Story and
Characters are (c) 2003 Lewis Smith. Reproduction or use without permission is
strictly prohibited by law. The woman stood in the center of the garden,
her toes curling with nervousness as she noticed from the well-worn patch at
her feet that many women had stood here, much as she was now. She was naked
except for a blue silk robe that she let fall off her shoulders. She held it
over her breasts, covering them, shivering a little despite the gentle warmth
of the garden. Her
glasses were slipping down her nose, but she was afraid to adjust them, lest
the robe fall from her body and embarrass her further. A foot
away from her stood a man lightly brushing a laser chisel over a slab of
marble. His blue eyes, deep and calm flitted from her to the slab and back with lightning quickness. Despite the fine dust the laser chisel was blowing into the air, none of it fell on his black and red uniform. "Captain,"
the woman began, swallowing hard and marshalling her courage. "Meridius,"
he replied, his voice like quiet music. "I don’t think we need to
recognize rank here, do we, Reccoa? After all, it's not as if you’re in
uniform." She blushed and drew the robe
tighter over her chest. "I'm sorry," she said, blushing and feeling
quite girlish and silly. "It's
quite all right," Meridius Soldato replied, smiling gently and looking at
her as another brush of the laser chisel outlined the rest of her figure.
"You're new here, my dear. And for such insignificant points of procedure
as that, I am lenient. How long have you been here, may I ask?" "Two
months, sir," Reccoa Londes replied, fidgeting as she watched Soldato and
the figure. His white-gloved hands were breezing over the figure, gradually
adding detail. He was hardly even looking at the statue he was creating,
instead keeping his eyes fixed on hers. "I was, uhm, very happy to get the
post." "Is
that right?" Soldato mused. The
UEF usually just sends its troublemakers to me, the ones who don’t fit into
their chain of command smoothly." "I'm
sorry." "Don't
be. I happen to like troublemakers. I am one myself, you know." "Hardly,
si--er, Meridius," Reccoa replied. "You're a legend in the UEF." Soldato
cocked an eyebrow as he detailed in the face of the statue. "Legends are
what they call visionaries who threaten the status quo and are usefully dead,
my dear. The dead don't complain about being used by the living. No, I have no
illusions about my use to the UEF and to Earth. I am just a soldier. And that
is how I like to be dealt with." "It
doesn't mean anything to you?" Reccoa asked. "The work you did during
the wars, being honored by the Rigellians, the money you made?" "It
means quite a lot, my dear," Soldato said. "It's simply not
everything. An obsession with material gain sustains those who have lost their
ideals. And that is where the UEF and myself part company." "I
see," Reccoa said, not really understanding. She decided to change the
subject, feeling somewhat out of her depth. "Meridius?" "Yes?" "Do
you do this sort of thing often? Ask your junior officers to strip naked so you
can make statues out of them?" Soldato
laughed, flicking his jet-black hair from his eyes as he detailed in the robe she wore on his statue.
"No, not always," he said. "I sometimes have models shuttled
in." "Oh,"
Reccoa replied, blushing even more and shifting her weight from one foot to the
other. Soldato
smiled. "I was kidding, Reccoa. I've only ever asked a few women to do
this." "Do
they complain? I mean it's kinda like . . ." "No,"
Soldato replied. "It's hardly an order, if they refuse, I don’t press the
matter or punish them. Most of the officers I've asked already know of my
condition and know that what I ask is exactly what we will do. I don’t believe
in using my position to bully anyone into something they wouldn't want to
do." "Your
condition?" Reccoa asked. Her eyes focused on the
armor
he wore under his tunic. It was sculpted to simulate the shape of a human body
and not call attention to itself in the way a spacesuit would, but anything
more than a cursory glance pierced the veil of the illusion. "Oh. Forgive
me, sir, I forgot." "It's
Meridius, Reccoa, and it's quite all right," Soldato replied calmly, as he
used a wider beam on the laser chisel to smooth some of the rougher spots.
"I've spent my life conquering it, and I have no need to deny it." "I
think . . .Meridius . . .that's why people think you’re a legend," Reccoa
replied. "You've overcome so much." "Not
without cost," Soldato interjected, a bit melancholy, as he finished the
details of the statue and polished. "You see, Reccoa, one can win and
still lose. And legends get lonely. It's what comes from standing apart from
the common man." He stared at the statue for a moment then smiled.
"Like this one. I think I'll call it "Pallas
Athene."
What do you think?" Reccoa
adjusted her robe and tied the sash around her waist, walking over to look at
the statue. "Amazing," she said. "I think you cheated, though.
