Beyond Alpha Centauri :::

[History Guy]

Calgacus Military Space Dock 989, Border Ops Center

“They’re coming. This is wonderful, heck, look at those wonderful formations, the ‘X’ formation, taking the form of an x on it’s side, just whipping across the sky there. A really classic example, I must say, of a classical Pirate military formation. Two centrally overlapping lines of ships coming on forward, when one line is taken out it, it is immediately replaced. It’s their way of getting things done in the fastest way possible,” said Mike, the resident freak on Pirate military history. When he wasn’t wargaming or filling his face with a cheap sweet (and spilling the crumbs all along down his rather dirty little red beard), Mike was researching Pirate battle tactics. This was, of course, the first time he’d been there to watch them first-hand. He was quite excited.

Commander Garrard had called him down just for the advice on what these blasted Pirates were actually going to do. Garrard didn’t know a bloody thing about these guys. Up until the last half-hour ago, they’d been their mercenaries, for heaven’s sake. Now, of course, these morons had hauled off and set themselves upon the Morganites, and the old CEO was furious. Joe Nova was going to pay dearly for this one, the old bugger.

“That’s…great, Mike,” said the Commander, “but how do we break this up?”

“Well…that’s not so tough. Lamprey did it in the first Pirate Wars fairly easily at the fight at Hedge Sky Base, overlapped the whole Pirate fleet, destroying the flagship. A lot of Pirate Clan leaders went down in that fight…”

“Yeah…what was Fleet Admiral Lamprey’s plan?”

“Oh, simply to surprise them by striking them head-on. They expected him to hold their ground against him, but instead, he flew right at them, peppering them with everything he had. Ruined them. They’d have been wrecked had it not been for the guy that we’re facing now, Joe Nova. He became powerful after that fight, despite the loss. I don’t think he’ll fall for the same trick twice.”

“Maybe he will, but maybe he won’t. We have advantages the guys at the other station didn’t have a few minutes ago. Namely, we have a good security system. That algorithm of theirs isn’t going to take us down. Secondly, we actually have good troops. A whole hoard of fighters, two destroyers, three cruisers, one frigate... I think we can whip them. Or at least we can keep them back long enough…right, Mike?”

“Uh, well it’s been done before. Pirates aren’t really too hard to beat in battle…you just have to know where they are, and make sure you don’t send them any transmissions…” Mike rubbed something onto his uniform. In the darkness of the station Headquarters Bridge, the Commander couldn’t quite make out what it was. What a slob.

“Miss Oglander, what do you think?” the Commander looked at his lieutenant commander. She was one of the few officers at the station who wasn’t a brazen coward.

“It sounds workable to me,” she responded.

“Uh,” began Mike, “shouldn’t it be decidedly democratically?”

The Commander looked at him in the dimness of the room, smiled, and said, “No. We’d never get anywhere that way.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Ah, Meroz,” spake “Captain” Milo Clancy of the Spitfire, while engulfing some rather cheap ale, “there she is. The Military Station Calgacus, 989, and what a beauty she is. She’s been there for as long as there’s been a Corporate Sector, me flukehead, built on the site of a Plasma Age Spartan Outpost. When this part of the galaxy was ceded to old Morgan, Calgacus went up as one of the Sector’s nine military stations…ah, Morganite heritage…really gets ya there…” continued Clancy, smacking at his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, all very neat, we’ll have to get a souvenir at the gift shop…” responded the Cepheleen unenthusiastically, running a scaly hand through his long black mane, “Where’s the bloody toll-port? That’s the thing. I hate toll-ports…especially crummy Morganite toll-ports…” The Military Station was in full view, appearing almost egg-like, like a giant Humpty-Dumpty floating about in space. Meroz the Bounty Hunter was never much of a fan of Morganite history. Morganites had ruined his planet and trampled down his people, what was to like in their checkered past?

“Meroz, I sometimes doubt your enthusiasm in Morgan Interstellar…Hey! Where’s the bleeding toll-port?”

“That, Milo, is what I just asked you…” Meroz responded rather irritably.

“Doesn’t it just figure? Doesn’t it? The one time I really need to get into this bloody place and find the bloody toll-port and the damned thing is nowhere in sight? I mean, what do they pay these people for? They are probably too busy checking out old biddies in transit shuttles to bother with our own armed vessel. The whole Hiverian fleet could come in here, and that toll-port wouldn’t care…I mean, what’s it there for? It’s there to collect money…and to make sure no undesirables come in!” Meroz tactfully ignored Clancy’s rants.

Suddenly, something shot out of the sky, moving at a tremendous rate of speed, shooting along with a fiery tail trailing out along behind it. It looked like a shooting star. It was headed right for Clancy, it seemed. As it came closer, the stunned Captain could make out that it was smaller than his own small vessel, yet at the pace it was moving at it would definitely be a nasty thing to bump into. Meroz managed to identify it. “Bleeding heck!” he cried, “that’s the toll-port!”

Clancy managed to emit, “Whaaa?” The toll-port, burning rapidly, scraped past the small “garbage war-ship”, still travelling at that tremendous speed, and slammed right into a ship that pulled up alongside Clancy’s. The ship had been struck right in the gun-ports. It was definitely a Pirate ship.

“That,” said Meroz, pausing for effect, “is not a good sign. I guess some Pirates shot that toll-port into, if you forgive the figure of speech, ‘warp-speed’.”

“Damnatio flukehead! The Pirates are attacking! Those damn double-crossing…” Another Pirate ship pulled up alongside Clancy, and the small ship shot ahead. “Send out a message to the Station…we aren’t Pirates…but damn it, the guys behind us are!”

Meroz turned his head back and saw the Pirate fleet forming behind him. Hundreds of ships, small and large, fighters alongside destroyers, cruisers alongside escorts, every single ship looked fearsome. Before Clancy and Meroz sat a huge Morganite ship, almost as large as the station itself…it was a fighter transport. These babies could carry up to two hundred and fifty fighters…maybe even two hundred and eighty at maximum capacity. They were big as the devil and mean as hell. Before the Cepheleen’s very eyes the mouth of the transport dropped open and from it hundreds of small fighter ships were vomited forth. This wasn’t the best spot for the garbage ship to be in. “Hey, Milo, let’s get out of here…”

As the small ship shot forward, trying to get to the protection of the military station, a small Pirate vessel made straight for them as the Morganites and the Pirates engaged. Meroz looked back once again and saw, to his horror, the Pirate fighter on their tail, superimposed, it seemed, in front of a large Pirate frigate around which dozens of Morganite ships swarmed like angry hornets. “We’re being followed…”

“Don’t I know it, Meroz, old boy…” A chunk of Morganite fighter suddenly glided by. Had Milo not been chased, he’d probably have gone back for it. Alongside the warship came the real Morganite beauties, one frigate, two destroyers, three cruisers, and all headed right for the attackers. They’d break them up, no doubt. “I think we’re in the clear, old boy…” Milo’s optimism promptly vanished as the fast Pirate fighter swung round in front of Milo’s ship, and turned it’s guns directly at him. Milo immediately wheeled round, shards bouncing off the hull.

“We’re sitting ducks! Let’s use the damned guns!” Meroz pointed to the gun controls.

“I would use them if I didn’t have these chaps on my tail…” The fighter was, it seemed pursuing him. Digging their way right to the very rear of the Pirate battleline, Milo suddenly glanced a dark shape hanging in the sky, making no movements whatsoever. “It’s the Probe Ship!” Of course, every Pirate squadron had one. Milo could imagine the Data Angels scurrying around inside, collecting data, trying to send their virus into the Morganite ships. They were small vessels, armed lightly, but more dangerous than the little fighter on Milo’s tail. “Alright, then, we’ll give these Data Angels a scare!” called the pilot, to no one in particular. Milo took his ship right at the Probe Ship. He barely avoided a collision, when he suddenly swooped downward, underneath the Probe Ship, moving up behind it. The Probe Ship began firing wildly.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” cried Meroz. The words had barely trickled out of his large reptilian lips when a horrific flash half blinded the poor fellow. Looking back, he saw the Probe Ship fall to pieces, literally before his eyes. The fighter was gone. It was apparent what had happened. The fighter had slammed right into the Data Angels. As the Probe Ship vanished, wreckage, human and otherwise, began to float away from it. Meroz looked through a porthole as the corpse of a black-uniformed Data Angel floated past. “Ugly little bugger, isn’t he?”

Milo was smiling to himself, “Well, that’s my good deed for today. Let’s get back to the military station, now.” The garbage ship did just that, despite the following Pirate ships, which were immediately raked with Morganite fire. The battle was a fairly nasty one. No more nasty than Samnos or Naxos, of course, but nasty all the same. It was smaller than the previous space battles, of course. As the garbage ship made it out of harm’s way, the Pirate attack was slowly beginning to crumble. Shortly, the Pirates fell back to regroup. Despite minor losses, they might well win after all, right?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Commissioner’s Offices, Orbiting the Planet Namibia, M1 System, Corporate Sector

Commissioner Hercules Lemesieur, the Commissioner of the entire Corporate Sector, was an old man, but he certainly wasn’t senile. He knew what to do in a case like this. Though half of the Corporate Sector was under Terran control and the rest was under Spartan control, he still acted like the Morganite he’d always been. Naxos had surrendered. They’d put up a good fight, but the forces had cut themselves to pieces. The Governor was injured, the Admiral was injured, and there was no real point in holding out any longer. The Commissioner had given his blessing on the surrender after the flagship had been boarded and captured (despite heavy losses to the Terran boarding party, nearly 80% were dead or wounded). Naxos could really not hold out longer either. The fall of Naxos had taken away the last force in the three Morganite systems that had been attacked…there was, of course, the military station Calgacus…but there were conflicting reports on that as well. The damned Pirate mercenaries had betrayed them, taking several stations. They’d launched some sort of attack on Calgacus, but had been rebuffed. Now the Terrans were settling down, calling a cease fire. Why didn’t they call off their Pirates?

As the Commissioner watched an asteroid fly past the many yellow rings of the gray planet Namibia, he decided that he might well send a message to the Terrans, asking them kindly to stop the Pirate attacks. He had sent out messages to all his men ordering them to cease fire unless attacked, he had expected the Terrans to do the same. Much to the Commissioner’s relief, the Terrans soon sent a reply. The Pirates were ordered to stop their attacks, but the Morganites were to be evicted from the Cycladic System. The Commissioner sent his message out to the Commander, a man named Garrard.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

From his seat in the small escort ship, Commander Garrard watched as his men slowly withdrew from their docks and battle positions, forming a convoy, moving slowly out of the system and to safety beyond Terran lines. They would, of course, be Spartan vessels and troops now. Only in name, of course, they were really Morganites. They’d be Morganites as soon as peace ‘broke out’. That, Garrard was sure, would be very soon indeed. There was nothing more for these Terrans to do. Any more ‘expansion’ and they’d be committing suicide. Morganite, Spartan, Drone, and Believer ships lay just over the new Terran border. Peace was next on the agenda for everybody. Garrard looked down at the lonely station, watching yet another explosion tear through its foundations. Standard operating procedure: one must always blow up what might come in use to the enemy when it must be abandoned.

From his MorganCDPlayer, the Morganite National Anthem boomed across the escort ship. As a converted garbage ship flew by Garrard’s porthole, the line in the Anthem was: “And liberty for all, forever…” Then the singer went onto the lines about Morganite heroism, Morganite honesty, Morganite chivalry, etc. Nice tune, lousy lyrics. At least the Morganite Battle Anthem was coming up next. Now that was real music...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Mr. President]

Capital Building, Avalon, Vega Prime

The window already was open. But Kristy Adams walked over and opened it wider. Still finding it too warm, she removed her jacket. "Now, what did you want to see me about?"

The Secretary of Transportation wrapped his arms tightly around his torso. Only then did Adams realize it was beginning to snow outside, and that the Secretary did not find it as hot as she did. God, I'll kill myself if I catch something now. The thought was so nonsensical she almost laughed, but remembered the man about to speak.

"Well, Madam President, I'll get right to it," he said. He began shivering, and Adams got up and closed the window as he continued, "The residents of Blackrock Spire have been asking for a road connection to Ithaca."

"Road connection?" Adams replied quizzically. She tried to recall the map of Ophelia, but succeeded only in remembering what color her car was. "Don't they have an airport?"

"Ithaca doesn't yet, Madam President," the Secretary replied. "We estimate it would take less than a year to complete. Currently everything travels between the two by sea. But the natives have been stepping up their naval raids. We've lost three merchantmen this year already."

Ah, the natives. Adams had tried to raise the question in Congress, but events abroad had forced other issues onto the agenda. "Can't we do anything about that? Your ships have escorts now, do they not?"

He sensed the President's mild annoyance and stirred uneasily. Adams continued, "Do we need more troops?"

"I couldn't answer that, Madam President," the Secretary replied. "But the road will be an important step towards the full development of Ophelia."

"Let's look at the map," she said. Swivelling her chair towards the computer, Adams realized she had no idea where on her desktop the map of Ophelia was. The "Search" function quickly brought it up. Cartographer 2.0 loaded less quickly. She tended to blame it on network load. Whoever had the bright idea to run the civilian government and military nets off the same server needs to be shot.

Then she had another, strange thought. Why am I thinking about guns so much lately?

Is it because Ethan Maxwell is surrounding himself with armed followers?

Is it because the Hive is out there, Lord only knows where?

Is it because Congress won't let me order Pirate hunts?

I need a break.

Adams stared blankly at the map. Finally she said, "Do you know what these black dots mean?"

"Yes, Madam President -"

"They represent known major native settlements," she stormed, interrupting the Secretary's attempt at response. "Your road goes right through the middle."

"Well -"

"You're asking for trouble, building a road there. I know, they should have found a better place for Ithaca, but putting a road there is going to mean putting an army there."

"I -"

"We'll talk about it again tomorrow. Good night." And she walked out the door, leaving the Secretary in her office, staring at the wall and wondering what just happened.

All the way home Adams brooded. Why was she like this? Did she fear war with the Terrans? No; Albert Franco had deployed their five best destroyers to the edge of the Spartan Corporate Sector, and promised her the spacemen would be home for Christmas.

She knew what it was. This day thirty years ago had been the happiest of her life, when a long-haired, excited young woman had walked arm-in-arm down a church aisle with the sweetest man in the world. Anniversaries brought memories. Memories brought pain.

To the Orion Arm, Kristy was the Iron Lady, the embodiment of New Republic Doctrine. No-one ever saw her in her other guise, saw her uncertainties, her frailties, her little peculiarities. Even the leaders who knew her best, Marcus Kessel and Nwabudike Morgan, were never around when the wall came down.

Galactic crises or no, she was taking a vacation. Adams smiled as she thought of a Rigellian forest where the wind whistled in the pines and young couples walked without a care in the world. Where an older couple would be walking without a care in the world in two weeks.

[Kassiopeia]

Cockpit of Dark Side of the Moon

Filkins looked as Myssym mesmerisingly tapped his fingers on the wall.

"Well?" Sym cried out. "Any ideas?"

Blank looks at his general direction.

Sym, with white knuckles, a red face and heavy breathing, stormed out of the cockpit, almost throwing Filkins on the floor while at it.

"Is this that serious?" Greg murmured and glared at Pete.

"Apparently so. I mean, I am taking contraband to another planet and all, but I've gotten caught before. Usually the Captain satisfies for a little 'enticement' from the cargo load. This guy, this Myssym, he's got more at stake then what he would allow us to know."

"He commandeered a Prisoner Transport", Filkins reminded them. "That means he's a rather big player, or assisted by some big players."

"Very big players indeed", Pete thought to himself and allowed himself a brief, wry smile. He looked at Greg, then at Filkins, and said: "Whatever is going to happen in the next thirty minutes or so, stay put and with me."

Puzzled of this strange wording, the duo looked at each other. Then they looked at Pete, who leaned over to the microphone.

"The Brightness of Day can be as deceiving as the Darkness of Night", he said and paused, allowing himself another smile. It all well could of been a simple numeric code, but Pete always strived for something more melodramatic.

"Understood", echoed from the speakers. The line was disconnected, and the Coalition ship started to approach Pete's ship.

"What the heck is going on?" Filkins asked in dazzlement. "The Coalition ship is approaching!"

"I know, all according to plan." He chuckled and turned around in his seat.

"I haven't been captured or sanctioned for my little shipping here for, what, seven years. Filky, that surely makes you wonder, how? Because I'm a skilled smuggler? Hell no!"

"What you're trying to say is...?"

"Every now and then, someone, a big player or, as you put it, someone assisted by big players, shows up and wants a covert ride. This man here, his real name is Sym. Darn rocket scientist... that 'Myssym' crap nearly cracked me up."

"What sort is he then? A criminal?"

"Not exactly. Merely a man who does not know where his allegiances are. At least that's what I was told... we expected him to hitch a ride on my ship sooner or later. I departed with you two after it was heard that he had escaped on other means. By pure coincidence, I managed to bump on to him. But I don't know too much of him. I don't think the officer debriefing me did, either. This fellow is hot, hotter then anyone I have ever seen before. Interplanetary affairs, I was told, were involved. All over to the highest level."

Greg, who so far had only managed to sit on the floor and listen in dazzlement, exclaimed: "So what will happen next?"

"The Coalitioners board my ship, grab Sym, take care of the prisoners and their transport, and let's me continue my business unscathed. Simple", Pete replied.

"Something does not add up here", Filkins muttered after taking another deep look at Pete. "Your impression... I've known you far too long to accept any rubbish from you. What's really going on?"

"I implore you, dear friend - "

"There you go again", Filkins sighed. "Your ears flop like those of an elephant, Pete. You wouldn't fool a blind eagle locked up in an aluminum cylinder and who was forced to listen to heavy metal music all the time."

Although this wasn't one of Filky's more witty remarks, Greg felt slightly insulted as he, for one, hadn't seen through Pete's apparent lies.

