command, my lady," the Guardsman said. You should never have let me go, foolish Leeanna, Malificent thought. I shall not underestimate you and yours again... The members of the MASS-01 gathered in a small cemetery in upstate Georgia, USA to honor the late Charlotte Brigand, commanding officer of the 1st Regiment, Confederate Freespacer Marines. In particular, James "Mandrake" Diggers sat in the crowd choking back tears as The minister extolled Charlotte's valiant nature, her selfless devotion to duty, her love for her son and comrades in arms. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, a man in the dress uniform of a master sergeant in the United States Army walked up to Mandrake. "Lieutenant Diggers?" he asked. "I'm Walter Brigand. Charlotte was my momma." Mandrake looked up at the big, big Southern man, red hair buzzed close to the scalp, muscles shifting beneath the dark green jacket. "Uh... yes, I'm Mandrake." "My momma said you would be torn up if she died. You had this thing for her, she said. She said, if anything happened to her, for me to keep an eye on you." The big man pulled a handful of papers from his jacket. "I got discharged today from the army. I'm signing up with y'all. Hope you don't mind." "Uh, not at all..." Mandrake said. Garth stood on an endless plain, dark, dreary, and featureless. Behind him stood the Reaper, scythe at the ready. "Where... Where am I?" Garth said. DEAD, the Reaper replied. WELCOME TO THE AFTERLIFE. "What?" Garth said. "That's impossible. There's no such thing as the afterlife." WRONG, GARTH ZARD'AL. YOU ARE DEAD. AND MAY I SAY, GOOD RIDDANCE. "W-what?" Garth whispered. ALLOW ME TO SAY, JUST BETWEEN US... YOU ARE ONE OF THE MOST DESPICABLE, MINDLESS, BLOODTHIRSTY, IRREDEEMABLE WASTES OF LIFEFORCE IT HAS EVER BEEN MY INTENSE PLEASURE TO SEND OFF TO THE NEXT WORLD. "Send off?" Garth said, finally becoming afraid. "Where am I going?" SOMEPLACE VERY, VERY COLD... GIVE MY REGARDS TO HELA. The Reaper's scythe flashed, and with a cold wind, the spirit of Garth Zard'al passed into his eternal reward. NOW, the Reaper said, MAYBE I CAN GET A LITTLE REST. Takuya Isarugi stood in dress uniform before newly promoted Commodore Overstreet, sweating bullets. He knew what was about to happen, and he wanted to avoid it if at all possible. The consequences, the responsibilities... not only am I not worthy of them, he thought, but they'll take me farther away from my beloved repair bay. "Lieutenant Isarugi," Commodore Overstreet said, "since the MASS-04's former commander is unable to serve, and its executive officer died in the line of duty, you are currently the commanding officer of the unit. I would like to make the condition permanent, with a promotion to Lieutenant Commander." "S-sir," Takuya stuttered, "I must respectfully decline the promotion. There are many others more suited for the position, more worthy of command..." "Bullshit," Kris said. "Your only problem is that outside of a crisis situation, you don't have any confidence. You'll make an excellent commanding officer." "Still, sir, I must respectfully decline." Commodore Overstreet frowned, and said, "Do you see this?" Takuya looked closely at the piece of paper in the commodore's hands. In large letters at the top were written: MARITAL REGULATIONS FOR CFMF OFFICERS AND ENLISTED. "I'm ready to put this on the books as soon as tomorrow," Kris said. "Either you can take a pay raise, or you can choose which one of your fiancees you're going to marry." Takuya snapped to an even tighter attention. "Sir, I would be honored to accept command of the Airbats, sir!" "Excellent," Overstreet said, ripping up the paper. "Please invite me to the wedding, I wouldn't miss it for the world." Kris sat atop the city wall of Mega City, idly feeding potato chips to Gyopi. As Gyopi munched his snack, Kris stared out into the Cursed Earth, thinking over the events of the two months since the death of Garth and the final victory of the Republic. Despite the cooperation during the battle, the Justice Department refused to acknowledge the Republican Provisional Government, instead naming Leeanna as the new Imperial Zardon. However, Leeanna refused coronation, and her only acts as Princess Regent were to disband the White Guard and revoke all Imperial proclamations outside of the Book of Law. Tomorrow, she would abdicate her station to the first elected government Zardon had seen in thousands of years. That elected government was a joke in and of itself. Although technically a three-part Parliamentary democracy, in reality the government was dominated by the Justice Department; the Supreme Judiciary not only constituted the judicial branch of the government, but also had veto power and power of impeachment over any other person in the government- and introducing a law into the Parliament that the Judiciary considered unconstitutional was an impeachable offense. Finally, since the Justice Department was funded separately from the rest of the government, there was no real check on its power by the Parliament or the elected Prime Minister. We fought for three years, Kris thought, and now we've substituted one tyranny for another. Oh well, at least justice will always be served. The ladder behind Kris creaked slightly, and Kris turned around to see his father pulling himself up. His left arm was still pale and week; the cast had come off just three days before. "Hey, Kris. Hi, Gyopi," Butch said to the pink goldfish. "Gyop gyop hi Dad!" Gyopi smiled. "Uh, hi," Kris said, rolling his eyes. "What brings you up here?" "Sparky told me you were up here, and I figured somethin' was botherin' you," Butch said. "Maybe you thought the Zardons stiffed you?" "No, no," Kris said. As part of the complex Salusian-Zardon Peace Accords engineered by Jeremy, the Zardon Republican government would cede mineral rights to most of two uninhabited systems to the Freespacers in lieu of cash payment, basically giving them one hell of a financial and material base from which to expand. "No, I'm just thinking about what's happened, and where I'm going now." "From what I