There's no way I look that good." "So
you say," Soldato said. He gently touched her arm, mindful not to break
it. "You convey both power and wisdom. Perfect for Athene." "Oh,"
Reccoa gasped as he touched her. She could feel the hard metal through the
white gloves he wore, and she shivered instinctively. "Meridius, you're .
. .a flatterer." He smiled
enigmatically. "Am I?" "Yes,"
she said, putting her hand over his and hoping he could feel her shivering. "It's beautiful
work." "As
you are, Reccoa," he said. He closed his eyes and smiled a little sadly. "Now, I believe
you had best get ready for your duty shift. It's nearly 1200 and if I recall
correctly, you’re on watch." "You're
right," she said, wondering if he knew how repulsed she felt by his touch.
She looked away. "Thank you for . . .uhm . . .I don’t know how to say
this. Thank you for choosing me." "I'm
the one who should be thanking you, Reccoa," he said, discreetly removing
his hand from her. "You make an excellent subject. Now go. And thank you
once again." Reccoa
padded off, hurrying but trying not to seem too blatant about it. Soldato
hoisted the two hundred-pound statue aloft and carried it down a nearby
footpath to a clearing surrounded by flowers. Along the path were other
statues, all of them
women, all of which bore an inscription of a woman from myth or history --
Eris, Demeter, Echo, Leda, Nike, Artemis, and Aphrodite. Soldato placed the
statue he was carrying beside Leda, making a perfect row of four on either side, an
honor guard for the statue in the center. Of the
nine statues she was unique, in that she was the most precious and she wasn't
based on a distant myth that had been old even when Soldato was young. It was
of a younger woman, smiling, her arms outstretched, reaching for a sun that
didn't exist. Gala, the
most honored of his chorus of statues. Soldato
often spent most of his time here, alone, in his garden of statues. He felt an
affinity for them more than he did for anyone he called friend. He stood in the
center of them, staring at his gloved hands and feeling their eyes on him in
silent judgement of him. Statues
can be touched, he thought. But may not touch anyone themselves. And we grow lonelier
as we are forgotten and no one comes to see us. Yes, we are very much alike. At the moment, the galaxy's deadliest man was in the
mail. Kienan
Ademetria took another deep breath from the oxygen pack strapped around his
chest and forced his mind to stay calm. He only had a few more caps of oxygen
and at least another two days to get to his destination. The box
was smaller than a coffin, dark, airless, the walls reinforced and
impregnated with particles to prevent anyone from scanning inside. Kienan was lying in a semi-fetal
position, and had somehow shifted to the point where he was laying on his
braid. This caused him to hold his neck at a very uncomfortable angle and that
was sore as well. It was like living inside a block on concrete and possibly the
least comfortable Kienan had been in his life with one notable exception. At least
it's warm, Kienan thought. Once before he'd spent days in an escape pod not much bigger than the box
and thought for sure the raw cold of space would kill him. Indeed when he was
found he was suffering from exposure and by all rights should have died before
he was rescued. But
Kienan's business was cheating death as much as it was dealing it out. He was
an assassin, a saboteur, a precise instrument of death with the skill to
destroy entire colonies or eliminate one person in a crowd of thousands without
getting his mark's blood on anyone. He was in
the box on a dare. Or to be more precise, a test, though whether of himself or
his assistants he wasn't so sure anymore. For the past few months they had done
all he asked -- refitted his starship, managed to keep up with him as he
trained them as he had himself been trained. Of course,
his associates had certain advantages he didn't. They were Marionettes,
artificial life forms six times as strong, as fast, and as intelligent as an
average human. And more importantly, they could turn themselves off when they
had to be quiet for long periods. Like being
shut into a mailing box for an entire week, for example. It was a
talent Kienan would have given his eyeteeth for at the moment. Waiting wasn't
something he did well, and waiting for long periods of time was impossible. He hadn’t
told his associates that, and wished he had so they could have made allowances
for it. This was their final exam, a test that would set the seal on whether or
not they were ready to come with him on missions of this scale. They had
planned it all, start to finish, down to the second. He checked
the chronometer strapped to his arm, and was relieved to find that there were less than 48 hours
left to go. He closed his eyes and relaxed, going over the details of the
mission in his head once more. Anything to get his mind off the crick in his
neck. Soldato sat in his room, reclined in a chair,
sipping a glass of champagne as he stared at his uniform and
armor
hanging on the rack across the room from where he sat. The room was the sole
place on the base he could be without it. It was opulent as befitting his
wealth and his station, but beneath the gilded furniture and the polished metal
floors was a most valuable device -- a variable gravity generator that kept the
room at a gravity of 4 times that of Earth. Just like
home, Soldato thought. Home was Adrastea, a moon of Jupiter, where one of the
early colonies had been established as Earth spread its wings outward to the stars. Soldato
often dreamt of home, of looking up at the sky and seeing the storms on the
surface of Jupiter and the stars beyond. Equally large and inviting, to a
dreamer like Soldato it was a siren call. It was