Their chat was interrupted as the ship once again shuddered all the way through it's wall structure. Greg, who hadn't quite developed a taste for traveling in ships with weak and nearly non-existent inertial dampers, quickly scurried off to find a toilet, despite Pete's attempts to stop him.

"Oh dear", Pete said and shook his head.

"Come on, you can tell me", Filkins started as Greg had disappeared into the corridor.

The ship's lights suddenly died, again.

"I hope he doesn't smash his head in the bulkhead", Filkins thought to himself, and then turned a suspicious look at Pete, who looked... sad. Filkins was shocked to realise that he was truly wearing an impression of sadness; one that Filkins had not seen on Pete's face for several years.

"Filkins, I want you to know that I truly hold you as my good friend, but... a man's allegiances can not follow the lines of friendship."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Filkins snapped, queasy of the whole situation.

"You are wanted by the Coalition as well, Filky. They are certain that you are spies, as well as this Mister Sym. Expect, that Sym is a so-called friendly spy, but you are considered to be foreign agents."

"What?" Filkins shouted. "Me and Greg, spies? Why? How?"

"They are convinced that you are indeed Morganites. They know you are aboard, because..." Pete swallowed. "I turned you in."

"Pete, but, we aren't spies, there is nothing to turn us in for..."

"I am glad you can see it that way, Filky. You see, I know that, I knew it all the way long. If I helped you to flee the Coalition, I would be in trouble, and moreover, they would get confirmation of their suspicions. But now, you get the chance to prove your innocence to a Coalition tribunal. I was guaranteed that you would receive a fair trial. I am sorry, but I am convinced that this your best shot at getting off this nonsense scott free."

Pete sighed...

The two men fell silent... only sounds in the ship being a sudden sharp cry of pain produced by Greg hitting his head at a bulkhead, and the voice of Sym, resisting arrest at all his might...

And then three men from the Coalition boarding team arrived, grabbed Filkins, and carried him alongside Sym and Greg away...

[Lonestar]

Nuevo San Antonio

"This had better be good, Onate." Ian scowled as he fiddled with his collar. His State Uniform was a simple dark grey, with a handful of ribbons he had earned back when he served as leader of the Hydrin Republic's armed forces. The collar was still constrictive.

Director Oscar Onate, head of Intelligence and "Special Services" made a quick bow. Forgive me sir, I though you should be the first to know...our expedition to the Wu235 has been attacked. A rescue buoy indicates that it was a University strike force. Before the buoy was destroyed, it had detected a landing near the crash site. It would seem, sir, that a disaster is in the Making."

Ian gritted his teeth, thought, I don't need this, not now. "Is Baron Fel on his to relieve the forces?"

"Yes sir."

"Fine. Keep me updated. The Morgan Trade Mission will be arriving in a few hours."

-------------------

Wu235

The Battle Group dropped into real space. Admiral Soontir Fel read the intial readout from the HOLMES-4 supercomputer. About a hundred Star Marine transponders were detected in a few of the University warships. Also, the UCS force was bigger than the Michael's buoy indicated. That was fine. With 10 Battleships, 4 light cursiers, one Acclamator-assualt ship, and the massive 4 km long fleet carrier Kearsage there were somewhat armed themselves.

Baron Fel made a gesture to the communications officer. With a whirl and a click, the transmitter was activated.

"University vessels, you have attacked Protectorate Service Men and Women, and you are in the process of absconding with Protectorate property. Power down your weapons, close your gun ports, and prepare to be boarded."

With another gesture, he indicated that the fleet's "supression lights", red-blue flashes as old as law enforcement existed, should be turned on. Off to the side of the viewscreen, he noticed the Imperator (the A-class assualt ship) was manuevering to prepare to board the lead ship. The UCS ship backed off. With some surprise, he noticed both were triangle shaped ships and bore a passing resemblance to each other.

"Admiral, the UCS command ship is hailing us".

Baron Fel nodded.

"Let's see what they have to say."

[Mr. President]

“Get your feet off the couch,” Sam said. “That’s better.” The Autobarn commercial on the TV had been shown so many times its song had lost all meaning. So Sam was walking towards the door. It was a good time to check the mail.

“Where are you going?” The guest and long-time soccer companion was almost a year older than his host, and an order of magnitude messier. Sam had noticed that Brian had forgotten his belt for the second week running. When asked about missing items of clothing or car keys, Brian’s defense was usually, “It’s not like the Prime Minister’s coming over.” But then the Razorwings had just crushed Stella Australis, confirming their status as champions of Firaxis. Sam’s friend was only older, not wiser, and so had been drinking and jumping on cars. Whether he had left his belt with some exotic dancer or lost it while being hammered by water cannons would probably never be known for sure.

“I’m getting the mail,” he shouted. Inside the apartment he could hear the response. It was almost like “What mail?” but too muffled to be certain. Sam walked back into the living room, examining the envelopes.

“Let’s see . . . bank statement . . . cable bill . . . telecom statement . . .” He tore open the latter one, and read down the list quickly. “What the . . .” Glaring at Brian, he waved the piece of paper and said accusingly, “You wouldn’t know anything about a twenty-minute audio message to Concordia, would you?”

“Why do you automatically assume it was me?”

“Was it you?”

Brian held up his hands defensively. “I was calling that girl we met way back during pre-season.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “The so-called model, straight from the party at CEO Morgan’s house?”

Brian pursed his lips. “She described his wallpaper, Sam. What more do you need?”

“Brian, I could describe his wallpaper,” Sam half-shouted. “He was on Movers and Shakers last year.”

Pause for a moment. “From now on, you don’t touch my phone,” Sam continued.

“Now wait a minute here,” Brian protested. “You -”

Sam wasn’t listening. He looked at the next letter, and stopped short. “New Seattle Razorwings Public Relations Department?” he wondered, cutting off his friend in mid-protest. “What the heck is this?”

That had got Brian’s attention. “What is it?” he asked, hopping up from the couch and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the document.

Sam read, “Dear Mr. Mendes, Thanks for entering our contest. I am delighted to inform you that you have won a travel package for two to follow the Razorwings on their Orion Club Challenge tour of Sparta and the Morgan Corporate Sector . . .”

There was more but he didn’t read it, as he was so busy jumping up and down and trying not to be poleaxed by Brian’s flailing arms. “Oh my God, I won, I won!”

“Won what?”

“Does it matter?”

Brian stopped dancing for a minute. “Seriously, when did they have this contest?”

Sam also paused. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Oh, wait. You know how they send you those forms at the beginning of the season where they confirm your assigned seat and you can change your contact details? I checked the box that said ‘Sign Me Up For Free Offers And Lucky Draws.’ ”

His friend snorted. “Lucky draw? Understatement of the millennium,” he said. Eyeing the letter, he extended a hand towards Sam. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Sam stepped back, brow furrowing. For a moment they stood there, somewhere between silliness and freeloadery. Then the unwitting contestant said, “Of course you can come.” They laughed, shook hands, and clapped each other on the shoulder several times. Then Sam spoke again. “There’s only one thing I ask.”

“What’s that, buddy?”

Brian smiled as Sam modified a long-running in-joke about their past football-related insanities. “When we’re staying in those plush Morganic hotels and bringing our own unique brand of fun to the Corporate Sector . . .

“Don’t touch the damn phone!”

[Silence]

LV 120
The battle was one the longest in history of the war. It had started 2 weeks ago and it was still going on strong. Ships were no longer fighting fleet to fleet combat, but more of ship to ship and squadron level. It was a mess for the commanders on both sides. The 5 battleships that were by the mining station were however new the fight, they were the advance formation of the 11th fleet. Right now on the long range sensors a major battle
was taking place between a Hammer of God dreadnought and a Conclave battleship who had a cruiser supporting it. Every once and a while the battle would just sort of pick back up and then very quickly icons representing ships would start to fade off the screens. The battle for LV 120 had quickly turned from a smashing success by the Hammer of God into a meat-grinder.

Victory at Lab 3
Joyce Harper felt like how she looked, she had been only getting 3 hours of sleep everyday since the battle had started, the doctors were giving her stimulates to keep her going, but
after the battle was over, she promised herself she was going to take a nice long vacation on the beach of New Eden and sleep nonstop for several hours.

“Admiral, Prescott on the horn, he says that the 11th Fleet is coming out of FTL as we speak. He wants to know what we can relay him to them,” the communication tech said.

The flagship had taken a major brunt of the fighting, and before being force to withdrawalto the outer limits of the system to make repairs, had personally taken out 5 enemy capital warships, including 2 dreadnoughts. However the fight had left the super-dreadnought very damaged, and such they were just acting as piece of debris on the outer parts of the system and just commanded the battle. Harper gave Prescott tactical control of the situation while she was on the outer part of the system since they were far away that the time-lag would be slightly inconvenient.

“Tell him, to deploy the 11th as planed and inform the rest of the fleet, we will act as the center of the formation and have the 11th sweep around picking off the enemy ships....”

Silent Sword
While Harper was working on a major strategy to win the battle, Commander Jerome Blake of the Silent Sword watch with pleasure as the 2 missiles from his ship hit the unsuspecting carrier, and cause it go up in large explosion. The hunter-seeker, was behind enemy lines playing havoc with their rear guard formations. The hunter-seeker class ship moved steadily away from the burning hulk, while the 3 destroyers guarding the now dead carrier searched for who did that damage.

“Skipper we got pinged!” yelled the sensors officer, meaning that the active sensors finally defeated the stealth material that was the hull.

“Raise shields, helm take us a FTL course 3, ETJ?”

“4 minutes sir” said the helm officer, who was doing evasive maneuvers to keep the shots from hitting ship.

“Weapons open aft missile bay, fire at well” Blake ordered, he figured he should just expend the missiles now, while he could, rather then run the risk of them going off if one of these destroyers hits the ship. Even with the destroyers being able to see them, the material still had enough power in them, to stop them from having active target lock on the hunter-seeker. 3 missile fired in the first salvo, all at the same lead destroyer, which changed course and try to present a low hull profile to the 3 missiles, 2 of them missed, and the point defense systems on the destroyer didn’t engage early enough and it took a hit right on the lower-aft part of the ship, hitting the power generator, causing the ship to lose power and spin and drift out of control. However the other 2 destroyers get their revenge in, as 3 Fusion lasers drilled into the sensors and communication blister on the ship.

The entire ship shook as the hits went through it, as soon as the shots enter, Blake was barraged with damage reports and causality listings. He filed them away and saw that they
reached the estimated time to jump and said, “Helm engage FTL drive”

“Aye sir”

Within a moment, the FTL drive kicked in and took the wounded hunter-seeker out of the battle and towards a small depot built by Hunter-Seeker Command, for a repair and refurbishment.

[Lonestar]

Nuevo San Antonio

"This is such a lovely town you have here Lord Protector McDiarmid." Mrs. Head, leader of the Morgan Trade Delegation purred.

Ian smiled. "Please, call me Ian. And I can hear the word "quaint" on the tip of your tongue. For various reasons, I've opt to keep the Government section of the city much the same way it was since intial colonization."

"Call me Andrea. And this really is a charming town."

Ian smiled. "Thank you very much. I'm sure it isn't as cosmpolitan as the capital of Morgan Intersteller...."


Off in the distance Kolasklar shook his head. Damn, the Old Bastard was really putting on the charm. He turned and jumped. He hadn't heard Dr. Pym walk up next to him. Pym smiled.

"She is a Perfect, I'm sure of it. Or, as the Chironians call them, Talents. Undoubtably her attractiveness was part of the intent of the Trade Delegation."

"Wheels withing wheels, eh?"

"Absolutely Minister. You must remember, for most of the Protectorate's hostory we've remained relatively unknown, taking part in almost no diplomacy. The Chironians are experts at it. We are not, except with the Dosi, which is rather like shooting fish in a barrel."

Kolasklar chuckled as they walked over to get some more punch. "Where's Sarah this evening?"

"Oh, She's visiting the Grandchildren up at San Marcos. She doesn't care much for these formals anyway." Pym's eyes shifted to right behind Kolasklar. Kolasklar turned, thinking, I'm getting too old. Standing there was a young member of the Morgan Delegation. One of the Eco-Sociologists, if the Intel briefing was correct.

Smiling, Kolasklar shifted into diplomatic mode. "Good evening Dr. Hauer. How are you enjoying your stay here thus far? Have yopu been taken on the Grand tour yet?"

"It's a ....erm..nice town you have here Minister."

"Well, it is not our largest by a long shot. That honor goes to Arlington, which is 200 km east of here. We prefer to keep everything government orientated here, outside the athletic teams, of course."

"Oh? You have competetitive sports?"

Pym nearly choked on his punch trying to not laugh. After taking a few deep breaths, he spoke. "Almost every colonist on the Endeavor came from North America, and over 90% came from the state of Texas. We eat, drink, and breathe competitive sports. Lacrosse, American-rules Football, Soccer, and Baseball are the largest and most popular."

"Baseball? I played that in college. Might have made it to the bigleagues if I had practiced more."

Pym waggled a finger at Kolasklar. "There, see Nishant? They play Baseball, and you said they were barbarians."

Kolasklars mouth dropped, and Pym chuckled, turning back to the young Morganite. "Forgive an Old fool for having some fun. Are there any questions you may have to ask? Someone with your profession must have a thousand."


Dr. Hauer seemed taken aback, clearly, he had not expected it to be so easy. "Why certainly Dr. Pym...I think most matters of questions I have pertain to your economic system..."

"We're very much a free-market society, I assure you. Beyond limitations on who we may trade with, and I suspect MI has similar rules, we're a capitalist economy. I suspect, with CHOAM reports now flowing freely to your CEO, you know more about our economic workings than we do yours. If I may ask, what is your opinion of the current conflict with the TA and the GHE?"

Hauer seemed surpirsed, and felt as if he'd been roped into a trap. "The feeling of the buissnessmen and women of Moragn Intersteller is that the conflict should end. We're...remarkably pleased one of the first things you did was offer to mediate, although I'm given to understand there are talks going on on the world of Firaxis."

Pym nodded gravely. "Thank you, Doctor. Your turn."

"How powerful are these....lizards?"

"Dosi."

"Thank you, how powerful are the Dosi?"

"Very. Perhaps more so than many Human factions put togather. They, like us, are isolated by virute of bein gathered along the talk of the Galactic disc. In addition, they really prefer unreasonably warm planets, so they are not seen much."

Hauer look out the window at the light snow that was falling in the city. Then he looked up around the ballroom, which was not particularly big or oppulant by MI standards. Pym noticed this, and spoke.

"The Palace was built over 700 years ago, hence the decididly colonial feel. It use to be the Presidents Palace before the Senate appoint Ian Lord Protector."

Hauer gave a small smile. "If I may ask, most of the itnerary seems to be consisting of the Senior negotiators on both sides. I don't suppose I could figure out a way to explore the rest of the planet while I'm here?"

Pyms alarm bells rang in his head. spook "Certainly Dr. Hauer. If you so desire, I can get someone from my Academic office to lead you around Arlington..."

"Yes, " hauer said, "That would be great"

[GeneralTacticus]

Laekdaemon

Major Lysander smiled as he reviewed the reports coming in from across the planet. Menelaus' troops had been disrupted by Lysander's speech, while his own men had been waiting for that signal. Already, New Antium had fallen, with Remember Thermopylae and Athena Nova heavily contested and the battles swinging towards his side. There had been no word from the other bases yet, though.

"Major Lysander!" one of the communications officers near him yelled, "we have a report from Laekdaemon Central!"

"What is it?"

"Our forces have been beaten back, sir. It appears that the rest of the people didn't care to join up, and the security forces were more than a match for us."

Lysander cursed. Laekdaemon Central was both the symbolic and administrative heart of the Cadre. Whoever held that base, ruled Laekdaemon. At that moment another report came through.

"Sir! We've just been told that we captured the northern factory complexes, including most of the Trojan-class armour suits, but we've been defeated at the southern ones. Apparently we've also taken Northern Outpost without much resistance."

Trajan-class armour suits... Lysander thought, an evil gri spreading across his face. Those are the pride and joy of the Cadre military, and they should tip the balance my way quite heavily.

"Sir." Commander Felchek's voice came from behind as he entered the command room.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Sir, it would seem that the uprising amongst the fleet was an abject failure. Very few of the crews joined in, and they were quickly defeated by the loyalists."

Lysander slammed his fist down on the table. "Damn them! We need the fleet to be able to survive. Unless we can somehow destroy it, they will just blockade and bombard us all into oblivion. Commander, do you have any suggestions as to what we can do about this?"

Felchek sat and thought for a moment before answering. "Sir, I would suggest that we contact Emperor Yang. He will no doubt want to know what is going on here, and how much progress we have made, and if he deems it necessary he will send further assistance."

"Good idea."

Encrypted Diplomatic Transmission

TO: Emperor Yang of the Greater Hive Empire

FROM: Major Lysander of the Laekdaemon Cadre

Greetings, Emperor Yang. This is Major Lysander. You will be pleased to know that our revolution has begun, and so far has been remarkably succesful. We have defeated loyalist forces in many areas, and in others the battle seems to be turning our way.

However, there is one serious problem with the current situation. The uprising aboard the Cadre fleet was crushed easily, giving the loyalists total orbital control and the ability to attack us from space. This also precludes us from attempting to land on or leave the planet. Therefore, I must humbly ask that you send assistance to us in this matter.

Regards, Lysander.

[Kassiopeia]

When Greg regained consciousness, he was being dragged between two brawny guards in a corridor.

Oh, it was a corridor Greg would always remember.

First of all, it was so hopelessly grim. If the corridor had been an event, it would of been a funeral. Definitely. Despair and darkness nearly oozed from the steely black walls. The only source of light was a dim lamp somewhere high above, casting just the needed amount of illumination to prevent people from running on to each other in the corridor.