understand, Salusia next," Butch said. King Jerka had requested- very strongly- the assistance of the CFMF long-term on the dangerous Kilrathi border. The pay would barely be substinence- level, but considering the immense favor Kris owed him and his family, he could hardly refuse. "Besides that," Kris said. "Ever since the victory, we've been getting recruits, all civilian. Right now there are thirty ships with no weapons whatsoever, with about four hundred people in them, on our Home Fleet registry. I've got to work on a civilian government for the Freespacers, begin work on designing carriers, expand our financial base... a lot of work. I hope I'm up to it." "Well, just remember I'll always be there for you," Butch said. "At least, I'll be at home for you. After the ceremony tomorrow, I'm resigning my commission with the Zardon army. "And I'm getting married." Kris gaped at his father. "Married?" "Yep!" Butch said. "Me an' Pat are tyin' the knot as soon as we get home. Now, if you and Leeanna can do the same, we could have a double ceremony!" Kris frowned. "No, she's not interested in me. She's in love with Jeremy Feeple." "Ouch," Butch said. "You tried picking her up on the rebound?" "She picked me up," Kris said. "Then, afterwards, she said that it just didn't feel right, and she didn't say anything after that." "She locked the door, didn't she?" Butch grinned. "Yep," Kris sighed. "Gyop gyop pote-chip?" Gyopi begged. "Here, let me do it," Butch said. "Hey, Gyopi, roll over." Gyopi spun in midair, then looked at Butch expectantly. "Here y'go, good fishy," Butch said, handing the fish a chip from the crumpled bag beside Kris. To Kris he said, "Well, Kris, gotta say that's a tough break, but there are other opportunities. You just gotta follow up on 'em." "Sure, Dad," Kris said. "But anyway," Butch said, "life goes on. Look at it this way, you survived. You won the war." "No, Dad," Kris said, "we all won it. Together." "Yeah, I guess we did," Butch said. "Well, see you at the ceremony, son. Don't bust your neck out here, now." "Later, Dad," Kris said, and handed another chip to Gyopi. Looking down into the city, watching Butch descend to a walkway below, Kris considered the future. Lotta people dead... but a lotta people alive, too. Here's hoping I can keep 'em that way. A voice behind him said, "Admiral Overstreet?" Ever since the news reporters covering the Uprising had made the error of referring to his rank in the CFMF as Admiral, the title had begun to stick. Hell, only recently had his command grown to the point where his position merited the title of Commodore, and Rear Admiral was still a long ways away. "That's Commodore Overstreet," Kris said. "May I help you?" A young man in a brown uniform said, "Package for you. Sign here, please..." Kris signed the pad handed to him and accepted a plain brown package from the delivery boy. No tag, just the label with his name on it. Undoing the twine, he placed one finger beneath the edge of the wrapping and pulled up. BANG! Blinking unspent gunpowder from his eyes, Kris looked around him, trying to see what had happened. The package had disintegrated into tiny bits of paper and cardboard, and his hands, face and chest were coated in fine black dust. "Hi, Kris," Washuu's voice chirped behind him. "Are you done being homicidally mad at me yet?" The guard watched as a red-headed girl ran along the top edge of the city wall, followed closely by a man with soot covering the front of his body. Flying behind them both was a small pink smiling goldfish. For a second, his hand reached for the radio to report the incident; then, he pulled it back. They don't pay me enough for that, he thought as he turned back to watching the horizon. November 14, 2005 The CFMF Kingyo (CFF-13), home ship of the MASS-05 Goldfish, dropped from hyperspace alongside three cruisers of the Royal Salusian Navy. Behind it, eight Myrmidon Y-Wings appeared, led by a ship sporting the battle flag of the Confederate States of America. Ahead of them lay an indeterminate number of Kilrathi ships and fighters, laying siege to a Earth garrison on the future colony world of McAuliffe. The pilot in the lead fighter said to his astromech, "All set, Sparky?" YOU BET, BOSS, the message scrolled back on the computer display. "Combined fleet, this is Commodore Overstreet, commanding," the pilot said into his mike. "Commence assault, starfighters break on my mark. "Sound Goldfish Warning." ...and life goes on. THE END AUTHOR'S NOTE Well. Helluva way for a professional writer (well, a writer who gets paid for his work) to break into fan fiction; writing an _immense_ story for one of anime fandom's biggest epics. Before reading Undocumented Features, I had a definite aversion to fanfics. I mean, this was basically people coming in and either dropping themselves into the story and becoming invincible heroes, or people rewriting the stories to change the fundamental premises or totally ruin the original characters. I didn't need to waste my time with that. That changed when I began reading UF. Here were talented people, writing excellent stories, and in general having a fun time of it. The characters had the form of others, but were in a totally new context for the most part, and changed to fit the new situation. The writer-charas were powerful, but they were human, and fallible. Gears in the back of my mind began to turn and churn, and in the end I moved from an AOL account to an actual ISP and began pitching ideas to the Powers That Be. There were a couple of changes I made in the format, or tried to, when I put myself in the story. First off, I decided right away that, although Redneck would be an Action Hero, he would not be allowed to be the one to Save the Day, at least not by himself. Also, Redneck, as opposed to being the Universally Admired Figure or Everybody's Friend, he is the Galactic Straight Man, something which dovetails with the version of Washuu I have included here, the practical joker. So, here it is, done at last. Yay, hope you liked it. Well... that's that, now on to other projects. (*wave*) Be seeing you. Redneck