also a flawed colony. The first settlers had managed to prosper, but it was
discovered that their children had contracted what became known as Jovian
Syndrome -- their bodies were conditioned to the higher gravity of the moon of
Jupiter so that
when they traveled off-colony, the tissues in their body began
to deteriorate. Soldato
remembered those awful days with crystal clarity. He had been taken to the
Titan research institute and his legs had broken within three steps. He spent two
years in a wheelchair, fighting the decay of his body with the only thing
untouched by the condition -- his mind. It took
years and long nights of biting back the pain of muscles tearing under the
strain of drawing breath, but gradually he was able to perfect an early version of his gravity
suit, and with it, he could walk again. It was
that victory that revealed the path of his life to him. From then on, Soldato
would seek challenges everywhere he could; the more the odds were stacked
against him, the better. In addition, as always, he would beat the odds and
emerge victorious. Triumph
was his vice, the only vice left to him. And the times were right for a man who
sought glory and triumph. He graduated the Rhean University (with
honors
and doctorates in five different disciplines) just in time for the start of the
war with the Rigellians. Famous for his well-publicized battle with Jovian
Syndrome and prized for his academic record he was pressed into service with
the UEF, Earth's military arm. Unmoved by his protestations that the gravity
suit made him an excellent candidate for a commission, they seconded him to a
brain trust. He was charged with finding some way to beat the Rigellians, who
were centuries ahead of them technologically. They
needn't have bothered, Soldato thought. The war was little more than a
glorified stalemate -- a meat grinder that either side poured their efforts
into for no gain. The graveyard of wrecked ships still floating around the
orbit of Pluto and Neptune show the gains the war made. But
Soldato would find his glory in another way. The war ended when the UEF and the
Rigellians found themselves blitzkrieged by the Chroan, a race of machines. It
was Soldato who was able to probe the true nature of the Chroan and found the
weakness that shut them down for good. The press
lionized him for it -- "The man who fired a single shot, and eliminated
the Chroan forever." -- and Soldato was more than happy to
savor
the fruits of this triumph. It was a dream come true after all. Like Horatius,
he had stood one man against untold billion, and held the line. He stared
into the flute of champagne, watching the bubbles rise to the top, his mind
lost in memory. He thought back to his time on Rigellia. He was one of the
first civilians to travel to the capital of their Empire and had never
forgotten in it. In gratitude for his efforts with the Chroan he was
given a commission -- the first and only non-Rigellian ever to be so honored by
the Empire for his service. Not to be outdone, Earth conferred the rank of
Captain on Soldato. The most
wonderful year of my life, Soldato thought. A whole year with the Vulcanus
Company, studying ship and weapons design in preparation for my future plans.
And long nights watching the soft red sky of Rigellia darken as its suns set. And Gala.
Sweet, beloved Gala. My love and my undoing. Gala Minos
was the daughter of Gerhardt Minos, the head of the Vulcanus Company. She was everything Soldato had
been told Rigellians were not -- kind, gentle, loving, and able to see through
Soldato with laser-like clarity. I yearned
to be with her, he thought. Every fiber of my body screamed to touch her, but I
held myself aloof. I knew that if I touched her I could hurt her, and I
couldn’t have lived seeing pain in her eyes. Gala
hadn’t taken "no" for an answer. She had continued to court him, to
talk to him, to make him drop his guard and love her. And one beautiful and
awful night, he had let himself be swayed. His first
and last. He
remembered being with her the way a man dying of thirst remembers his last
glass of water. The experience and the sensation were so powerful they bled
over into other senses -- even now, light years away, Soldato could still smell
the lilac in her hair, still taste the perspiration at her neck. But
holding onto the joy of the moment was slippery, because the end was always the
same. Love was powerful, more powerful than Soldato's sacred glory but against
death it was overmatched. Soldato
found Gala dead in his arms. Massive heart attack, the medics had said. Her
body wasn't made to take the heavy gravity that Soldato needed to survive. Even
for a Rigellian it was too much strain. She had died sleeping in his arms, and
part of Soldato had died as well. He scowled
at the memories unfurling before him. The scandal had been a perfect excuse for
UEF to break him. The Rigellians expelled him, and the UEF sent him here. And I kept
asking myself, Soldato thought ruefully. Without love, without glory, who am I
now? "Your
own research facility, a place where you can work without disturbance," is
what they said, he mused. It sounds so much better than "exile." He closed
his eyes, taking deep breaths. It was at
that moment my heart turned against Earth, he thought. I realized
I'd been blind to their crimes -- segregating Earth, strip-mining Jupiter to
the degree that the largest planet in our solar system is shrinking every two
years, starting wars of aggression to weaken the other galactic powers and
expand their territory. Where is
the fairness in that? Where is the nobility of the victor? He mused
some times if the child who had looked up at the sky and seen the swirling
maelstroms of Jupiter would recognize the adult he'd become. Isolated. Alone.