Not to mention it was narrow. And the air, oh, Greg had never been to a small space in a starship where the air conditioning is weak. Well, now he had, and you could almost take a piece of the 'air' and make little toy animals of it.

Greg slowly opened his eyes as his feet were screeching on the floor. He was bare-footed, and the surface was cold. He shifted his eyes from the ceiling and caught a glimpse of his comrade being transported with the same manner. Greg was about to say something, but then he saw the looks on the faces of the guards and decided silence was a better option.

After a moment or so, Greg was whisked to what seemed to be a prison cell. The door was slammed shut behind him, and he was left alone in the room. He heard a similar 'bang' from the opposite side of the corridor, and rushed to the small gap in the door to see as the guards locked the doors from a panel on the door and walked quietly away.

"Filkins, you there?" Greg whispered. His voice started to echo in the corridor and turned in to a bleak humm.

"Oh, my head", Greg heard from the other side. Apparently they had been drugged before taken on board the Coalition starship.

"Filkins?" Greg asked again.

"Uhhh, is it you Greg? Or am I hallucinating? All those colours... ahhh..." A small thump, as Filkins decided to make friends with the floor.

"Cripes", Greg muttered and turned around to take a closer look at his cell. It was quite ascetic, the furniture consisted of a white-sheeted 'bed', i.e. a long table covered with thin linen, a toilet seat and a small lockbox.

The lockbox surprised him somewhat. Behind the bars, in a locked cell, stored inside a starship, a lockbox.

Greg bent over to inspect it. The box was not locked. He flipped the lid open and found... a shredder pistol.

"What the hell is this?" Greg thought in astonishment and took a hold of the weapon. It was somewhat similar to the one he had been fooling around with on Dark Side of the Moon. And moreover, the gun was armed, loaded and utterly ready to send some poor soul's to Kingdom Come. Greg had a distinct feeling that the soul was meant to be his own. He stared at the barrel, grinned and placed the gun back to the box.

He set himself lying on the bed and suddenly fell asleep. It had been a long day...

***

Greg snapped up from the bed. He was not sure how long he had been sleeping, but what had alarmed him from his slumber was... a shot from a gun.

Greg looked at the open lockbox with the unused shredder pistol inside, looked at the gap on his cell door, and suddenly realised what had happened.

"Filkins!" he cried out loud and ran up to the door, pounding it with all his strength.

He heard a quiet moan and a voice: "I'm fine."

"Filkins, God damnit, that'll be the last time you scare me off like that or I'll kill you off with my own bare hands." He kicked the door in frustration. "If possible, that is", he added.

"Gwah", Filkins replied. "Damn thing, well at least it got you waked up."

"You knew I was here?" Greg asked.

"Oh please, the snorring could of been heard all the way to Pluto", Filkins chuckled.

Greg sighed.

"Everything OK?" Filkins asked.

Now it was Greg's turn to chuckle. "OK? OK? Excuse me, but we are stuck in two prison cells, inside a Coalition patrol ship, being taken to a Tribunal so that we can be accused of treason and espionage for another faction. If all goes haywire, we might end up getting executed, for crying out loud."

"Fine, fine", Filkins calmed him down, "let me rephrase my question - considering the circumstances, is everything OK?"

"Uhm, I guess so", Greg muttered back.

Suddenly their chat came to an end as they heard distant steps inside the hallway.

"Oh blast it, I wonder what happens now", Greg said.

"Maybe they'll come to take us to the Captain, for an apology and a transport back to Earth", Filkins speculated.

His hopes were quickly vanguished as the men opened the doors and violently drugged them to a state of unconsciousness.

***

Another place, another awakening.

"From now on, that tall one needs a larger dose."

"Roger, sir."

"He keeps waking up before Shorty."

"His name is -"

"Humbert Adalbertus Filkins, I know, Mister Dalmant."

Greg stammered for a moment and then asked: "And who might you be, then?"

The tall figure, dressed in a strict dark blue uniform Greg had never seen before, replied: "I am the Operational Director of the Department of Counter-Espionage, Earth Naval Intelligence."

"Long name you've got there", Greg murmured. He thought to himself: "What the heck am I doing? Going punchlines at the guy who'll probably decide my fate? Am I nuts? I'm not some action hero, or an actor, I am Gregory Dalmant and I want to get home to my wife as soon as possible!"

"Just call me Garland", the man replied.

"What is a big head of the Intelligence department doing in this neck of the woods?" Greg wondered. In his mind, of course. "I'm not going ballistics, at least not yet", he assured himself.

"Okay, Mister Garland... I demand an attourney."

"The following will not be an official interrogation. All I want to know is, what do you know of Mister Sym?"

"Mister Sym?"

"Or Myssym, or Kain. Please, the 'I'm an idiot' - line won't work here. What do you know?"

"Not much", Greg responded. He looked around. He was sitting in a rather comfortable chair, with his feet and hands free. "He piloted that prisoner transport to our ship", he began.

[Mr. President]

The fast-moving and fast-thinking Firaxis government had their skates on. Earth Coalition and Morganic negotiators were due to arrive on the World of Trees in days. The Prime Minister was no less nervous than anyone else, though by necessity he concealed it. If all went well, he would be remembered as the man who stopped a galactic war. If all went poorly, they would put his picture next to Neville Chamberlain's under the dictionary entry for "incompetent".

"Book the Hall of Mirrors," said Michael Hsiang. The secretary nodded, scribbling furiously on a pad. "Oh, and contact General Reiziger and tell him to bring the Crimson Sunrise back." The General and his elite division were in the United Nations on a training exercise. Hsian needed every single man on standby.

"I'll start composing the security information," Hsiang said. He and the secretary hurried in different directions. Glancing at his watch, the Prime Minister broke into a jog. Nodding to the Minister for Infrastructure, he rounded a corner into his office.

Something unusual was happening. His deputy was leaning on the wall, staring into space. Hsiang glanced at him, then at the receptionist. "Any calls, Irit?" he asked.

"Seventeen new calls, sir," she began. "Shall I -"

"Send them to my phone, I'll look at them later," Hsiang said. "Thanks." He motioned to the leaning man. "Come in, Matias," he said.

"Thank you, sir." Matias Delgado had the slightly nasal accent characteristic of natives of the Almeyda Holding. Hsiang's sources told him the inflection was the descendant of South American Spanish pronunciations.

Delgado said, "I received this Priority One message, sir. You might find it of some interest."

The postmark showed it was from the Leader of the Opposition. Hsiang rolled his eyes. Unfolding the paper, he read:

"The Democratic Party strenuously protests the Prime Minister's decision to stage peace negotiations between the Terran Alliance and Morgan Interstellar.

"It is our belief that this is an offworld affair and that Firaxis must not involve itself.

"I intend to personally raise the issue in Parliament during our next Question Time."

Hsiang sighed and rubbed at his temples. "Thank you, Matias," he said, looking up. "I'll call you in a little while and we'll figure out what to do about this."

The Deputy Prime Minister nodded and left the office. Staring at his desk, Hsiang wondered what the opposition wanted. He knew that some of them were anti-Morgan, and some were anti-Terran, and some were pro-Morgan, and some were pro-Terran. But all of those existed in all the political parties. A former official of his own Pacific Party had once controversially suggested that Firaxis join the Terran Alliance. They had unearthed the records of his time on the front bench and gone over them very carefully after that.

Whatever it was, he would find out during Question Time. For now, he needed to send a message. The Prime Minister accessed the international communications line.

Video Message

Sender: Michael Hsiang, Prime Minister of the State of Firaxis

To: Colonel Marcus Kessel, Spartan Federation; CEO Nwabudike Morgan, Morgan Interstellar; Prime Minister Elise Drecaille, Earth Coalition; Admiral Kerensky, Terran Alliance

Greetings to you. I trust this day finds you in health. I remain, of course, Prime Minister Michael Hsiang of Firaxis.

[The Prime Minister's face is carefully expressionless.] Preparations for the summit are almost complete. I wish to remind you about the security arrangements that shall be in place.

Firaxian forces will be in charge of security. Delegations may bring security personnel, but such details are not to exceed the smallest designated ratio. All weapons must be registered with our Secret Service. Larger weapons than rifles must not be brought onto Firaxian soil.

Also, all previous regulations on spacecraft weapons will be enforced.

I must ask this as a matter of my own nation's security and sovereignty.

Hsiang out.

End Message

[History Guy]

M.S.E.S. Undaunted Courage, Unexplored Systems south of Castor

Three men stood in the darkness, a thick, strong, transparent material forming walls all around them. This, of course, was the officer’s promenade on the Undaunted Courage, and it served the men well. In this glassy walk these officers and crew members could literally stand in a protected area, and yet there would be no evidence of their presence aboard the ship were it not for the doors on either side of the long walk leading into the more secluded parts of the ship. The scenery revealed by the transparency was breath taking, even to people who, like these three men, had seen this sort of thing countless times before. The sights were astounding. Half a dozen planets, large and small, gas and rock, ringed and plain, were evident to the viewers, stretched out along in a huge circle around a single, small, bright, white star, which was still larger than any of the planets. Because of the beauties of the observation walk, one almost felt as if one was floating about in space, or that one could simply whip out one’s hand and grasp the stars. In short, it was marvelous.

The three men who stood, motionless, watching the small system below, wore gray cloth uniforms, as befitted a member of the exploration corps of the Morganite Space Navy. The familiar Morganite tri-cornered cap crowned their pates, which was their regulation headgear for this time of year, which was the end of spring. Soon, of course, summer would approach, and then they’d be wearing the old beret again. The tallest of the men was the officer in command of the vessel, Captain George Guthrie, M.S.N.F., a wise and experienced officer. Flanking him were his top officers, Wiglaf McColloch, and Ella Weiss, both clad in a similar outfit, but perhaps with not as much regalia.

“This larger planet, which we will, for the sake of argument, call MI1, is actually the largest planet in this whole system. As you can see though, it looks very unpleasant. Large, rocky, gray, in parts much like a desert, MI1 is covered with mercury pools, and is rather harsh, and would not be our first choice for colonization if the CEO allows the colonization of this new system. The second planet, closest to that, MI2, is actually closer to the star than MI1 would be, and so it’d just as well be used at best for a large conglomerate of solar panels, and the like. The one that is ripe for colonization, on the other hand, would be MI3, which is the second largest planet, and is the best placed. It’s not too hot or too cool, and would probably be quite pleasant,” spake Officer Weiss.

“Yes, so I understand, and yet, the most of it is rainforest, like the famous Monsoon Jungle of Chiron where the Drones, the Gaians, and the Cult struggle to survive so many years ago,” responded Officer McColloch, scratching what little of his hair emerged from under his cap.

The Captain, who must have been in his fifties, who was tall, broad-shouldered, long-nosed, and blue eyed responded next. “Of course living here would be a challenge, Officer, but where has man settled where there has been no challenge? Man shall learn to adapt. For all our decadent ways, we Morganites aren’t as lazy as our enemies and friends alike would have us think.”

Up until this very point, no man had explored this new system. Of course, the men of Morganland, namely the Castor area, had sent satellites and probes across the border to make charts, but it hadn’t been until now that the Colonial Department had allowed this squadron of smaller vessels to make a visit to the area, to go where literally no man had gone before. The star had been named Narcissus due to its white color, but none of the planets had been explored or named. The Colonial Department would take control of that, but these explorers would have to do the charting.

“Well, sir,” said Wiglaf McColloch, after answering a brief message from his watchvid, “our ship is now moving in towards MI3, code-named Guthrie’s Rock. We will be able to make landing in sixteen hours, once the order comes in from the Colonial Department.”

The Captain looked up from the scene of grandeur before him and smiled, chuckling slightly, “Guthrie’s Rock, eh? Sounds fine to me.”

“Guthrie’s Rock is thrice as large as Earth’s moon. This system seems to be filled with a bunch of midget planets. We’re not even sure if that thing that floats around it should be considered a moon, as it’s so small. It could very well be an asteroid stuck in the planet’s orbit,” said Weiss.

“It sounds like a nice spot for full-scale colonization then, if they can get rid of some of those trees.”

“That forest looks to be ancient, Captain. Almost as old as the moon of Pollux E is itself. In other words, some of those trees have been around since before man was building cities.”

“Could do wonders for the tourist trade, then. Come see the trees older than civilization, and buy yourself a suite at the Morgan Home Away From Home. Actually, most of the thick areas of the forest are on a huge plateau, so the reports from Benin’s Satellite say. It’d be ideal for the location of a city due to the altitude.”

“If the Colonial Department goes through with the landing, it’ll be the first spot to explore,” added McColloch.

Weiss was about to say something, but before she could, the Captain’s watchvid made rather loud noises. “OK, we got it, then,” announced Captain Guthrie, “the Colonial Department is giving us permission to commence operations, with the full support of Mrs. Obda, and the CEO himself, sending us this from his own private ship the Bearer of Man, which is now en route to Firaxis to end this damn war. When we arrived in orbit, we shall immediately proceed to land. The co-ordinates are just coming in…”

The capital ship of the squadron suddenly turned towards MI3, a.k.a. Guthrie’s Rock.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

MorganNetDaily.com
All the News a Morganite Needs
Sunday Edition- Pg. 1

CEO LEAVES FOR FIRAXIS: At 4:50 this morning, the CEO left Castor C’s Horax Station in his private ship, heading for Firaxis to speak with Terran heads of state in an attempt to bring an end to the current, bloody war which has ravaged Morgan and Terran space for half a year. After saying good-bye to crowds of well-wishers, the CEO pledged that when he returned, peace would come with him. We at MorganNetDaily.com wish him good luck, and we all hope that he will bring speedy end to the war. READ FULL STORY

COLONIAL DEPARTMENT REVISED: Following the retirement of Mr. Madison as head of Colonial Affairs last Thurday, Mrs. Naomi Obda has been Minister in his place. One of her first actions has been to authorize, with the CEO’s full support, exploration of the Narcissus System, and the possible go-ahead for colonization. Says Mr. Chamberlain of the Colonial Affairs Department, “If we do start the colonization of these planets, the 3rd planet, now code-named Guthrie’s Rock will be the one we go for…” READ FULL STORY

LANDINGS ON GUTHRIE’S ROCK SCHEDULED FOR TOMORROW MORNING: A large ship will land at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning on Guthrie’s Rock. Captain G.E. Guthrie will lead the expeditionary team of over three-hundred, which will trek spots on the newly-discovered planet. READ FULL STORY

ACTOR RICHIE GAMM INJURED: Richard Gamm, the popular star of the movie ‘Heart of Bronze’, and the miniseries ‘The Man Who Ruled For A Day’ on the Peacekeeper rebel Larry Kogg, has been injured in a serious rover accident outside Sky Towers. His fiancee was also slightly injured. Apparently, he was driving too fast on a dark road, and ran right into a crawler. READ FULL STORY

Page 2
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Frankychan]

Hive Prime
Troop Training Bay
Private Observation Lounge

Emperor Yang looked at the massed Hive troops training down below him. Hunderds of Hive troops engaged in rhythmic hand-to-hand combat motions. Organized in large block formations, Hive troops trained as far as Yang's eye could see.

Beautiful, simply beautiful. Order in its most impressive form.

A beep from the entrance door signaled that someone wanted to enter.

"Come." Sheng-ji turned away from the window to face the door.

The door slid open to reveal Warmaster Kang, Minister Zell holding a datapad, and a security officer.

Warmaster Kang spoke first.

"Your excellency, Admiral Bippol has reported in. He says that his fleet has finished their repairs and are headed toward system LP 658-2."

Sheng-ji smiled and turned around.

"Good," Yang began, "I have received transmission from Morgan, Ian, and Kessel. It appears we have created quite a stir in the universe..."

He paused as the four assembled men chuckled, then continued.

"...I will be sending messages to all of them. Minister Zell, I want our ambassador in the sol system to begin negotiations with the Terrans. I also want our ambassadorial team on planet Drone Mound to accelerate our treaty negotiations with the University delegates."

Minister Zell bowed and exited the room, leaving Kang, Sheng-ji and the security officer.

"Kang, Lysander has sent a message asking for more Hive help."

The Warmaster growled while Yang continued.

"I want you to assemble a strike force of Hive ships as well as ground support. This Cadre civil war is getting to be expensive...
It seems that the Spartans have gotten wind of our involvement with anti-Spartan elements within the Laekdaemon government.
I want you to send our long overdue message to the Believer government terminating our acquisition for their forces, our University allies seem to be more valuable."

Kang bowed as did the security officer.

"I want our invovlement with the Cadre to be quick and decisive, Kessel knows I am up to something and Hive society may be at stake."

Kang and the security turned to leave when the Emperor spoke up from behind them.

"No more mistakes like Samnos, Kang."

* * *
Encrypted Visual Message
To: CEO Nwabudike Morgan of Morgan Interstellar
From: Emperor Sheng-ji Yang of the Greater Hive Empire

*Yang's face wore a slight smirk*

Ah, CEO Morgan of the Morganites. I am indeed Emperor Sheng-ji Yang and I now lead the Greater Hive Empire. I see that you have survived the long millenia rather unchanged and I commend you on it.

*Yang's face suddenly darkened*

Our ships have engaged your forces at Samnos in retribution for atrocities commited by Morganite troops in former Terran holdings. Your Morganite aggression must be contained for the safety of Hive society. We have therefore aligned ourselves with the Terrans in the hopes of curbing yourself and Kessel's Spartan Federation.

I am aware of dealings you have had as of late with Protector Ian. You would be wise to know that Protectorate forces are considered enemies of the Hive Empire. I have tolerated your alliance with Sparta out of good faith, but Morganite negotiations with Lord Ian will greatly sour my personal opinion of you, Nwabudike.

But, as a gesture of good faith I will cease all Hive aggression toward Morganite holdings and will honor any stance the Terran governments take dealing with you and your men.

I do not want another "Chiron fiasco" CEO, the galaxy has seen enough bloodshed in such a short time. I would not wish to see more shed.