Hardened in and out. Holding on to a dream because it was the only thing he
could hold without it shattering in his hands. "Captain
Soldato?" Soldato
blinked and frowned at the flute of champagne, flat and worthless now. He
touched a panel at his side. "What is it, Lieutenant?" "The Agrippa
and the fighter squadron just transmitted the clearance code to us,"
Reccoa's voice came back. "They're requesting docking clearance." Soldato
set the flute on the table ear his chair, stood up and walked slowly towards
his armor. "Clear them to land and have my guard detail ready to receive
their leader," he said. "I'll meet them myself." 3 hours, Kienan thought. He had
gone over the details in his mind a thousand times until they were to the point
of instinct. They would split up and make their way to the targets. If
everything went according to plan, they would be away and ready to rendezvous
with their ship in an hour and a half. But they'd
be vulnerable. They were coming in without weapons, all except for Kienan, who
had but one -- his Midare-Giri blade. An objective observer would have thought
Kienan a madman for smuggling himself into a secret military installation, no
doubt staffed with armored guards with heavy weaponry armed only with a knife.
The odds were against it. But Kienan
always beat the odds. He was too determined to do otherwise. That
determination was the root of his survival. Kienan was the last survivor of a
colony of miners, a colony the monsters dwelling within the mines had made a
graveyard. Kienan had survived, not due to any special training but simply
because he refused to die. It was
what he did. As natural as breathing or bleeding. He felt
the ship shunt gently. We've
dropped out of Space Drive, he thought. Right on schedule. Lieutenant Omar Mosul banked his black Hurricane
starfighter into a slow turn. Ahead of him floated a featureless
gray
planetoid, so nondescript that it appeared on no starmaps. To the untrained
observer it was a rock in space -- perhaps the remains of a planet, even an
inhabited one, but if it was, there was no sign. This dull
gray rock was Zwei Base, the United Earth Force's premiere military research
installation. Omar couldn’t stop himself from feeling a quiet sense of awe at
seeing it. Most
officers never catch a glimpse of this place, he thought. He tapped
a series of keys, signaling his fighter squadron to follow him in as
they orbited the planet. "Command
and Control, this is Lieutenant Mosul," he said. "Request final
clearance for docking." Twin beams
of light erupted from the far side of the planetoid. "Acknowledged,
Lieutenant," the pleasant female voice replied over the communications
link. "Please follow the guide beams and prepare for docking." "Confirmed,
C-and-c," Mosul said. "Mosul out." The Hurricane
banked slowly, its retrorockets slowing it and letting the gravity pulls
his fighter into the long chute that led deeper into the planetoid. Behind him
the other four members of his squadron followed him in precisely. Mosul allowed
a small smile. Nice to
see the constant drills have paid off, he thought. Mosul was
proud of his squad. They were the cream of the crop, the first class to have
graduated from fighter academy at Solis Planum on Mars. They were the most
highly trained members of the Earth military, able to take apart their fighter
and reassemble it as well as outfly and outfight anyone. That was,
in fact, the reason they'd been chosen. Mosul felt
the remote guidance on the Hurricane release and used the
maneuvering thrusters to bring his fighter to a smooth landing on the flight deck,
miles below the surface of the planetoid. He flipped
a series of switches above his head and the Hurricane shuddered as coolant
sprayed over his engines. He unstrapped himself from his seat and opened the
cockpit. He was
surprised to note the troops standing at attention to greet him. It wasn't
their manner -- they stood at attention, apparently as precisely drilled as his
own squadron. No, it was
their uniforms. Instead of the blue tunic and black pants that were regulation
for a UEF officer, they wore blue trousers and a black tunic with blue armor
covering their chest. Their shoulders and collars were red, but trimmed with
silver. Each wore, in addition to the standard beam pistol sidearm, a
saber.
All except for one man, who stood at ease in front of the other officers. As Mosul's
feet touched the smooth metal of the flight deck the man snapped to attention.
Mosul regarded him through his dark glasses, quite puzzled. His uniform was a
good deal more elaborate, and trimmed in gold, but still black and red. Mosul
looked at his collar and upon seeing the double silver bars snapped to a
salute. "Captain," he said. "Lieutenant Mosul, Sixth Fighter
Squadron attached to the UEF Agrippa, seven days out of Alpha Centauri,
sir." "Lieutenant
Mosul," Soldato said, returning his salute. "Your reputation precedes you. First in
your class at the War Academy, I believe. I am Captain Meridius Soldato,
Commander of Zwei Base. I welcome you. At ease, Lieutenant." Mosul
folded his hands behind his back, but stayed alert. "I've
dispatched our cargo shuttles to the Agrippa," Soldato said.
"I should thank you, Lieutenant, for bringing our mail with you. We don’t
get many visitors here at Zwei Base, as it should be, I expect." "No
sir," Mosul said. Soldato
cocked an eyebrow. "Is something wrong, Lieutenant? You seem somewhat
apprehensive." Mosul
stiffened. "Permission to speak candidly, sir." "Granted." "Who
are they?" Mosul asked, pointing to the detail of officers still at
attention. "They
are my Olympus Vanguard," Soldato said. "The UEF has reduced my
manpower budget, so I have been forced to develop my own private security
force." "I
see," Mosul said. "Do
you?" Soldato replied. Finesse, he thought, is needed here. Like
any good soldier, he's a suspicious man. "You are aware of the nature
of this facility, aren’t you?" "Yes
sir," Mosul said. "The UEF shares it with your Olympus Company,
sir." "Correct,"
Soldato said. "Under that shared command, the UEF Officers run our command
and control and other key facilities, mostly on the upper levels of the base.
Research and development, construction, and security are handled by the Olympus
Vanguard." "You
make them seem like your own private army, sir," Mosul said, carefully
testing Soldato's obviously informal nature. Despite himself, he felt a little
out of his depth. All his previous commands had been under strict UEF
jurisdiction. As far as he knew, a joint operation like this was unheard of. "One
must be prepared for anything, Lieutenant," Soldato said, walking past
him. Mosul noted the soft whine of his armor's motors as he passed him. Mosul's
squadron snapped to a salute and Soldato returned it, then turned to Mosul
again. "Your
men will be quartered in G section," Soldato said, pointing to one of the
members of his team and then to the squad members. "Ensign Campbell will
see they get settled in. I thought perhaps you’d like a brief tour of our
facility." "Sir?" Soldato
smiled, sensing his question. "Never fear Lieutenant," he said.
"Nothing you aren’t cleared for. Besides, it will give me time to brief
you on the Centaur class's capabilities." "That's
kind of you, but not necessary. I read the specs you provided to UEF HQ before
I left Mars," Mosul said, staring at the young female ensign who sidled up
behind Soldato. "Those
specs were based on our theoretical models," Soldato replied. "We've
managed to better the specs I provided to HQ by at least 20%" Mosul
sighed. He was suspicious of Soldato, but he was incredibly forthcoming for
someone he was certain should have something to hide. He sighed, and nodded to
the ensign, then to his squad. "Follow
the ensign, she'll take you to your assigned quarters," Mosul said.
"Dismissed." They filed
out and Mosul watched them go, running a hand through his blond hair as he
watched them and eyed Soldato simultaneously. Soldato dismissed his detail and
saluted them as they filed out. "All
right, Lieutenant, now that the ceremony is complete, perhaps we should lay
down some ground rules," Soldato said. "You may always speak freely
to me, and there is no need to stand on ceremony. UEF Command trusts you with
my new fighter and I, in turn trust you. I've studied your record well. You're
a capable flyer. I look forward to testing you during the trials." "You,
sir?" "Of
course, Lieutenant," Soldato said. "I'm a pilot myself, and I'm
always eager to compete against a skilled opponent." Mosul said
nothing. "Surprised?" "Yes
sir. A little." "I
like that," Soldato replied. "Zwei Base, as well as myself is full of
surprises as well as secrets. I'm certain we can provide you with plenty of
both to make your journey well worth it." Secrets. Kienan
thought about secrets as he felt the box he was in wobble gently. It was
secrets that had brought us here, he thought. An intercepted report of new
starfighters being tested by the UEF at a secret installation. The Marionettes
brought the information to me, and I challenged them to devise a plan to get us
in to steal it. I never
expected them to succeed. Not only did they discover the coordinates of a
top-secret installation, but also determined where in the complex the
starfighters were located. All Kienan
had to do was call in a favor to get the UEF ship to make an unscheduled cargo
pickup. The Marionettes did the rest. He'd felt almost superfluous. Even for
androids, they're dedicated. He took
special care not to move as he was carried into a nearby cargo shuttle. From
the way he felt himself in constant danger of being dropped on his head, one of
the men carrying the box must have a slight limp. It would
have been so easy to pop out of the box now and kill them both and try to take
one of their places as they transferred the cargo from the Agrippa to
the shuttles and finally to the base itself. Kienan
chided himself for his momentary impatience and resolved to bide his time.