Emperor Yang out.
* * *
* * *
Encrypted Visual Message
To: Colonel Marcus Kessel, Spartan Federation
From: Emperor Sheng-ji Yang, Greater Hive Empire


Marcus Kessel, such words coming from the such a famous leader. I would think a hero of the FTL wars would conduct himself in a more....diplomatic manner.

You talk of "alien allies" and such but where is your proof? You have none or you and your alien allies would have done something a long time ago. All you have are assumptions but that's all.

As for Hive involvement in Terran-Morgan affairs, if you look at the data collected, you will see that the Morganites were the ones to begin this war. Morganites took territory after territory from the Terrans and when victory seems within sight for the earthers, you step in to help your ailing comrade. Do we intimidate you that much, Kessel? *Yang smiled*

I don't know where you heard that Hive forces were aiding Cadre factions and your data is totally inaccurate. Be careful in your accusations, Colonel, they may very well be the death of you.

Lastly, it goes without saying that ANY Spartan vessel entering Hive space will be destroyed. Any Spartan ships entering the neutral zone buffering our two territories will be approached and engaged.

Yang out.
* * *
* * *
Encrypted Visual Message
To: Lord Protector Ian, Protectorate of Man
From: Emperor Sheng-ji Yang, GHE

*An image of Yang's devilish smile appeared on screen, lasting for 5 minutes*

I know you're dealing with Morgan, Ian.

I will have my eye on you, dear Protector

[END TRANSMISSION]
* * *
* * *
Encrypted Message
To: Major Lysander, Laekdaemon Cadre
From: Warmaster Kang, Supreme Commander of Hive Military

Major Lysander, Emperor Yang is most displeased that you will be needing more Hive assistance. As you may know, the Spartan Federation has been keeping an eye on Cadre developments and Hive aid is seen as 'unwelcomed' by the Spartan's.

However, his imperial majesty understands your plight and has authorized the use of Hive ships to aid your revolution. Therefore, I am notifying you that Hive warships are on their way to your homeworld to assist your forces. Listed below is what will be arriving:

1 Battlecruiser
3 Corvettes
2 Frigates
1 Carrier
3 Troop ships (1500 soldiers)

The task force leader, Colonel Trevor Shaixu, has been given orders to follow your commands until notified by Hive command to return to Hive space. These ships will be modified so that they will not be identifiable as having a Hive origin. They will be disguised as pirates. When the fleet arrives in your system, you are to contact the flagship. Colonel Shaixu will identify himself as Clan Leader Maibok.

The Emperor hopes that this will be enough to help your forces succeed against those who would aid the Spartan menace.
* * *
* * *
Encrypted Message
To: Believer Government
From: Warmaster Kang, Greater Hive Empire

This message has been long overdue due to the fact that much thought was put into our reply.

The Hive will no longer need assistance from Believer forces. We have found a more lucrative source of men and military weapons.
Emperor Yang hopes that GHE and Believer forces will keep a neutral stance toward one another, seeing as how Believers were reported in aiding the Morganites.

The Hive does not wish to engage in hostilities with the Believer government and will remain out of your business so long as you remain out of GHE affairs.
* * *

[GeneralTacticus]

Laekdaemon

"Sir, His Majesty has answered our message."

Major Lysander looked up from his food when he heard Felcheck's voice. The Hive Commander was standing in the doorway to Lysander's quarters holding a a computer printout in his hand.

"All right, commander, let's see what he has decided."

Felchek walked over and handed the transcript to Lysander. He read it.

"Hmmm. It would seem that Emperor Yang is not very pleased with our request for assistance. Still, what he has sent has removed the only real obstacle to my removing Menelaus. The Cadre fleet is small, and the ships that are being sent will be more than sufficient to deal with them. Once we establish orbital control, our victory will be assured."

"Exactly how big is is the Cadre fleet anyway, sir?"

"It currently consists of 26 escorts of varying types. None of them would have even an outside chance against the fleet being sent in currently."

"I am glad of that, sir. Do you think there is any prospect that the loyalists will surrender?"

"None. They know we will kill anyone who collaborates with Spartans... and that means killing all of the loyalist leadership. Now, I must send a reply to Warmaster Kang."

Encrypted Diplomatic Transmission

TO: Warmaster Kang, Greater Hive Empire

FROM: Major Lysander, Laekdaemon Cadre.

Warmaster Kang, please convey my gratitude to His Majesty Emperor Yang. The forces you are sending will be more than sufficient to deal with the loyalist fleet, and once that is complete our victory is certain.

Regards, Lysander

End Transmission

[Sprayber]

Colonel Marcus Kessel stood at the podium overlooking the central plaza of Sparta Command. Down below one hundred thousand of Sparta’s elite gathered in ranks and files to listen to the annual speech for Remembrance Day. All across Sparta and anywhere Spartans were present they stopped their daily tasks and watched or listened by whatever means were available. In the Drone capital, Spartans gathered at the Spartan embassies’ massive courtyard in the middle of the night to see the Colonel speak. Light years away, those assigned to the Morganite home world gathered in a rented stadium on what was the Morganite weekend. Light years from there Marine grunts and navy crewman assemble together in ship holds in the various fleets dispersed throughout the human sphere. On Planet PX-3113 a Spartan fire base had assembled its troops in a make shift clearing to view the ceremony. They would soon go back to their positions on the planet that once witnessed the war between humanity and the Bree. But for now Drone soldiers patrolled the surface and the space above.

On the recently established Colony of Ironholm Colonel Santiago lead the people in the remembrance ceremonies. Her memories of the holiday stretched back in time to when the first remembrance day was held on Chiron. Having sent most of those being remembered to their deaths was weighing more and more on her mind these days. She no longer had the clarity of being in command to keep the doubts away. But today was not about her. Today was about the honored dead.

On the former Peacekeeper world of New Celadon, where Remembrance Day had meant protests and sometimes violence in the past, all was quite. Colonel Kessel had suggested that those Peacekeeper soldiers that had died in the defense of the planet be honored along with Spartan dead. Local civic leaders were allowed to display banners of the former PK military units stationed on New Celadon in the public square without the PK logo. A few of the actual PK defenders, long since released from detention, were even allowed to participate in the local ceremonies.

The citizens of Tyre were well known as being less militaristic then the average Spartan. The former independent world still clung onto old traditions but Remembrance Day was becoming more and more apart of the culture of Tyre these days. The people were joining the Spartan military more and more each year. Members of the newly created Tyre Legion formed up in the central plaza of the capital city Yarra to watch the speech by Colonel Kessel and to witness the swearing in of their new commander. The governor of Tyre watched from his platform on the far end of the plaza. For Governor Rains this, was a proud day. He had lobbied many years to Central Command to create the Tyre legion and finally they had achieved the sufficient numbers and training level to get that wish. Being the first native Tyre to serve as Governor only made it all the sweeter for him. For many on Tyre today, it was finally like they were truly Spartan.

In many cases Spartans could not find access to their fellow comrades to follow the ceremonies but all knew what day it was and acted in ways that were appropriate for the occasion. Not all Spartans would hear the speech in real time or even hear it that day. But they would feel the meaning because there wasn’t a Spartan alive that wasn’t touched by the purpose of the day. Everyone in Sparta new someone close that had died for the state. And every one looked to Colonel Kessel as the central representative of the state to acknowledge that. Kessel didn’t like speeches. He talked to people not at them. That was a most unusual quality in a Spartan leader of any level, but it endeared him to his soldiers and his people. And today, Kessel was preparing to talk to the entire Spartan Federation. As he cleared he throat to speak, memories of his own filled his mind. He prepared his words carefully and began to speak in the Spartan language that off worlders found so surprisingly smooth to the ear to come from a Spartan.

“My fellow citizens. I come to you on a solemn day for Sparta. A day that we set aside each year to remember those that gave their lives and honor so that Sparta should continue. The men and women of Sparta have fought for the past six hundred years to preserve and defend the Spartan state against those that do not understand our way and choose to live in conflict with us instead of in peace. They have stood guard against the alien threat shoulder to shoulder with our allies and died in places like PX-3113, Traitors Planet and many planets that bear no name. They defended Sparta without complaint and with the knowledge that most would never come back from their battles. They are the true elites of Sparta. They are the honored many that rest on hundreds of worlds never to see thier beloved Sparta again. That sacrifice enables us to be here today and I as the representative of the Spartan state, stand here before all of Sparta and humbly offer my gratitude and my respect. I honor those that have gone before us as they have forged the path that we must all eventually follow. May there always be a Spartan Federation, and may it always be where honorable soldiers dwell”

After the usual short speech by Colonel Kessel the traditional nineteen minutes of silence was observed throughout Sparta by all Spartans. The tribute was to the nineteen Spartans that died securing the Unity colony pod centuries ago. Like everything else in Sparta, nothing was forgotten. After the silence was completed the commanders once again took charge of their troops and started to file out of the central plaza. The rest of the day was spent according to the local custom but usually consisted of ceremonies honoring local soldiers. Each city and camp remembered in their own way and at their own pace, but all did it the Spartan way. There were large banquets and small gatherings, but whatever the setting there was always an empty chair at the head of the table. Each individual saw a different face when they looked at the chair. In Sparta, there was never a shortage of faces to be remembered.

[Sprayber]

****Text Message****
From: Colonel Marcus Kessel
To: Emperor Yang

My warnings remain clear. Stay out of affairs that do not concern you Emperor. The problem between the Terran Alliance and Morgan Interstellar is none of your concern. And stay out of Cadre affairs for they do not concern you in the slightest either. Hive ships caught entering the Laekdaemon system will be treated as if they are entering a Spartan or allied system. That means immediate destruction. If you can possibly look past your own ego perhaps our two societies can coexist, but as long as you insist on butting in on affairs that do not concern you then Sparta will be there to put you back in your place. And emperor, Sparta has no need for alien allies because we are strong enough to stand on our own.

*****Video Message*****
To: Prime Minister Michael Hsiang
From: Colonel Marcus Kessel

The decision of Firaxis to host the negotiations has increased the chances of a successful outcome. Once again the importance of Firaxis is demonstrated to all those interested in a stable and secure system. As usual, Spartan officials will comply with Firaxian security protocols completely. My arrival at Firaxis may be delayed by a developing internal situation, but I hope that I may make it finally to the world of trees. Once again, your acceptance of this duty speaks highly of the character of Firaxis.

[Frankychan]

Samnos
Hive Expeditionary Fleet in orbit
Command ship People's Glory

Admiral Bippol watched as the remaining Hive ships moved into formation. The past couple of days now the fleet made repairs to the surviving ships, scavenging destroyed ships for replacable parts. Bippol ordered all ships to prepare for their new destination, system LP 658-2.

"These Terrans were starting to bug me anyway." Bippol spoke aloud. He was referring to the Terran warnings threatening to fire on his ships if they landed that were being broadcasted in timely intervals.

A comm-officer spoke up from the comm-pit.

"Admiral, the last remaining ships are reporting in. They are signaling that they are ready to jump."

The Fran turned to look down on the officer and took a deep breath.

"Very well, the Terrans can have this blighted rock."

"Will we be sending them our intentions of leaving?"

Bippol turned to face the newly conquered Terran world. His face contorted into a slight grimace.

"No. For all we have done for them, I think we can do as we please. I don't want anything more to do with the Terran Alliance."
-----

After a few last minute preparations, Admiral Bippol ordered the Hive Expeditionary Fleet to jump to their new destination, LP 658-2.

[History Guy]

M.D.S. Bearer of Man

For a rather small diplomatic ship, CEO Nwabudike Morgan’s private corvette’s dining room was quite spacious. The table was long and rectangular, made of real wood from Castor D. It sat about fifteen in all. In other words, it was a large table, and suitable for such a man as CEO Morgan. The full complement of sitters was not at the table, however. There were only twelve here, and a thirteenth standing above. As the sitters (including CEO Morgan, who sat, naturally enough, at the head of the table) dug into their small, but on the whole rather excellent portions of food, the standing man, a chef, droned on.

“You see,” said he, “the food is, on the whole excellent. I was trying to make it that way, and if I must say, I succeeded. However, you will also notice that I tried to make it look almost as pleasing to the eye as to the palate.” There were general nods, and the like, and then silence fell over the table.

“So, CEO,” said Temple, “how do you intend to handle this Terran business?”

“Rather easily, I hope!” said the CEO. Laughs were quickly produced. “Actually, I trust that it shan’t take too long at all. The Terrans might be heavy handed and all, but once they we what we are prepared to give them, I think they’ll respectfully sit down and gape.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Walker, “but what are we prepared to give them?”

“Money, of course,” responded the CEO, in mock surprise, “What else? Well, we shall see if the Terrans like the idea of being presented with fifty million credits?”

There was a silence at the table. “Fifty million credits?” asked Mr. Ivan Ludger, assistant secretary of defense (Mrs. Whitaker was not able to be present).

“Yes. It’s a hefty sum, I do agree, but we won’t miss it too much. And that’s just for starters, anyway. Of course, they will now have the rather delicate problem of the Spartans, whom they also attacked. They shall have to pay up to them, I expect,” said Morgan with a laugh, “it wasn’t the Spartans who fired first on Terra, it was Terra on Sparta.”

“What if,” began Walker, “they simply decide not to listen to us and the Spartans, and trudge on with the old war, eh?”

“Well, they can’t, and won’t do that. I don’t think,” began General Paul Lehman, who was acting in place of Marchand, “that this Admiral Kerensky is a fool, and if he is he’s been fooling us into thinking otherwise. He knows that if he goes forward into the Corporate Sector, he’ll be cut to pieces, Pirates or no Pirates. Right now our Spartan, Drone, and Believer friends are patrolling the area along with our own boys, under Lemesieur himself!”

“Quite a sticky situation, I must say,” said the usually quite quiet Imran Siddiqui.

“Of course,” said Morgan, “the Terrans have already made something of a fumble. They’ve got part of their fleet orbiting Firaxis, which is something of a problem, I think. The Firaxians almost see it as a threat. ‘If things don’t go well, we’ll blast you to pieces’, that sort of thing. Of course, we are bringing a battalion of Morgan marines as well, but that isn’t half as much as problem.” Morgan tapped on the plexi-glass windows, which revealed the small battalion carrier ship floating alongside.

“Quite sticky,” repeated Imran.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Augustus Kingrey was preparing to go have his meal as well, but it was scheduled for a little later, as soon as the CEO and his team left the dining room. Kingrey was, after all, only a correspondent, a reporter, a journalist, and hardly a very important one. He had been sent by the Morgan Daily Mail Company, which ran the Morgan Daily Mail newspaper, MorganLink3DTV, and MorganNetDaily.com, to report on what happened.

“One of my major goals,” said Augustus Kingrey to another correspondent, the female one that had caught his eye, “is to interview Col. Marcus Kessel, if he’s there, and some sources say that he will be. In fact, the word is that the CEO has brought along some fine wines just in case!”

The girl laughed, and said, “Both men are into wines, I hear. In fact, Morgan just sent him another case of a wine he discovered recently. Apparently, Kessel loves the stuff.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t drink on duty though! Here, look at this, a notepad full of questions for Kessel. They’ve really stocked me up. This will be the first interview of Kessel by a foreigner in over a year, believe it or not! Who says the Spartans aren’t isolationist?”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Guthrie’s Rock, Evening

Captain George Guthrie stood in the long-grass, and looked around him. The ship had successfully made a landing on the plateau that the satellites had picked up as a good spot to land. The only problem was that the grass was rather long here, but it had been two years since the photograph had been taken, and so it was understandable. Up here, one could see everything. Two rivers were in the distance, flowing into one another. The plains outstretching, until they disappear into the blackness of the jungles back there. It looked to be a regular rain forest, in fact, and probably teeming with life. Captain Guthrie turned around and came face to face with an alien.

It sat on a stalk of long-grass, and it was rather pretty in it’s own way. It was beetle-like, with two horns sticking out of its head. Its color was a nice, shiny green. The first of the aliens, obviously. Guthrie snapped in the air for a scientist to come over and catalogue it. More such aliens could be heard chattering away in the distance.

“Sir,” said Officer Wiglaf McColloch, “I have assigned a detail of drones and workers to start taking down this long grass around the ship to make it easier to maneuver. Is this alright?”

“What? Oh, yes, perfectly, Officer. Thanks.” Ah, thought the Captain. Come the morning and he’ll be setting up parties of his own to start exploring this place. What a job that’d be. It’s a good thing, he thought, that they had plenty of those small walker explorer models. Things could be worse.

The Captain turned around to watch the sunset, and the brilliant colors that it produced in the vault of heaven.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Kassiopeia]

Two shapes panted knelt down behind a makeshifht obstacle that had before their appearance served as a table. Around them there was chaos - shards of glass, wooden splinters, general debris scattered all over. The only thing standing was the table before them, and that too was resting on it's side.

"Bloody hell", the other one of the shapes whispered. He, at least according to the voice he was a he, looked around in the darkness. "An electromagnetic disturbance field. My nightvision nor my radio gear work. No reinforcements, I am afraid."

"These guys are professionals", the other one, a man as well, replied, also trying to keep his voice down as much as possible.

"Either that or stinking rich", the first man replied.

"The two traits usually walk hand-to-hand... And if they are rich, why would they want to raid a museum?"

"That's why we are here, to find out. On three", he said and pulled out his weapon, prompting his partner to do likewise.

"One, two, three!" he counted and jolted up from behind the table. Nothing happened. He put on the flashlight bolted under the barrel of his pistol and scanned the hallway with it. Nothing but trash, and dust dancing in the light pillar.

His partner, who was carrying a much heavier firearm (which made everyone who knew him well very, very nervous) started sliding ahead, taking support from the wall.

Exactly like in a Three-Three-Niner, the first man thought and was impressed of his friend's - yes, they were friends too - tactical skills, as straight from the book as they were.