After all, there was less than an hour to go. Mosul and Soldato walked along a flight deck on the
opposite side of the complex. Arrayed in a perfect row were ten fighters. Mosul
was stunned by what he saw. They were far different from the starfighters he
was accustomed to piloting. Most of
ours are based on ancient jet fighter principles, he mused. These are true
space fighters -- optimized for a battlefield as
different from air as night is from day. "What
are these?" Mosul asked, gesturing to the first two fighters in the row. Soldato
smiled. "My first prototypes. UEF has been after for a long time to design
a true spacefighter. One to put us on equal footing with the other powers. Of
course, when designing a fighter for space combat, the classic measures of a
fighter craft as we under stand them, are moot. "Space
is too vast for speed to make much of a difference," Soldato continued,
putting his hand on one of the twin fighters before him. It was an odd shape --
its bronze body molded like a fish, with three wings, each bristling with heavy
weaponry. "Maneuverability is the key. The fastest
fighter in the world is powerless against an opponent able to move with such
precision he can literally move in the blink of an eye." "This
was the first prototype?" Mosul asked, walking between the two ships. "The
first two I developed," Soldato said. "They're called Angelfish.
Based on intelligence gathered from the Sekhmet. They were very nearly approved,
but for the inability of most pilots to handle the tremendous G-forces the
fighter exerts during maneuvers." "Incredible,"
Mosul said. "Yes,"
Soldato said. "The cost was too great though. They pulled the test pilot
from the cockpit. He was crushed to pulp, even through his flight suit. It was
a humiliation to me." Mosul
looked at him through the Angelfish's bubble-like cockpit. "I'm
surprised to hear you say that, sir." "Why?"
Soldato said. "It certainly wasn't pilot error. In any case, it is the
responsibility of the designer to make the fighter powerful enough to do the
job, but safe enough to bring him back alive. If one errs in either extreme, he
has failed." "That's
the exact opposite of what they teach us at the War Academy," Mosul said,
examining the cockpit. "You’re expendable, the fighter cost
millions." "Hmph,"
Soldato said. "Spoken like a group of men who willingly throw anonymous
bodies recklessly into a meat grinder. I call that waste, Lieutenant. A good
commander respects the men who serve him and doesn't waste their lives
carelessly." Mosul
turned to one of the other fighters. It was a squat black thing -- so dark in
fact that in the light of the flight deck it seemed to be just barely
protruding from the shadows. Its cockpit was of red glass, which made it look
even more sinister despite its compact design. "Stealth?"
Mosul said. "Yes,"
Soldato replied. "The Nighthawk. You'd be testing that fighter,
were it not for the shortsightedness of the UEF Command. They rejected based on
its lack of heavy armaments." Mosul
stared at the twin cannons slung under the cockpit. "It is rather Spartan,
sir." "Of
course. It's designed for reconnaissance, not full combat. If you’re already in
a full-scale battle, I doubt you need a stealth plane to tell you so. In any
event, it led me to create my own personal fighter." Soldato
stepped past Mosul to stand beside the next fighter, a larger, iron blue and
silver machine. It looked as compact as the Nighthawk, but surrounding
the familiar spheroid cockpit were bays of weapons and cannons. Behind the
weapons were several powerful engines. "The Gryphon,"
Soldato said, running a white glove over the forward weapons pod. "A
heavily armed mobile weapons platform. A triumph of engineering, Lieutenant.
The Gryphon can handle either capital ships or fighters with ease. It's
fast, it's armored, and its quite well armed." Mosul
looked at it. From the front, it seemed to be little more than a cockpit with a
wreath of weaponry around it and the suggestion of engines and maneuvering
vanes behind it. How could
something this dangerous even fly? Mosul wondered. "Is
this what you'll be piloting in the trials, sir?" Soldato
nodded. "I never even submitted it for consideration to UEF Command,"
he said. "No pilot save myself could handle it." Mosul
nodded, taking mental notes and trying to discern weaknesses in the Gryphon's
design. Soldato gestured to the fighter nearby, one of a row of six just like
it. "This
is your fighter," Soldato said, gesturing to it. It shared some
characteristics of its sister fighters. It had the compact design of the Angelfish
and the Nighthawk and even bore some of the Gryphon's heavy
armaments. And like the Nighthawk it was a deep crimson and black.
Unlike the others, it was designed like the head of an arrow. "The Centaur." "Different
from the others," Mosul said. "In
some ways," Soldato said. "It's designed for use in planetary
atmosphere as well as space. But it shares most of the prototypes'
maneuverability and weapons specifications. We even modified the super vernier
engines to provide superior maneuverability and performance even in planetary
atmospheres." Mosul
opened the cockpit and looked inside. "Holographic
control and targeting," Soldato continued. "Panoramic cockpit with the
linear seat system to allow for a full field of vision. You'll also note the
lack of control sticks. The devices on the arms of the seat control the
fighter." "What
are they?" Mosul asked, checking the readouts. "They're
called arm rakers," Mosul said. They give you pinpoint control of the
ships maneuvering thrusters and fingertip control of the weapons and
counter-measure systems. You'll find them far advanced from a standard control
stick. I'd advise you to allow for the additional sensitivity." "Armament?" "Two
plasma vulcans and one VSBC." "VSBC?" "Variable
Speed Beam Cannon," Soldato said. We discovered by tapping into the
fighter's reactor we could power a cannon able to fire a variety of shots. With
the fire control you can fire short bursts used to punch through a fighters
shields or longer shots designed to do sizable damage to a capital ship." "Amazing,"
Mosul replied. "Impressive ship. I'm looking forward to piloting her in
the trials." "You
expect to win against me?" Soldato said. "I always
expect to win, Captain," Mosul said. "Although I suppose you could
have intentionally sabotaged the Centaur to make her unable to match the
Gryphon in a one on one matchup." "Perhaps,"
Soldato replied, smiling. "If it were a one on one contest. But it will be
all six Centaurs against only one of me. If I were attempting sabotage,
it would seem foolish to stack the odds that high. Suspicious at least, wouldn’t you say,
Lieutenant?" "Yes,
sir." "But
you have nothing to worry about," Soldato said. "Your fighters will
not be sabotaged or modified in any way. I am a firm believer in a fair
contest. The deciding factor in our contest will be nothing more or less than
our abilities as pilots." "I
see," Mosul said. Despite himself, Soldato impressed him. Part of it was
his skill at design -- certainly the controls of the Centaur were advanced,
almost dauntingly so. And it wasn't every commanding officer that was willing
to test his work and his own limits against six to one odds. He's
either reckless or has reason to be confident, Mosul thought. He had known
his share of the former and not enough of the latter. Even though he had been
serving for only a few years, Mosul was used to arrogant, thoughtless,
commanding officers, most of whom were Earth-born and sneered at for his
half-Arab heritage despite his obvious skills as a pilot. So often
had he experienced that arrogance and concealed racism that he had almost
become able to detect it on the air. But he felt no such emotion from Soldato. It made
him impossible to hate and even harder to mistrust. "Well
Lieutenant, don’t keep it to yourself, are you pleased with the Centaur?"
Soldato asked. "It's
certainly more advanced than a Hurricane, for certain," Mosul
replied. "But my squad can handle it." "I'm
certain they can," Soldato said. "If their commander's bearing is any
indication, it should be quite an impressive contest. The trails begin at 0700
hours base time, Lieutenant." Mosul
snapped to a salute and Soldato did likewise. "Yes sir." Soldato nodded.
"May the best man win, Lieutenant Mosul." 0:00:00:00 The
readout flashed on the timepiece in the still darkness of the box. If the
Marionettes calculations could be trusted, this was zero hour and Kienan and
his assistants were inside Zwei Base, and the hard part would now begin. He opened
the release latches inside the box, the short hairs on his arm rising a little
at the sound of locks breaking, sounds to him that broke the stillness like a
gunshot. He slowly
slid the top of the box off, making sure it gently came to rest beside the
crate and climbing out of it, keeping one hand on the hilt of his knife at all
times. He looked around. It was a
storeroom of some kind. Spare, lit only by a single fluorescent bulb that cast
long shadows over the room. It also appeared to be unguarded. He drew his knife
very gently and began cutting into the lids of the two crates beside him. He opened
the first crate. Inside, as if a body being laid to rest, was a woman, tall,
dressed in green and black, with flame-red hair cascading down her shoulders.
Kienan gently passed his free hand over her eyes. The woman blinked and slowly
opened her eyes, which were black and irisless. A doll's eyes. "Conscience,"
Kienan said quietly, brushing his long chestnut braid off his shoulder. "Kienan,"
she replied. "Are we here?" "Looks
like it," Kienan whispered. "Free Vain. I'll check the door." Kienan
stepped to the door as Conscience quietly worked her fingers into the third
crate and broke each of the catches. Inside the third crate was another woman,
much like Conscience, only with long, flowing, blonde hair. Conscience tapped
the side of her nose with her fingertip and Vain sprang to life. Kienan's
eyes narrowed on the thin pane of glass in the doorway. Outside, from what he
could see, was a long metal corridor, only slightly better lit than the
storeroom. But no
guards. For a secret installation, doubtless full of various experimental
weapons, every single nook and cranny should have been guarded. Even deserted
storerooms that only held mail in preparation for processing. This is
way too easy, Kienan thought. So far every single scrap of intelligence Vain and
Conscience found on this place has been correct. It doesn’t feel right.