Then he realised that before ending up behind the table, under unforeseen plasma barrage, they had used a Five-Five-Seven maneuvre, a very common one for that occasion, like the Three-Three-Niner was for this occasion.

His eyes opened wide from his thought as he gaped his mouth to shout -

"Down!"

His partner turned his head to the call and hit the deck. A flat line of superheated ionised gas, as wide as the hallway itself, swept just two inches over his head. If he hadn't worn a protective helmet, his hair might have melt.

The flow collided with the wall behind the duo and left another cloud of burnt matter and black streaks across it.

This hallway was already clear of anything collateral to destroy - the superintendent or whoever was in charge of the place would probably, after seeing the havoc, go to pieces as quickly and effectively as a certain china vase from the 14th century that was now nothing but white pulver with some gravelish pieces here and there.

The first man shot a couple of times at the direction from where the plasma sweep had came. It was useless, he knew that the culprits had already taken appropriate protection measures, like taking cover behind the walls, but it was the psychological effect - the shots were simply saying "Up yours, you silly bastards, you won't get us that easily". His partner followed accordingly and wrecked some additional chaos before retreating back to the confines between the table and an array of chairs, or at least pieces of them.

"What a mess", the first man blurted.

"Agreed. These guys have inside knowledge, definitely pros."

"Or, again, someone with enough cash to bribe an officer."

"Uhhh, you won't have to be stinking rich to do that, not nowadays..."

"Point taken."

"Enough with this charade", the other man snapped and pulled out a grenade from his belt. "This oughta -"

"Now just wait a minute there. That is a level five grenade. You are planning to use a level five explosive device inside a museum?"

"I exactly wasn't going to eat it. That was my intention, yes."

"Did you see that Renaissance age sculpture at the end of the hallway? Where the decimation would be quite perfect?"

"I think I caught a glimpse of it before -"

"Good. Now, if the forensic guys can count us for the loss of it - and they will, the department will pay nicely for them to do just that - the government won't pay for it. You will. And there's not enough Longevity Vaccine in the universe to sustain you for the amount of work you would have to do even to get half of it's cost covered. You getting my drift here?"

The other man stared at the grenade, then again at his partner. He put the grenade back.

"Excellent. Sheesh, why did you bring those portable infernos with you anyway? I thought they had banned them for you after that disaster at Farpoint."

"You know how those bans are, no one ever follows them, and stuff... no biggie."

"If you weren't such a marksman the force would have you kicked out in no time."

"But I'm not a good marksman -"

The first man sighed. "Well then why don't you tell everyone? Enough with this nonsense. The suspects have probably fled the building as we spoke."

A new flood of plasma proved him otherwise.

"A flashbang would be in order here. The ones with light and noise but no destruction." He took a worried glance at the level five grenades on his partner's belt.

The first man felt a slight sizzle in the air.

"Team Alpha, Team Alpha, come in please."

"Alpha One here", the first man responded.

"What happened?"

"Jamming devices distorted our equipment, I am afraid."

"What is your situation with the suspects?"

No plasma flow this time. The first man viewed the corridor with his nightvision goggles and reported: "They are apparently heading to exit number three. Have a team secure it, if one hasn't already."

"Sending Team Delta to exit three", the operator said.

The first man made a mental slap on his forehead. Not Delta. "Come", he said to his partner, "off we go, they are making their way to exit three."

The two took two quick steps and were suddenly faced by a... woman. She was unarmed and fortunately for everyone, the abrupt moment of surprise didn't make anyone open fire. The woman stared at the men, the men stared at the woman.

"Identify yourself", the first man finally requested, or rather commanded as he was emphasising it with his pistol.

She didn't look dazed of the situation. Like a built-in gesture, she put her hand to one of the pockets in her jacket and brandished an ID card. The other one of the men took it and gave it some inspective looks.

"Looks good to me. My PDA says she's clear", he confirmed after a moment as his personald data assistent digitised the number-letter code and sent and retrieved it from the central databanks. "Thank you, Miss Donahue", he continued and handed the card back.

While this identification procedure was taking place, the first man had, according to standard operational directives, cleared the end of corridor and inspected the rooms, while keeping a watchful eye over Miss Donahue and his partner.

"Now, we shall escort you from the crime zone. You will be taken in for some questions once outside", the first man said and gestured her to follow him through a door. "This way, Madame."

The woman looked at the men, again, in deep thought. She made a quiet 'Hmmmm'-sound.

"Madame, if you would please, we are on official duty and have no time to play any games", the other man hurried her.

Miss Donahue looked at the name tag on the chest plate of the heavily-armed officer's armour suit. "Detective Officer Collins", it read. She moved to face the first man, "Detective Officer Latchett".

"Look, Madame, either you follow us voluntarily or we will have to carry you out."

"Aren't you missing something important?" She finally opened her mouth. Latchett was surprised at how steadfast her voice was, considering she looked as a person rather fragile, at least at the time being. Collins didn't notice this sort of things, he was busy keeping guard, albeit he wouldn't have probably noticed this sort of things even if they came up to him and gave him a friendly slap on the cheek.

"Madame?"

"I might be carrying an armyful of arsenal here", she replied and pointed at her rather baggy jacket looked like it always got in her way when she moved around.

"You aren't, we have gear for detecting them", Collins said, not turning his face from the corridor.

"And I could have gear for stopping your gear from detecting them", she dryly replied.

"Your point being..? Are you insisting that I do a body search on you? Because if you do then most certainly I won't be doing it", Latchett said.

"Well then, there's no choice is there", she said and walked deeper to the museum, heading for exit three.

"Now what the hell is this?" Collins asked as she walked beyond his field of vision to the bowels of the building.

"I don't know, but it would probably be a good idea to follow her", Latchett suggested.

[Kassiopeia]

Detective Officer Collins gazed at the flickering numbers on his data pad with a very concerned look. Loosing track of artifact thieves, well, they had done that before, but not coupled with misindentifying and arresting a Marine Intelligence agent. Of course, she had made no gesture to release her occupation, nevermind her clothing which was suited more for a cocktail party then a mission, and naturally the blame should have fallen for the central databank guys who had gotten all tardy all of a sudden and forgotten to maintain the systems so that it would continue updating the database, but in the end the responsibility was that of the arresting officer... and not much to his own surprise, he found out that his salary rate had diminished from Standard 13 to Standard 14.

He would have to postpone that move to Mars, again...

Latchett, who was slowly consuming a cup of coffee (synthetic, naturally) next to him, sighed, guessing his co-worker's thoughts.

"Wouldn't it be just easier for them to come here?"

"To Earth? From Mars? You kidding me?" he looked outside. The coffee shop they frequented was located in direct contact with one of the large arcologic structures overtaking the scenery of Residential-Commercial District 0001 of Southern England, known to common folk as London City.

Not much of the place reminded of the old days, though... a terrorist act had destroyed the old Parliamentary house long ago, a tidal wave caused by a starship crash had cleared out the 21st century housings from the vicinity of Thames two decades ago, lots of stuff had happened. The oldest buildings were underground, stored as museums or built over.

Although there was limited weather control in the cities (limited, yet existent), for some reason most of the people had a deep psychological need for rain. And so it rained, creating a rather bladerunneresque mood, excluding the acidic nature of the rain, radiation particles and loose androids on a killing spree. And neither Collins nor Latchett looked like Harrison Ford.

Looking, mesmerised, at the falling drops, Collins murmured: "It never rains on Mars..."

"Never, you say?" Latchett enquired with a surprised look.

"Well, in some parts it does, under the hab domes, but usually the water is supplied only to the greenhouses and households for drink. And for the reactors of course. But the air is usually humidized with air conditioning. It rains maybe once every two months... Leena tells me that it's quite a spectacle, with children running wildly around enjoying like there's no tomorrow... like kids always..." Collins sighed again.

Latchett, as an empathic person and a good friend of Collins, could see his longing... for his wife and his son.

Latchett himself couldn't afford to head for Mars, and inside he felt that even if he had the credits he still wouldn't leave. No motive.

Collins was an excellent co-worker, if a little abstent-minded and straightforward trigger happy occasionally, and Latchett hated the thought of losing him, but somehow was sure he would feel very happy if he only got to rejoin his family.

"So, how is Benjamin?"

"Bright as always... he's thinking of attending the University of Novaja Irkutsk. They say there are some Gaian-origined descedants in the faculty, and it's the best University on Mars when it comes to molecular biology."

"University? The last time I saw him he was still in high school. Time sure passes quickly."

"Unless you actually want it to fly by", Collins replied.

A good man, a great father, Latchett thought... and envied him.

The datapad on the table in front of Latchett made a little beeping sound. The Detective Officer yawned a bit and read the screen.

"It seems that our specialising in artifact crimes is finally starting to pay off", Latchett said sarcastically. "We have been ordered to co-operate with the Marine Intelligence corps."

"Say what?" Collins asked, disturbed from a thought.

"That lady... whatever her name was..."

"Donahue."

"Yes, Miss Donahue... since we are the only experts on this field in the London City Police Marine Department, we have been assigned to her aid."

"Anything more?"

"Nope. We are to report for a detailed debriefing tomorrow at noon... at the University of Oxford. Archaeological department, it says here. Intriguing."

[Kassiopeia]

Coalition Headquarters

Elise Drecaille couldn't believe what she was seeing.

The Coalition, or at least what was supposed to be in control of it, was in disarray. She hated disarray. Everyone was in a little panic, either afraid of a followup assasination - though no one had yet proven that it had been an assasination - or afraid that this would escalate to a larger conflict with one of the foreign powers. Well, that panic would soon subside, she thought to herself.

Drecaille, well, she and Supreme Commander Michael Wakazashi had no reason for fear. They knew exactly what had happened.

"And he is dead?" Drecaille asked him.

"Affirmative. I received proof of it thirty minutes ago, actually.

"If it's something gross, I don't want to hear."

Wakazashi grinned. They had just collaborated to kill the President of the Coalition, Henry Tremaine, and the Prime Minister was afraid she would start to feel obnoxious.

***

We interrupt our regular broadcast for this special news bulletin brought to you by GNN, Your News Network for Global affairs.

"Good Evening. Two hours ago, the airship carrying President Henry Tremaine back to Geneva after a visit to his homelands in Scotland was observed exploding and crashing over the English Canal. We have no further information of the state of the ship or that of President Tremaine, but will inform you as soon as anything new emerges."

[Sprayber]

For decades the Spartan Federation has kept a secrete. To be more precise, a secrete hidden behind a well conceived and simple cover story. In the early days of expansion we came upon a system we called Epona. Epona is just a few light years from Sparta Prime and was subjected to only a cursory glance. It was a lush and green world ever bit as much as Sparta Prime is. But instead of immediate colonization we moved on to other systems. At this time the drive of the Peacekeeper colonization was cranked into high gear and the main concern of ours was in claiming as much territory as possible in order to provide ample room for the defense of Sparta Prime. In our mind there would be plenty of time to come back and colonize Epona at our leisure. So more distant worlds got attention from Central Command instead of the very close Epona. Time went by and Sparta became preoccupied with the Peacekeepers over New Celadon and had numerous run ins with the Bree and Progenitors towards the Alien Marches. In 2598 a scout ship was sent to Epona to prepare the planet for colonization in ten years. What the scouts found and later tests proved shocked many of us in Central Command.

Spartan Kell. Explanation to Colonel Kessel about Epona upon assuming Command.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Colonel Kessel raised up from his private bunk aboard the modified scout ship that served as his personal transport. Normally in this type of vessel all of the crew slept in the same quarters in rotating shifts while their comrades watched over the ship’s systems. But this ship had been modified so that the crew quarters were moved to where the cargo hold would be in a normal Kell Scout. The small scout ship was only forty nine meters long but what it lacked in weapons and size it more than made up in pure speed. While most heads of states trounced around the inner sphere in large battle ships and dreadnaughts, Kessel preferred the flexibility that the Kell Class Scout ship offered. The Spartan fleet was near to be sure, but there was never any need on appearing overbearing and aggressive when one didn’t need to be. People knew what Sparta could do and what kind of military Kessel commanded. And if they didn’t, they would find out soon enough about their miscalculation.

To Kessel all of the posturing and games of state were pushed deep in the back of his mind. His thoughts centered on the report that had been given to him just before he left Sparta Prime. Most would assume that it was about the previous war or about leader profiles, but they would all be wrong. The red data pad laying on the desk next to Kessel’s bunk had to do with a secrete that Sparta had kept for many decades. A secrete that Kessel had spent many nights pondering.

Only a few people are aware of the fact that inside Spartan territory there is a system containing six very average planets and one particularly lush world in which a primitive race of aliens call home. It is well known in human space that Spartans have a particular dislike for non human civilizations. Given the brutal wars that have been fought by Sparta with first the Progenitors and then the Bree some might even understand this. What is not well known is that there is indeed an alien civilization within the Spartan Federation only a few light years from the Spartan’s own home planet. Outside Sparta, this race is not known at all. To the select few of Spartan military and civil commanders, this race is known as the Epo. Their planet had been scheduled to be colonized eighty years ago, just after the war with the Peacekeepers had been concluded. Only when the scout ships went in to scout out settlement sites, they were confronted by the primitive Epo. What shocked the Spartan Central Command more than anything , wasn’t so much the initial reports of their existence but the subsequent reports of their appearance and later information gained from medical examinations. What the Central Command learned moved them to put an immediate quarantine of the entire system and surrounding space. Since then, ships entering the general area of Epona have been chased away by Spartan attack vessels. To many civilian captains that are approved to operate in the Spartan Federation, the Epona Sector is a black area on their charts and a subject of wild stories. The only fact agreed upon by all is that ships that get too close are never heard from again.

Marcus Kessel picked up the data pad again and scrolled to Dr. Yandro’s personal letter that she had included with her official report. The report had been gone over by specialist but the personal letter had only been read by the Colonel himself. To him it was more disturbing then the scientific data contained in the official report which only hinted around at what Dr. Yandro believed.

To: Colonel Marcus Kessel (Commander of the Militia)
From: Dr. Melinda Yandro Chief Alientologist Of Spartan Medical Corp (Major)

Yours

I am writing this letter Colonel because I know you are a man that values honesty and straight talk. The report that I have forwarded to Central Command is as complete and accurate as was possible with the limited time frame in which I have lived with the Epo. I stated at the beginning of my assignment that, four five year tours on the planet was not going to be enough when I would be spending most of the fist tour merely learning the Epo language. I feel that under the circumstance me and my team have done a complete job and I have recommended merit promotions for actions by three of my staff for duty beyond our mission objectives.

In my report I stated that there is not enough solid evidence to determine how the Epo got to Epona and I stand by that. But I must point out that circumstantial evidence points to an advanced alien race. Furthermore, from secondary evidence, it is extremely likely that race will come back at some point in time to either check up or remove the Epo from Epona. My evidence to back this up is not derived merely from the oral traditions of the Epo but from the existence of the numerous landing sites found on the small continent of the Epona southern hemisphere. My collegues in the Spartan Naval Force assure me that it is impossible for modern transport vessels, of the size needed to carry the Epo population, to land in those areas. They also tell me of tremendous difficulty of transporting 300 million people up into space over a short time. They generally cite the years that it took Spartans to leave Chiron. I have no doubt that for us such a feet would be difficult, but you must understand that we are talking about a civilization that has had space flight since before we were first crawling out of the caves. Possibly before even the times of the Bree, Gorn and maybe Progenitors.

Further evidence comes from the complex, again on the southern continent, that has to this day proved impossible for Spartan engineers to gain access too. Major Talbert has lead fifteen expeditions into the complex chambers and has to this day been unsuccessful in getting to the lower levels. Just last year, three men were lost when some kind of particle beam security device was triggered. Since then, work has been stopped because of the strong trimmers in the adjoining mountain side.

Colonel, the time will come when we will have to make a choice. We do not yet have enough knowledge to accurately judge the motivations behind the Aliens that brought the Epo to this world. As you know from past reports the similarity between the Epo and humans are more than just outward appearance. They share the same inner workings except the existence of an organ that as of yet we don’t know the function. Some of the Medical Officers seem to think that it allows the Epo to breath in air that would kill normal base line humans. An accident with one of the Epo subjects in which a male wondered into a waste air vent tube and came out with no abnormal affects, got some to wonder about the correlation between the organ and the Epo lungs. In subsequent tests, the Epo performed equally well in a variety of atmospheres including those similar to Chiron, Nexo, and Brasidias with miminal adjustment times. This may suggest that the Epo have been manipulated to live in a multitude of planetary environments. Also considering that Epo settlement of Epona extends back several thousands of years with hardly any technological development may suggest that the Epo were deliberately held back in technology development.

What ever the purpose of the Epo may be, they now dwell within the confines of the Spartan Federation. As such I think they deserve our protection. The fact that with a few exceptions, such as the mystereous organ and blue skin, they are essentially human. This can only mean that at one point their ancestors resided on Earth. We have a duty to protect the Epo from the alien forces that are beyond their control and may threaten us as well.

I thank you for your time Colonel. I hope that in the rush to colonize and expand that we don’t forget our obigations to defend those that reside in Sparta. In the Spartan Federation, one can see all types of humanity. Surely the fact that the Epo are blue in skin tone and altered genetically does not remove them altogether from humanity.

Respectively

Major Melinda Yandro

Kessel once again put down the data pad and laid back on the bunk. He remembered meeting one of the primitive Epo. He had been unsettled at the resemblance that the young female had to many of the normal humans he saw everyday. With the exception of the blue skin, the young woman would have been an appearted average. He remembered that there was an intelligence behind the eyes that spoke volumes about her personality. She had even been taught the Spartan language over a long period of time as she had been partly raised by project leaders of the expedition. The two spent hours talking about the Epo and their culture. But the young woman could not say why things were done the way they were. Only that it was how it was always done. There seemed to be no history to the Epo beyond the fact that they lived in small groups that pretty much stayed where they had always been. On Epona, no one dared to be different. Even for Kessel, the leader of a conservative people such as the Spartans, that seemed unnatural.

For Marcus Kessel the pressure to do something was enormous. Epona was in Spartan space. If there were aliens that considered the Epo property or an experiment or just amusement, then they would come back eventually. Colonel Kessel had to make sure that Sparta was ready for whatever they brought with them. If good fortune was apart of the Spartan experience, the possibility that the aliens had simply died out or had forgotten about the Epo would enter into the debate. But good fortune was not generally know as a Spartan trait. Heartache, war, and brutality was what every good Spartan leader prepared for. This, Kessel thought, was more likely to happen rather then the nice things others hoped for. At that moment, Kessel decided that whatever happened in the future, Sparta would protect the Epona system from whatever and whoever threatened it. If that meant war, then so be it. The words of Santiago filled Kessel’s mind and for a moment a smile creped across his face.

“Man has killed man from the beginning of time, and each new frontier has brought new ways and new places to die. Why should the future be different?”

Man, Machine, Alien, makes no difference. Just another war to fight and win.

To Kessel, Santiago's words described the Spartan resignation towards eternal conflict or at least the eternal preparation for conflict.

[Kassiopeia]

The Archaeological department of the University of Oxford hadn't changed much in the five or so hundred years that had passed since it's rebuilding after the nuclear exchange. The interior was classic, the professors were old, and the classrooms remained a place of torment and boredom for some students and a source of enlightenment and pleasure for others.

Professor Coleworth wasn't that old, however. He was past his sixties but didn't let it show. This however was contradicted strongly by his appearences, since he did look like the man you would expect to see, if you had heard that he was indeed a professor of archaeology and had spent most of his life either inside a classroom or doing xenological research on other worlds. Travel-worn, yet intellectual.

Latchett paid heed to these aspects, after all, a policeman's job was to make notice of such things, whereas Collins was more interested in the artefacts put on display.

"The objects stolen all have an identical quality", Coleworth slowly explained. "Three stone slabs each containing inscriptions in Hebrew, an ancient language that only a few are proficient with today, and even those people not too close with the old variant used in the inscriptions."

"What do these inscriptions tell, then?" Latchett asked.

"They are supposed to be a chart to discover the Ark of the Covenant."

Two looks on Coleworth, asking to elaborate on the strange term.

"An old Christian object of faith. In the Bible, the Christian source of doctrine, it is indicated as a relic that can bring the power of God himself at the disposal of the user", the Professor explained.

"And that is where my department comes in", Agent Donahue continued. "We believe that the Lord's Believers, the Conclave, is bent on discovering this relic. Their operatives, or criminals hired by their operatives, are responsible for the thefts."

"Foreign operatives? What on Earth has then the Police Marines have to do with this?"

"We need your detailed expertise of the situation... you have valued information of the perpetrators."

Latchett pondered. "One question. Why haven't we tried to find the Ark?"

"'We', as in the Oxford University, have", Coleworth replied. "But it appears that we have directed our efforts to the wrong world. The Ark, as it seems, apparently is hidden on Chiron."

***

The occasion had been meant to be ascetic, quiet and calm.

Instead, it had turned into a most distasteful media event.

Although the disposement of the recovered corpse of the former President did take place on Earth orbit, the space around the Andromeda Class Battleship carrying out the griefsome task was filled with personal yachts and news agency ships, hovering around and waiting for the moment.

Every eye on Earth, apparently, had a bizarre desire to see the small casket carrying the body hurled from the Battleship's torpedo tubes down to the atmosphere, where it would be cremated by the increasing friction, and the remains would eventually spread over around the globe.

All in all, a quite beautiful and peaceful last wish.

It was exactly these moments when some people wanted to be secluded, to mourn in silence, but the roaring interest of other people would overcome all social inhibitions and witness such monstrosities as the President's ten-year old nephew being interviewed at his educational establishment before the poor child even was told of the death of his beloved uncle. The news agency, in the end, had found itself bankrupt and out of order - and not even those defending the right of free speech had the nerve to demand that the government's order to shut down the corporation should be revoked.

Prime Minister Drecaille - now also Acting President -, standing alongside family members and ministers from the Cabinet, did feel disgusted of the way the media treated the situation - but she didn't openly air her opinion, as she felt it would be highly hypocrite. After all, she was responsible for the blue mood around her and that was slowly blanketing the planet rotating below her feet.

Supreme Commander Wakazashi, the man almost directly responsible for the death, had remained silent ever since the 'accident'.
The agent that was supposed to plant the explosive and bail out before detonation, instead of staying behind and getting killed in the wreck, had not been successfull with his endeavour. Though the scheme was there, it wasn't the real blame. The hidden reports revealed that the remnants of an extra person, a young man, had been found, and that the parts discovered matched no DNA register the MI had access to.

This of course was a relief to Wakazashi - it meant that he could simply put the blame on an intelligence force from another faction. But then again, he couldn't do it, since that would undermine the control he now had over the Prime Minister, who was afraid that the Commander would, if relieved from his duties, unveil the whole affair.
And control over the Cabinet at this hour was exactly what Wakazashi needed to forward his efforts. The reports could wait, stashed away at some not-so-known archive of the Naval Intelligence.

Nobody gave a speech. Tremaine had specifically requested that he needed no "Speaker for the Dead" to glorify him once he was gone. His actions, he had exclaimed, would speak for themselves. And in the history records, that was exactly what would be said. The last President, who's perishment marked the ending of the civilized era of Earth that had lasted since the post-nuclear reconstruction in the early 22nd Century. For dark ages awaited the blue-green planet; a period of time later generations would remember as an era of back-stabbing, rebellions, dictatorship, and wars.

The irony of all this was, that had the President not been killed, humanity, instead of a dim period of one of it's branches, would have been forced to engage in a destructive struggle with another race that would have probably resulted in the demise of the entire species.

Future Chironian historians would put it down this way:

The Coalition administration by the end of the 27th Century was a gangrene that was necessary to be removed."

"President, when will a new President be installed?" a stray question in a press conference.

"All in due time. Currently I am aiming to get the Parliament together for an emergency session. As you probably know, however, we have several groups on travels troughout the Orion Arm, and it will take at least three days for the needed seventy five percent of the representatives to be present." The moment had been perfect for a political assasination. Three days was more then enough for Wakazashi to implement his well-designed plan. Of course, such a conviniency might rise suspicions, but once Wakazashi would be finished, nobody, at least nobody inside the Coalition, would dare air their straight-forward opinion.

The only worry they would have would be the other factions. The other member stats of the Alliance, definitely, would find something rather fishy in the past events, as would their Chironian friends, the Hive.

Oh yes, the Hive. Drecaille was as if stricken by a bolt of lightning as she recalled the situation. They were probably starving for information, unless of course they had already installed their network of spies that would feed the Chairman. Drecaille decided that once the ceremony would be complete, she would make her way to her quarters on board the Battleship and arrange for a comminucation to be sent. She tried to determine whether to reveal the entire situation to the Hive or just keep a low profile... they might decide to take advantage of their momentary vulnaribility, on the other hand, they could assist them in their efforts.

As the coffin shot out from the tube, Drecaille couldn't help but to wonder what she was doing. It was very immoral, for the very least - murder always was. But maybe reinforcing the nation and bringing strict order inside it would be beneficial in the long run. That's why she had agreed to go with Wakazashi's plan in the first place. Of Wakazashi's motives she had but a faint idea, but they both seemed to share the feeling that this was nothing but a service to their country.

The Cabinet was for now the only liability. It was present on Earth and around it in full force. Drecaille had managed to convince couple of the ministers - all from DUE - but had not dared to converse the matter with the others. Wakazashi had exclaimed: "If words fail, then shredder pistols won't" - Drecaille, as taken aback by this remark she was, had to agree. The military was the key to success, and Wakazashi had almost full control over it's branches, just as Tremaine had wanted. It was this aspect in his regime that in the end became his nemesis.

A bright spark of light emanated from the clouds below for a moment - the visual augmentators fitted within the windows ensured that. The flesh of Tremaine was gone - now it was time for his spiritual legacy to vanish.

***

Gregory exposed his eyes to the light brown Martian sky for the first time in his life. First the sight caught him as shocking - his initial thought was him lying on the rusty ground without any means to survive the hostile atmosphere or the horrific temperatures. He took a few breathes and was relieved to find out that his eyes wouldn't dry in their sockets or that his lungs wouldn't start to burn and lead him to a painful death via asphyxiation. He turned his head to his side and saw a skyline of tall buildings, the ground covered in concrete, and his friend Filkins.

The excitement and glee of seeing his long time friend was interrupted by a pulsating pain behind his eyes. He closed them and rubbed his temples with his hands, trying to send the feeling away. But to no avail. He sighed and murmured something inaudible as he attempted to stand up and find an answer to the ever-so-intriguing question: "Where the hell am I?" He didn't remember anything after boarding the ship of Filkins' friend and setting off to Mars.

A drinking binge, most likely, he decided - Greg didn't need too many tall ones to end up on the floor with the room spinning around him - but with what money? And even if drunk, wasn't a side alley in the middle of one of the Martian cities a strange place to spend the night? And moreover, wasn't alcohol contraband in the socialistic Combine of Mars?

[GeneralTacticus]

Sitting in his own military command center, Menelaus was simply stunned at the speed with which the revolt had spread. Quite clearly, Lysander had far more widespread support than they had thought. The only bright spot in this catastrophe seemed to be that the Cadre fleet was still loyal.

"General Menelaus," a somewhat fearful voice came from behind him. Menelaus turned and saw a young commnications officer, her face pale with dread.

"What is it?"

"Sir, we have lost the northern factory complexes and with them almost all of our Trajan-class armour suits."

Under any other circumstances Menelaus would have been outraged, but this was just one of a string of disasters. He sighed, almost overwhelmed by the speed with which Laekdaemon had fallen into chaos. He rubbed his temples and remebered something.

"Officer, there is something I almost forgot. We have a contingent of troops standing by to assault Dienkes base. Their operation was cut short by Lysander's 'call to arms'. Send them my authorization to begin deploying for the attack. If we can get LYsander, the war will be over."

She saluted and left the room. His thoughts turned to the other matters. There seemed to be no end to the reports of rebel successes, save for their igmominous defeat aboard the Cadre fleet. He thought for a moment more, then came to a decision.

He accessed the Cadre diplomatic networks and began to record two messages.

Encrypted Video Transmission

TO: Colonel Marucs Kessel of the Spartan Federation

FROM: General Menelaus, Laekdaemon Cadre

*Menelaus' face is completely blank*

Greetings, Colonel Kessel. I am sending you this message under the most dire of circumstances. You probably know of the existance of a group within the Cadre that is totally opposed to any kind of co-operation with Sparta or it's allies, and has as it's ultimate goal the destruction of Sparta. If they were acting alone they would be little real threat, but they are not.

We have conclusive evidence that these dissidents, led by Major Lysander, are allied with the Greater Hive Empire. A few hours ago they began a mass uprising which has so far been remarkably sucessfull. Our only advantage so far is that we remain in control of the Cadre fleet, and hence have orbital control. This may, however, not last for very long, as Lysander has sent an encrypted message to the GHE and has received a reply. We suspect that these relate to Hive assistance in destroying our spacefleet.

As a result, I must ask you to honor the promise you made that "an attack against your system will be considered an attack against Sparta". This Hive-fomented revolt constitutes an attack against us and a threat to Sparta, as if it succeeds you will see an ally converted into your most fervent enemy. I can assure you that we will not forget any assistance in this matter."

End Transmission

Encrypted Diplomatic Transmission

TO: President Kirsty Adams of the Free Drone Republic

FROM: General Menelaus, Laekdaemon Cadre

President Adams, this message is being sent to you under the most dire of circumstances. You should already know of the existance of a dissident group within the Cadre, under Major Lysander. That group has launched a coup against us and has acheived astonishing success thus far. As result, I must ask that you speed up the delivery of the weapons which we ordered from you previously, and prepare for more such orders in the future. We will pay our debts when the war is over, and we will not forget your assistance.

Finally: Do not hesistate to intervene yourself in this war if it becomes necessary. It would be better for Laekdaemon to become a permanent colony of the Free Drones or Spartans than to let Lysander win and continue his insane path.

Regards, Menelaus.

End Transmission

[Kassiopeia]

The ship hovered over the Terran homeworld.

The Solaris, flagship of the Coalition Navy - the vessel that for the next generations would be the symbol of terror and oppression.

"What is the ETA of Target One?"

"Thirteen minutes Sir."

"Right... stand by and fire at my command. Captain out."

He was the Captain and Commanding Officer of the ship, but by all means that was not his rank. Large panes slided aside to reveal tall windows of some transparent synthetic metal alloy, allowing a clear view of the planet below. The setting had started to get quite familiar to him - from a same place high above the heavens he had witnessed the incineration of the President. Now, however, he was alone.

"Music", he said quietly to himself.

"Command?" the computer inquired.

He winced. "Ignore."

The system beeped in compliancy.

An elongated sigh. He hadn't slept well - even though you had the barren, cold heart of a military leader, it still didn't mean you wouldn't be nervous the day before your grand plan is executed. Some caffein had helped the random uneasiness, his character took care of the rest.

In the observation room was only a single, rather comfortable lounge chair, with wine red paddings so soft that he already had almost fallen asleep sitting in it. Next to it was a simple coffee table made of glass, on it a portable datapad and a glass of water. He walked to the table, took a sip and sat down, viewing the datapad for a moment.

"Computer, load event timer for Target One from main database and set it's alarm to... pattern D, except that augment pattern so that the timer ceases when three minutes remaining. Save pattern as D-3. Audio."

"Confirmed."

"Report."

"Exactly nine minutes on mark... Mark."

He took another sip and took another look at the pad, his right hand's fingers tapping the table. Suddenly a spark of inspiration hit him - the same sort that had made him come up with his master plan, only if in smaller scale this time. This solar system wouldn't probably endure another one for a while, he thought.

"Access Personal Audio Files. Music slash Classical slash Pre-War. Ascending alphabetical list. Begin", he commanded the computer in a blank tone.

Pre-War Classical was his favourite. He couldn't stand the cheery marches written before the Scion War a few centuries ago, or the much too gloomy expressions of fear and despair from the afterwake of the Third World War. Pre-War music somehow fell between these two. And he always preferred the term 'Neoclassical' to separate them from Pre-War pieces, as to some the only real Classical music was almost a thousand years old.

"...File Zero-Zero-Nine, length five minutes thirty-four seconds -"

"Hold." One of the anonymous files he had scavenged from the infonets during his days in computer system training. Which meant that it was very, very old. Probably from the twentieth or even the nineteenth century, possibly even older. No-one knew what it's name was, let alone who had composed it. But it was beautiful, and somehow sad - just what he needed.

"Play when event timer Target One is at three minutes. Confirm."

"Play File Zero-Zero-Nine at Target One, three minutes. Executing. Five minutes to Target One on mark... Mark."

If he remembered the track correctly, and if his estimations were any good, the piece would match perfectly with what he would see through the window. He smiled briefly - it felt like carefully arranged play, which it in a way was, with him as the Maestro.

Suddenly the ship started to maneuvre, tilting slightly from it's previous orbital course.

"Bridge, report."

"Captain, we are adjusting to Target One's flight path." The thrusters calmed down and the ship remained still again - of course, in practice, it was orbiting the planet at insane speeds, but relatively the ship was holding position.

"Very well. Captain out. Computer, block communications channels. Remove block if Red Alert is issued."

He breathed deeply and took the datapad once more. Live information feed was coming in - the cover story of a stellar incident, the predicament of Sol going Nova within the next Earth day, was sinking in well enough, thanks to his few allegiances inside IMDON, the Institute for Monitoring Potential Disasters of Nature. Soon he could declare it a Code One Defensive Emergency, sit back and watch the plan unravel.

"Target One in three minutes at mark... Mark." The second the computer uttered the last word, the speakers came to life, filling the room with a flow of music. Any educated Earther of the 21st Century would have identified it immediately - Air by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Slowly but steadly Target One, a diplomatic transport carrying five Ministers of the Cabinet, glided to view. It was escorted by two Battleships, already withdrawing to wait for new commands as the transport prepared to descent down to the surface.

Intensely, he stared at the bow of the ship. Seconds counted down. He glanced at his datapad, displaying 00:00:00. He held his breath returned his look to the transport, now yawing to make the landing as comfortable for the passengers as possible.

Suddenly the thrusters were cut off and a small explosion rattled the transport ship. Bursts of ionized gas and bright flames started to shoot out from the main engines. Debris separated itself from the ship and started to orbit it in small rings, blending in with gas pouring to space in white and grey streams. One of the gas clouds caught fire and burnt themselves out.

Another explosion, this time stronger, in the starboard side. A huge scorch mark appeared on the hull, pieces sized small cars silently floating in space. The engines gave one tired thrust, before the reactor core was detonated. The ship was tore in half, and the transparent wall dimmed slightly for a split second as a blinding ball of light engulfed it, leaving behind a patch of rubble and shards, slowly beginning to drift to the atmosphere.

The music ended.

Michael Wakazashi closed his eyes, rubbed them and let out another sigh. It had begun. Necessary losses, he repeated to himself.

"Computer. Remove all blocks. Standard mode. Bridge. Commander Ness, Report on survivors of Target One."

"None detected. All ejected escape pods were destroyed by the radiaton from the final reactor blast."

"Any word from Target Two?"

"The operation was succesful. The Bat - erm, Target Two is under our control and is tunneling it's way to the rendez-vous, as planned", the First Officer calmly explained.

"Good. Sickbay. Are you ready?" he asked and started to blink fervously with his left eye.

"Doctor Nida, assisting surgeon here. Doctor Leeds is ready and the equipment are set."

"How long will the operation last?" Wakazashi asked in a tight tone. He shook his head, his left eye remaining closed, and reached to the side pocket of his uniform for a pill, but then put it back. No drugs for the two hours before, he had been told.

"The implant will take thirty minutes. Your requested augmentations will take another thirty or so minutes. That is, if you really want to undergo the operation without full anesthesia."

"No 'sos'. I have seventy minutes. I'm on my way. And yes, partial anesthesis only", he said and closed the link. It wasn't too wise to start operating at this crucial point, but things had been hectic and it was either now, or next week. And he had no desire to spend another four days with a defunct organ.

[Mr. President]

Command Station One, in orbit around Tauria, Vega Prime System

Contrary to popular stereotype, military strategy complexes are usually not dark and smoky. Command Station One was lit like a shopping mall, and was about as busy as one. Smartly-dressed officials and attaches hurried from one location to the next.

It was not the thought of sending soldiers to their deaths that gave Commodore Franco pause. He had done that often enough in his career. Neither was it the political ramifications of his action. He had refused to back down after his division was involved in Pirategate, and had held on to his job in the wake of virulent protests from the Freedom Party.

But he did pause for military matters. Franco sat alone in the office set aside for his use on Command Station One, staring at a faintly humming monitor. It bore a detailed diagram of what the planners had dubbed "Operation Planeshift", designed to secure the settled areas of Ophelia once and for all.

The Ophelian commanders had given him an audacious plan for an ambitious task. Franco's eyes traced the black arrows showing where the Drone Republic's attacks were recommended. They cut through native areas like flying wedges of old. The commodore was tempted to smile as he read the travel times attached to the movements. They had given the 51st Armor Division two days to capture the native settlement designated "Cape Fear", a sprawling city that clung precariously to a peninsula on the south of the great northern island. Flanked on three sides by rough seas, it had resisted Republican aerial bombardment, sea blockades, and hovertanks.

The plan was worthy of the young captain who had once rammed a corsair gunboat on the fringes of Altair and lived to tell about it. "Who dares wins" Franco liked to say. At least, he thought, I never became like the men who were generals when I was young. If I had shown Commodore Kelley a battle plan like this, he'd have had my head on a platter.

Franco scratched his head and called up a galactic map. He studied the mostly-memorized positions of Space Marine assets. Allied assets were marked in their respective colors: a fleet of black dots designating Spartan Warlocks had only moved a little further away from Vega with respect to the last time he looked, yellow Morganite units faced Terra like iron filings above a magnet, and orange Conclave task forces ringed Believing space like guardian angels. His map also showed known enemy and neutral forces: United Nations fleets crouching on the far side of the neutral zone, Terrans crowding the borders of the Corporate Sector, even recently sighted Bree scouts on the Fringe.

But no Hive units. Marine Intelligence had nothing on the Greater Hive Empire, and that worried Franco, who liked to have information at his fingertips. The President informed him that Menelaus had claimed Hiverian interference in his civil problems, and requested advance shipments of weapons to combat the insurgence.

There's the rub. Franco hated the idea of committing - what was it? Five divisions? - to Ophelia with activity on the Hive frontier. Though he talked it down over the coffee cups, Franco wondered what was coming.

For the longest time, Drone policy towards the Hive had been in the "live and let live" vein for the most part. As long as Domai sat on the Interim Council, he had been able to keep the Republic from hunting down the empire that he still thought could be his friend. After the dissolution of the Council, the borders had been quiet.

Until now. Was it enough, Franco wondered, to only contain and not pre-empt? When an enemy wished to expand into your region, was discretion the better part of valor? Would the Republic wait until its own territory was struck? Or should they be tracing the threads of conspiracy back to Emperor Yang, and cutting them off at the source?

Franco was not worried about the weapons that Menelaus would receive. There were plenty more hovertanks in the pipeline, and he trusted the President to make that decisions. He was worried about deploying special forces troops to an internal situation and not having them if the Hiverian border reached critical mass.

He made a decision. Opening the command e-mail server, Franco tapped out a couple of messages:

I-Recipient: strategycommand@insider.fdr.gov
I-Sender: marinecommand@insider.fdr.gov

You have four divisions. Make them count.

I-Recipient: master@intel.insider.fdr.gov
I-Sender: marinecommand@insider.fdr.gov

I have a proposal for you. A good old-fashioned scout run . . .

[History Guy]

UN Headquarters, Peacekeeper Capital Planet

A red dawn appeared just over the gray and purple towers and domes of UN Headquarters City, bathing the plazas and roads in a soft, warm, orange light. A beam of light cut through the skies and down to the planet below, down to the capital city, striking a large, thick purple dome. The beam of orange light seemed to dance across the slippery surface of the outside of the dome, down over the slope, and far down, two hundred feet, to the center of the courtyard outside. The simple and pleasant courtyard was designed in the sort of simplicity that made Peacekeeper architecture and landscaping so famous. The center of the courtyard was a huge brick circle, and surrounding it on each side were eight smaller, circles of bricks. They were all connected by the long brick pathway that lead to the gates of the command building itself, where Commissioner Parfat, the lately elected head of state for the entire UN body, resided.

The exact center of the courtyard was marked by a huge tree, a redwood from earth, one of the few surviving specimens from the original expedition that had set out so many generations ago. Only two specimens had surviving the destruction that reigned then. Deirdre Skye saved one specimen for her plantrooms (she had successfully cloned spores of the specimen, and had revived the race of giant trees). The other stood here in the courtyard, a testament to old earth. It too had re-produced, and now it seemed as if every faction of humanity had at least two redwoods. Smaller plant beds were situated near the redwood, most with small earth trees. They grew surprisingly well here.

As the dawn came, the shadows cast by the tall, minaret-like towers seemed to vanish into the very constructions themselves. At precisely 8:00 am, the gates to the courtyard swung open, and tall, rifle-carrying security guards entered the courtyard. They wore a familiar costume, with the light brown coats and trousers, and the white gloves. Their skulls were be-decked by light blue berets, emblazoned with the United Nations of Humanity seal. As the security men took their places beside the gates, they checked their weapons. This was, after all, an important hour of the day. Commissioner Parfat was to deliver his weekly address to the peoples of the Peacekeeper nation. As usual, his closest advisors would accompany him on the balcony of the huge, Taj Mahal-like building.

For example, there was Vice-Commissioner Pei-Lin, the son of a descendent of a Chinese man and a European woman. Pei-Lin was clear minded at the best of times, but at the worst of times, like the present, he was a bother. He’d just overcome a severe case of brain disease, and there were rumors that the disease had severely effected his ability to reason. Whatever the case, he hadn’t delivered a single speech since his illness.

Beside the vice-commissioner was the Chief Advisor, Frederick Keer, a trusted confidant of not only Parfat but the last two commissioners as well. Keer had managed to take the Peacekeepers through the recent Spartan controversy, and through this he had gained national fame. Also near Parfat would be the General-in-Chief of the Peacekeeping forces, Othneil Simpson, who was a hard man, and yet an advocate of peaceful intervention. He had tried his best to persuade Parfat and his predecessor to intervene peacefully into the Morgan-Terran War, but Parfat refused. There as well would be the Council Leader, Ribannah King. It seemed as if the most important members of the government would be gathered here, every week, and thus security was a top priority.

Now, though, the crowds were coming into the courtyard to take a seat and listen to what Mr. Parfat had to say. In about twenty minutes, a crowd had gathered, and the press was present. From the large bulletproof doors emerged the party of officials; all clad in the regulation UN dress uniform, except for the General, who was clad in military costume. Mr. Parfat slowly approached the balcony, and opened his mouth to speak. With the almost microscopic voice enhancer attached to his lapel, there was no need for a microphone.

“My friends,” began Mr. Parfat, “those of you hear assembled in the courtyard, and those listening to this speech far and away, I bid you good morning. I trust that I find you all well on this beautiful new day. Today, I wish to address you on an important subject. I promise you though, it isn’t peace or war, I think you’ve heard quite enough about those subjects,” this comment raised something of a laugh from the crowd. “Instead, I want to address the subject of economics.” Parfat would have continued this, had not a huge hole suddenly appeared in the light blue beret that topped his head. The UN symbol was gone for the most part, replaced by a bright red.

Because of the high tones of the enhancer, the gunshot had been almost inaudible, but the second shot rang out loud and clear, catching Parfat as he slowly collapsed, his legs buckling under his trunk. The second shot caught him near the jugular, and a spray of blood shot immediately from the wound. The crowd screamed. Luckily, the body of the Commissioner fell back out of sight, so that the crowd could not see the horrors of his wounds.

The officials knelt beside the body, and General Simpson quickly checked for a pulse. “Damnation,” he said, “the Commissioner is dead.” He then cursed loudly enough for some of the crowd to hear him, even from that height. The security guards immediately abandoned their posts from the gate, and ran towards the spot from which the shots had most probably been fired. It was the third tower, the tower immediately facing the balcony. It was actually supposed to be guarded by at least one member of the security forces, and so quite what had happened was still a mystery.

As the guards ran into the tower, a third shot was immediately heard, though with no visible effect. However, when the security guards ran to the very top of the tower, they made a grisly discovery. Lying propped up against a wall lay a man clothed in the regulation Peacekeeper security uniform, with the light brown coat, the light brown trousers, the white gloves, the black boots, and the light blue beret. His lifeless hands still held the regulation security rifle in a tight grip. There was a hole right through the center of his forehead. He was as dead as Mr. Parfat. When the rifle was inspected, it was discovered that it had discharged three shots.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Mr. President]

“Did you know I’ve never been out of Firaxis space before?” Brian said.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?” he replied quizzically. “I thought you were the great traveller. No place is too far away when it comes to football, and all that.”

“I just never had any reason to leave the country before.” The older fan pointed out the viewport, where Syrma was in sight. The star appeared as a large yellow disk against an endless stretch of black dotted sporadically with small white lights.

“Not even when Takahara scored against his hometown team?” Sam was referring to an Orion Club Challenge from several years back. The Razorwings had been well beaten on New Israel by the Jeremyville Crusaders, and needed an unlikely victory in Morgania after a scoreless tie against Club Excalibur of Avalon. Left out of the team on the tour’s earlier legs, the coach had thrown on Yoshi Takahara, a native of Aristophanes who had just finished his first season in Firaxian soccer. He scored two spectacular goals and brought the Silver Cup to Firaxis.

Brian laughed. “Do you know how expensive Morgania is? Where would I get the money?”

His friend smiled back. “Maybe you should get a job!”

The announcement system cut their banter short. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the Sparta Prime system. Please return to your cabins and prepare for landing.”

Shrugging, Sam led Brian down the hall towards their cabin. The opposite command had been issued on the border of Spartan space, and the full complement of passengers had been required to enter the cafeteria for a visual check by customs personnel. The inspection was for the most part un-intrusive, with the Spartan guards content to read over travel documents and scan the room with a firearm detector.

Brian closed the cabin door and tossed his backpack over his shoulder. “Think the Razorwings will win?”

“I always think we’ll win,” Sam laughed. “Especially when we don’t. It’s a very serious problem.” He glanced out of the porthole and started. A system defense craft was flying on the transport ship’s wing, so close that Sam could see the blinking lights and communication antennae on its side.

“They don’t take any chances, do they?” said Brian, leaning over to examine the escort.

“Can you blame them?” At his friend’s look, Sam continued, “You know how the Prime Minister was saying a few weeks ago that Sparta stands on the frontier of the unknown, or whatever it was.”

“Oh, yeah,” Brian recalled, “And it’s the part of Firaxis to, cover their back,” the two of them completed the line simultaneously. Brian pointed out the window. “Look, they’re pulling away.”

“Sensor scan.”

“That doesn’t cause cancer, does it?”

“You and your cancer,” Sam laughed. “How could it possibly do that?”

“I have family history.”

“You and your family history.”

“We’re in orbit,” Brian said.

The transport descended towards the upper atmosphere of Syrma. Graviton boosters hummed against gravity, the ship slowly gaining velocity. Though the outside hull would be heated greatly by the friction of descent, the interior climate was meticulously regulated. Passengers would not even know that they were again planetbound, save by looking out the portholes and watching the clouds swirling up to meet them.

Then the clouds parted and the two travellers saw Sparta spreading beneath them like a contour map. The landscape was for the most part green and lush, with indistinct black dots sprinkled across the vista. As the transport descended quickly towards the ground, the geometric urban sprawl of Sparta Command became clear. Near the city were large open areas that appeared white, presumably air or space landing fields. The development of the countryside was apparent; farms and wind gatherers sat in neatly arranged order, with magtubes running on the shortest paths to connect them.

As the hum of the grav boosters reached its crescendo, the ship touched down, barely perceptibly, on the soil of Sparta. Sam and Brian packed up their bags and entered the hall. Locking the cabin door behind him, Sam asked, “Are you excited yet?”

“You better believe it,” Brian replied. “I am worried about customs. They didn’t tell us much about what to do before we left.”

“There must be instructions on the ground,” Sam said.

A small bus carried the newly arrived passengers to the terminal building. They passed ground crew carrying a myriad of instruments and machines. Sam glanced behind him and saw the Firaxian pilots talking to several Spartans in black and tan uniforms. The Spartans were hurriedly writing notes into clipboards. “Look at the security presence,” Sam whispered. “They’ve only been on the ground for five minutes and already they’re being registered.”

The arrival hall was immense, at least an eighth of a mile in width. The midpoint of the hall was blocked by a line of desks manned by smartly-dressed customs personnel. Both sides of the desk were backed up by more black-and-tan uniforms. Twenty feet above the travellers’ heads a banner proclaimed “Welcome To The Spartan Federation” in every language of the galaxy. Under it smaller letters instructed, “Have your documentation ready at all times.” A signpost on the floor read, “All visitors must register with the Interior Service”.

“Good thing the lines are short right now,” Brian said. Indeed they had arrived at a slow hour for customs. At the desk a youngish woman asked them for their visa numbers and scanned their travel documents.

“Your papers are in order,” she said. “You have been issued tourist visas for two weeks. Should you have any problems in this area contact the Interior Service.” She smiled slightly. “Enjoy your visit.”

Beyond customs they truly entered the Federation for the first time. The terminal building was made of shining steel, and the morning sun cast long shadows on the floor. The omnipresent security guards marched purposefully across the burnished tiles, but there were an equal number of civilian travellers, from within and without Sparta, strolling, laughing, and joking as they did everywhere mankind tread.

“Well,” said Sam, “Here we are.”

[Frankychan]

Planet: Drone Mound
Below the surface of the planet


Deep in the bowels of the Hive planet Drone Mound, a combined group of University and Hive officials being led by the Planetary Governor Kabu, a Fran. The assembled group walked along one of the corridors adjacent to the ubiquitous central shaft that every Hive city possessed...a throwback to the ancient Hive cities on Chiron.

The University delegation had been on Drone Mound for nearly three months now and the small Governor Kabu was getting restless. He didn't like the fact that he had to play host for the non-Hivers and was very suspicious with all their technical questions they seemed to incessantly ask. Today he would show them one of the training bays for the Hive soldiers, then host a dinner for them. However, Kabu felt that today things would prove to be different, much different.

As they all walked along the corridor, Kabu decided to make small talk with the University delegates.

"I'm glad that you all have found the Hive's hospitality suitable," Kabu commented as he headed the assembled group. Trailing him were the University diplomats followed by Kabu's entourage of Hive personnel. Surrounding them all were numerous Hive security personnel, their black armor glinting in the occasional overhead lights.

One delegate spoke up from behind.

"Governor, why are we still prohibited from visiting the other cities on the planet?" The voice sounded slightly annoyed.

Kabu stopped walking and turned to face the man.

"Dr. Kingsley, is it?" Kabu asked as the man nodded. "Well doctor, you have to understand that you and your compatriots are only the second government to set foot on Hive soil peacefully. The Emperor is still wary of other Chironians and wants to proceed with caution. Please understand," Kabu took a deep breath, "Our citizens do not take kindly to non-Hivers."

The man identified Dr. Kingsley merely nodded as Governor Kabu turned to continue toward their destination.
* * *

Training Bay Observation Deck

The assembled mass of people entered the training bay which looked down towards the numerous Hive soldiers practice the rhythmic motions of hand-to-hand combat.

The bay itself expanded for what seemed like kilometers, the cavernous training facility looked almost like an enormous plain deep underground, filled with hundreds of Hive soldiers practicing different fighting styles.

Kabu smiled as he watched the University men lean across the railing, high above the masses. He watched as they looked down toward one particular group of Hive citizens in perfect block formation.

"Governor, how large is this facility?" Dr. Kingsley asked without turning around.

Kabu turned to one of the security guards to smile. "That's classified, doctor. But I can say that 20,000 Hive soldiers can train here without any problem."

Another University diplomat turned around to address Kabu. "If this facility only holds 20,000 men, then there must be dozens more like it across the planet."

The man, identified as Dr. Callaghan, seemed to always think ahead, Governor Kabu thought.

"Correct, Dr. Callaghan. This is just one of Drone Mounds facilities. The capital, where you all are right now, has three of these bays for itself."

A beep from Kabu's commlink, caught his attention. "You will excuse me doctor."

Dr. Callaghan nodded as Kabu distanced himself from the assembled group who continued to observe the Hive soldiers training.

Speaking in a hushed tone, the Fran turned his commlink on.

"Governor, you asked to be informed when the dinner preparations are finished. I am reporting that everything is ready for your arrival."

"Acknowledged. Do we have the other item ready?"

The voice on the other end paused for a moment, "Yes, your governorship. It is on standby."

"Good. Governor out."

Kabu walked over to the assembled men and raised his hands. "Gentlemen, we have prepared a dinner for you. If you will please follow me, we will now head to the feast prepared."

* * *


Private Dining Chamber


The University and Hive officials sat around a large rectangular table polished by hand, the table had an enormous carving of a mindworm as a centerpiece, reminding all of the reason why The Hive was underground. The lights overhead were brighter than standard Hive regulations, but this wouldn't be a "standard" dinner. Kabu, sitting at the head of the table, looked down toward the University scientists who sat together.

"I do hope that the meals prepared for you all are to your liking. I'm afraid normal Hive meals may be quite different than what you may be accustomed to."

As if on cue, numerous Hive servants began bringing in elaborate dishes and placed them on the table next to the giant mindworm.

After the dishes were set, Kabu stood up and raised a glass toward the assembled men before him.

"A toast, "the governor began, "A toast to the beginnings of a fruitful relationship between the University Commonwealth of States and the Greater Hive Empire!"

Those seated raised their glasses to cheers and with that, they all began to dine.

----------

Thirty minutes had passed since the start of dinner when the head of the University delegates, Robert Adams, addressed Governor Kabu.

"Governor, I do not wish to be rude, but we have been on numerous tours of your capital here on Drone Mound," Adams began.

The sounds of dinner faded as side conversations hushed so that only Adams voice was heard. Eyes darted from the University citizen to Kabu.

"My concern is that while we have been on these tours, our ships above orbit stay where they are when they could be back in University space. We have yet to finalize our relationship between our two governments and it seems to me like your governorship only wants to take us on tours."

The assembled Hive officials stared at the University members across from them, not hiding their contempt for questioning their superior.

Adams continued, "Our leader, Randius Zakharov, has sent us here to open relations between the Hive and the University and yet you continue to treat us like tourists. What I want to know is what all this," he gestured all around him, "means? Don't take me wrong, Governor, I appreciate the hospitality but it seems like the Hive doesn't want to open relations with us."

A Hive security guard stepped forward from behind Kabu, stopping when Kabu waved him back in place.

Leaning forward, Kabu spoke so all present could hear him.

"The reason I have been taking you to all these places is to show you what we can bring 'to-the-table', so to speak," Kabu reached for his glass and took a sip.

"I brought you to the Training Bay today not to show off our military power or to intimidate you. I brought you there to show you what the Hive can bring to the alliance. I took to you the recreation commons yesterday to show you how the average Hive citizen lives so you can understand our motivation. And I took you to one of the Habitation Caverns when you first arrived to give you a glimpse of just how much citizens the Hive possesses.

"The reason I haven't directly discussed University and Hive relationships is that I wanted to show you just a peek into how the Hive works." Kabu stood and narrowed his eyes to Robert Adams.

Another beep from his commlink interrupted his conversation, and Kabu immediately addressed it. After listening to the voice, the Fran again addressed the assembled group.

Kabu sighed visibly and began speaking, "I'm sorry. You are right. I have been putting things off for too long now, and I believe now is the time to begin preparations for a full fledged University and Hive alliance."

The University members looked at each other, wearing smiles and nodding in acceptance. The head University delegate, Robert Adams, remained staring at Governor Kabu.

"But I won't be making any arrangements. You are to speak to someone else."

Adam's raised an eyebrow, "Who?"

Kabu turned to an aide who was standing near a panel in the wall. Nodding, the aide pressed a button.

In the middle of the room, a holo of a figure appeared. Kabu sat down, knowing his job was over.

"Greetings University delegates, welcome to the Hive..."the image flickered.

The assembled group gasped in surprise as the holo-image finally crystallized into a figure standing alongside the table.

Standing in middle of the assembled men stood Emperor Yang, smiling.

[Sovereign]

The Academician's private quarters
UCS Flagship, the UCSS Chronopolis

The Academician sat in his leather chair, relaxing and took a data crystal and put it in a Crys-Reader on the wooden table. The data crystals and the Crys-Reader sharply contrasted with the desk, separated by centuries of history and technology. Academician Randius took several cursory glances at the data information entitled simply, "Berrik Discoveries". He deactivated the crystal, and sighed.

After several minutes, he decided to walk through his quarters towards a bookshelf crafted out of solid oak, with a Victorian design. Several bookshelves graced his private quarters, and several antiques were situated on several additional Victorian tables. On one table rested a globe of his home planet of Terra. Several other artifacts includes a sextant, a primitive telescope similar to the one used by 18th century astronomers, several beakers and glass tubes filled with the Longveity Vaccine for emergency use, and a prospector's viewing tool. Several other ancient artifacts were arrayed on the other display tables, in the opposite direction of where Randius was walking.

Randius picked up a leather bound book cover from the bookcase, entitled "The Ruins of Ancient Earth" when a chiming could be heard.

Is it her again?

"Come in."

A bookcase on the wall dissolved, to reveal a greenish tinted neutronium sliding door, sharply in contrast with the Victorian library enviroment. It opened with a barely audible hiss. A female Al-Bhed doctor, with emerald eyes and spiral irises characteristic of her species, tentatively stepped into the room.

She took in the surroundings, with barely contained curiosity and confusion.

The Academician, noting the befuddled look on her face, grinned.

"This is what a library and offices of prominent leaders looked like almost a thousand years prior. At the approximate time your civilization reached its apex with Zanarkand, Terrans were building a worldwide civilization, spreading to every corner of the globe. Several revolutionary ideals, theories, sciences, and events took place during that era, from the 17th century towards the mid 19th century. The Industrial Revolution forever changed Humanity's society and technology boundaries. This is where it all began."

Rikku wondered in awe, since most Al-Bhed always have dreamed of a planetary civilization, not limited to a single city or continent.

"Pardon me, sir. But what do you mean, 'This is where it all began?'"

The Academician, with infinite patience from almost ten lifetimes stretched in one thanks to the Longveity Vaccines, had a warm smile, rather than a strict countenance of most teachers or instructors.

"Rikku, great leaders, thinkers, philosophers, and scientists sat in these types of rooms, developing new ideas and concepts that entered Humanity into a new age."

Understanding dawned on Rikku's young face as the implications and significance of what the room represented sank in. However, she quickly regained her composure, as her profession requires.

"Thank you, sir. I'm here to perform a final check up on your health, to ensure everything is all right with your body."

Randius kept his calm, despite the thoughts swirling around in his mind.

Hey! What the? She was friendly and outgoing the other day. Why all clammed up now, as if it never happened?

"Yes, yes, indeed. I forgot all about that. You may proceed."

Rikku took several devices out of her grey titanium case with the ancient medical symbol of the caduceus in blue on the center of either side of the case. She scanned Randius several times and after several minutes, she nodded, "Fit as a Ronso, as always. If you experience any unexpected symptoms or afflictions, you must inform me promptly."

Randius sighed, "Yes, yes. I will. You're dismissed now."

Rikku nodded once and packed her devices inside the case, then left the room. The bookcase rematerialized as the titanium doors slid shut with a click.

Hmm. Something's up with her definitely. Not the same person from the other day. Something's amiss, I'm pretty sure of it. I think I'll have her checked out.

Randius walked back to his antique desk and put down the book he forgot he was holding the whole time. He mulled deep in thought for several more minutes and decided to have Security do a discreet scanning of Rikku, to assuage Randius's anxiety stemming from his instinct. He also sent a message to the Berrik research team, congratulating and well wishing them for success in their latest endeavors.

The seven hundred year old Academician laid back and rubbed his temples. He closed his eyes, relaxing in the comfortable leather chair.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Planet Berrik
Spira System

An arrow-like shuttle with three wings glided through the purple and green swirling gas, and buffeted as violent 400 kilometer per hour gusts blew around the shuttle. Several yellow and orange bolts crackled around as the purple and green gases supercharged each other up in thunderstorms occurring all across the giant Jupiter sized planet.

"When will we break through this bloody storm?! Some of us are already throwing up in the back!" a baritone voice roared from the back. The shuttle pilot, an average built male, of average height and build, flinched, and that flinch almost plunged the shuttle into a flurry of Storm-Bolts. Navigating the corridors of oddly bolt-free interference or spots of only one gas required piloting skills of an ace capable of flying through a short 40 meter wide tunnel in canyon walls, at 3000 kilometers per hour.

The baritone voice belonged to David Hall, the premier anthropologist and archaeologist, well renowned for his discoveries in the Spira and the newly discovered Kranos system, currently being colonized. Discoveries of several ancient pyramids and temples built by prehistoric Spiran civilizations and discovery of a half-buried wreckage of an alien ship on the fifth planet in the Kranos system are among the discoveries credited to Hall.

David Hall is an athletic built male from all his hands-on exploring in diverse environments, with broad shoulders, and brown hair. He always carries a knapsack, containing classic, yet useful objects such as a modern prospector’s rod, several variations of a compass, a map-holo used to create maps of the “excavation” zone, among several other devices.

Several minutes passed before the shuttle finally made its descent to its final destination, a gigantic platform that resembles the lower bottom 1/3rd's of a sphere with the rest cut off to create a flat surface. The bottom of the semi-sphere tapers downwards to a very long and narrow conical shape, terminating in a point with several antennae, which purposes are unknown to the researchers onboard the shuttle. But the platform is not the only impressive object in sight. A collapsed city stands on the flat top of the platform, with skyscrapers standing up, in various states of disrepair, or toppled over. A large circular area, seemingly grown out of the edge of the floating platform, probably designed as landing bays by the floating city's builders, loomed in front of the shuttle.

Several hours later, the team of researchers, anthropologists, and archaeologists led by David Hall set up camp, and began studying several nearby "parks" that showed promise. The "parks" resemble miniature city squares, with several odd looking structures in the center, bordered by sidewalks, and skyscrapers rose up on all sides.

A day later, David Hall's second in command and best friend, Paul Wise Bear, an Native American who can trace his roots all the way back to the Sioux and Cheyenne tribes on ancient Terra, he rushed up to Hall and handed him a data crystal.

"We found something quite interesting! Some kind of graphic in one of the skyscrapers, in a room made out of an odd material."

Hall arched an eyebrow, "Interesting. Have several additional researchers aid you. I shall be over there shortly."

An hour later, the research team and its two leaders were studying the diagram. The diagram has a circle at the center, with several others surrounding it at irregular intervals. In the top and bottom right of the diagram the researchers could see many circles, while the bottom left had only two, and the top left had a handful.

Hall stroked his goatee, "Hmm. This could be a kind of abstract alien art. I've seen something quite similar on in Spira in the ruined city of Zanarkand. Only it had lines and shapes enclosed in the geometric shapes."

Paul Wise Bear harrumphed, "I've seen a lot of art in my archaeology digs, engraved on stone or clay tablets, and I've seen a few maps on ancient papyrus, as well as on vases. It's either an abstract alien version of line-art, or a form of an internal building diagram that we haven't seen yet."

A researcher suddenly took out a device, and made several measurements. Her face changed expressions from a curious one to one of excitement. She then consulted another data-link on the device and as the results scrolled across, she gaped.

"Umm, sir... I think I've found something."

Hall and Paul Wise Bear turned towards the researcher.

Hall spoke. "What is it, Jennifer?"

"Well, I was thinking about what Paul said about maps. So I thought I'd act on my hunch and scan the diagram and its surrounding solid metallic hydrogen paneling, and then I did a cross-reference to our UCS maps.

The distances measured match between the two maps, even at any scales of measurement, based on the distances between the circles on the diagram and the UCS maps available on the data-links. In addition, it shows the correct positioning of the UCS systems in respect to each other, as well as the other known systems in the Human Sector."

Jennifer arched her eyebrow. "I think we just might have found a Galactic Map, ladies and gentlemen."

-------------------------------------------------------------------
UCSS Chronopolis
One day later

Academician Randius Zakharov couldn't think, move, or speak.

This cannot be, yet it is! My gut instinct has proved correct once again.

He stared at the results of the discreet security scan of Rikku with utter disbelief, then stared at it again for five additional minutes.

A Yevan android! Set to impersonate my CMO! That explains her change of personality. But wait. Why didn't she strike me down at that moment? Perhaps the blow would be too much and unify the whole UCS against the Yevan movement.

I had several different doctors analyze me over and over for every known disease, nanites, or any alterations in any of my brain and body patterns. The doctors were checked, double, and triple checked to ensure they weren't android impersonators, and their instruments were recycled right on the spot, and I had them use newly fabricated instruments to avoid "malfunctions" and "accidents".

The Yevans are a much more serious threat than I ever expected them to be. A throughout scan of every UCS employee, employer, their relatives and friends, and all retailers of explosives and destructive devices and weaponry must be done. Weaponry and explosives are to be stockpiled and not sold to the public indefinitely or until the Yevan are eliminated completely. This problem is compounded by the fact that all of it has to be done discreetly, so not to alert the Yevans that we're onto their secret plans.

Not even the flagship is safe from the infiltrators.

These are dark times, indeed.

[Mr. President]

Military Intelligence Central, Avalon, Vega Prime

Commodore Albert Franco smiled to himself as the sound of hurrying businessmen faded behind him. At the dawn of the New Republic, General Santos had demanded that the Free Drones learn to think outside the steel box of mundanity. Military Intelligence Central was the result of such thinking. It was located in a tall, prominent building in downtown Avalon. Below the twentieth floor were offices, including the local headquarters of Morgan FineFoods and Pacifica Enterprises. The ten floors above were accessible only through one of several secret paths. Few noticed that the number of people that went into the building every morning was half again that which fit on twenty floors; few businessmen grasped that the elevators they rode in every day only ever climbed two-thirds of the building’s height. If any did, Internal Security would arrange a quick meeting.

Next to the information desk an unmarked door led to a small corridor. At its end was a wall painted a cheerful white. Around the height of Franco’s elbow was a scanner slot that blended in perfectly with the wall’s color. One swipe of his ID, and the dead end slid laterally, allowing the commodore to move through into a well-lit anteroom. Ignoring the cameras that scrutinized his every move, Franco called one of the elevators. Once the silvery doors closed, he pressed the button marked 29.

There was little on this floor, save Military Intelligence’s internal communications hub and the check-in for the inner sanctum one floor above - the eyes and ears of the armed forces, where data was amassed and situations digested. Five more elevator cars carried personnel up and down. In front of them was a guard post manned by heavily armed Capitol paramilitaries. A scan with threat detectors, a pat-down search, and several identification documents later, Franco handed over his laser pistol and rode to the top floor.

As the doors opened, the commodore was rushed by a short man with hair the color of sand and piercing eyes that darted excitedly. “Albert,” the man almost shouted, “So good to see you again! How long has it been?”

“Iskandar,” Franco smiled. They shook hands and embraced. “How are you doing up here?”

The spymaster shrugged. “Business as usual, you might say. How about you? Keeping busy?”

Franco laughed. “You know very well what I’ve been doing.”

Iskandar laughed in turn. “Well . . . I suppose I do. Come in, come in! We have so much to talk about.”

The head of Military Intelligence had an office only a couple of steps up from the rank-and-file businessmen who filled much of the lower part of the building. The door read Iskandar Nazarbayev not in loud gold letters but rather a simple aluminum plate that slid into a battered holder. From the beginning of his career as a message-drop runner and wiretapper, the occupant had made a specialty of hiding in plain sight: wearing casual clothes, staying at cheap hotels, travelling on budget air and space lines. Moving inside, the two men seated themselves on opposite sides of a cluttered desk.

“Is that Anita?” Franco asked, gesturing at a photograph ensconced in a flower-themed frame perched precariously on the desk’s corner.

“It certainly is,” Nazarbayev replied.

The commodore smiled heartily. “She’s gotten so big, I didn’t even recognize her!”

Nazarbayev nodded. “She’s twice the size of her father now,” he said. “Caledon University just offered her a basketball scholarship. A daughter of mine might play sports for the Republic one day. Who’d have thought it?”

For a few minutes they talked of the past and the present, and their lives outside the military. As the last joke wore off, the intelligence head said, “Okay, Al. You said you had something important to talk about?”

“Yes.” Franco leaned forward and rested his hands, palms downward, on the edge of his friend’s desk. “You’ve been following the Lakedaemon situation?”

Nazarbayev nodded. “I went to the negotiations with Menelaus, and the President told me about his last message.”

“It’s that one that worries me. He claims that the Greater Hive Empire is interfering in his problems.”

“Sounds like something Yang might do,” the spymaster mused. “I haven’t got any people in Lakedaemon yet, so I can’t verify it.”

Franco clapped his hands together lightly. “I think we need to know,” he said. “What I’m thinking is, we run a few of your probe rafts to the GHE region and get some long-range scans of the border.”

Nazarbayev whistled. “That’s a risky proposition, Al. Don’t you, like, not send Super Carriers that way without escorts?”

“Yes.” The commodore nodded. “But we can’t afford to not see anything coming from that direction. If there really is traffic from Hiveria to Menelaus’ enemies, we might be able to pick it up and cut it off.”

The intelligence chief leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “It sounds like a good idea, Al,” he said. “But I’m reluctant to risk those rafts. They cost us a pretty penny to build. I was going to buy some United Nations parliamentarians, and I could kiss that goodbye if the cost of replacing the rafts came up.”

“I’ve got a spare task force or two,” Franco offered. “If I push them quietly up to Clayton Station, they can respond if Yang’s people cross the border.” As Nazarbayev mused over that, the commodore continued, “I think we can’t afford not to run a mission like this.”

“I agree,” Nazarbayev emphasized. “You gotta spend money – or probe rafts – to make money. Come over on this side, we’ll type up the abstract right now. The President might not like me tossing those rafts into the danger zone. Did you know that they were more expensive than all other intelligence spending from 2701 combined?”

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Franco said as he made his way around the desk. “Yang might not even notice. Besides,” he joked, “Kristy likes you. She didn’t even force you to resign when you used the Department expense account to go to the Northeron Ski Retreat.”

“That was a national emergency,” Nazarbayev laughed. “We need an operation title. Something that’ll sound good in the press if we’re exposed and rattle the peaceniks in Congress.”

“Well, since I have no maps of Hiveria, why don’t we call it ‘Into The Darkness’?”

“Hey, I like it,” the intelligence chief said, typing fast. “It sounds like the title of a novel.”

“They may be writing a novel about this one day,” Franco said, mostly serious.