There've been dozens of opportunities to kill us before this point, so why let
us get all this way? If it is a trap it's an incredibly baroque one. Kienan
looked over his shoulder at the box he had come out of only minutes ago. Too late
to worry about that now, he thought. We're stuck. Only one way out, and
that's forward. He looked
up at the ceiling and pointed to Vain and Conscience. Vain climbed onto
Conscience's shoulders and pried off a vent, handing the crushed grate down to
Conscience, who set it down very quietly next to the boxes. Vain climbed into
the vent shaft and Conscience followed a few minutes later. Kienan set
to work on the door control, unscrewing the covering with the tip of his knife
and carefully cutting and shorting out wires. There was a hiss as the door
sprang upwards, locked into its service state. Kienan
carefully stepped out into the light, his red and black uniform contrasting
with the antiseptic dull gray that surrounded him on every side. He quickly
made his way down the corridor, only to be stopped by a voice -- a woman's
-- on the intercom. "Pilots
for this morning's exercises are to assemble immediately in the briefing room
for preflight," she said. "Following preflight, report to section 3-C
for final launch preparations. Message ends." Kienan
stared out at the intersection beyond him, his emerald eyes narrowing on a pair
of signs mounted on a nearby wall. The sign on the upper right corner of the
wall marked his location, 1-C. One mounted below it pointed towards a battery
of lifts and a flight of stairs. Kienan
took a deep breath. Way too easy. No one is this lucky, he
thought. Soldato strode onto the bridge of the command and
control tower. Lieutenant Londes flushed a bit when she saw him and saluted
him. Soldato returned the salute with a slight smile. "Report,
Lieutenant," he said. "The Centaurs
and Gryphon have all completed pre-launch prep and are being moved into
position, sir. Night shift reported no suspicious security activity and the
cargo transfer from the Agrippa was completed successfully. The Agrippa
departed at 0200." "Excellent,"
Soldato replied. "Have the Angelfish and Nighthawk fighters
prepped for launch and moved into position." "Sir?" Soldato
turned to leave and looked over his shoulder at the lieutenant. "Consider
it a drill for the ground crew, Lieutenant." "Yes,
sir," she replied. "You've
done a fine job, Lieutenant," he said. He walked into the lift and turned
to face her again. "I'll be on the flight deck, preparing for launch. Oh,
and when it comes time for Lieutenant Mosul's launch, please inform him that
the best man WILL win today." "Yes
. . .sir," Londes replied. The doors
slid shut and Soldato stood at ease as the digital readout to his left ticked
down his descent. He enjoyed any chance to display his prowess as a fighter
pilot. Due to his condition, he had been refused an official certification as a
fighter pilot despite having displayed phenomenal skill at it during his time
on Rigellia. His skill
was partly due to one of the few benefits his condition had. Being accustomed
to heavy gravity made him immune to the crippling effects of G-forces. Soldato
could easily perform maneuvers that most pilots dared not attempt due to the
physical punishment involved. The doors
opened again on level 3-C. Soldato made his way to a room just off the
elevators and walked to one of the many rows of lockers. He seldom ever
bothered with a spacesuit -- his body armor made one unnecessary, save for a
helmet with a compact oxygen supply for short-term exposure to the vacuum of
space. He took it
off the upper shelf of his locker and stared at it. Yes, he thought, today
promises to be a most interesting day. Conscience watched the tall elegant man leave the
locker room, thanking whomever created the human race that humans rarely, if
ever, looked up at the ceiling, otherwise their cover would have been blown the
second they saw her peering out from the ceiling air vent. Once she
was certain he was gone, she slipped out of the air vent, landing catlike on
the blue-carpeted floor of the locker room. She went over in her mind every
single detail of the infiltration, her processors poring over every detail in
perfect clarity and blinding speed. She
focused on the number of what she was here for, cross-referenced that against
every single number on the lockers. Once she was satisfied, she signaled to
Vain come down as well. She
pointed to the brass plate on one of the lockers. SFX-02. Vain
nodded and went to it, breaking the lock with a contemptuous flick of her
wrist. The door wobbled open and Vain quickly pulled out the pilot's suit and
helmet, dressing quickly. They had no need for spacesuits except to protect
their more delicate internal systems from the freezing cold of space, but they
had more practical reasons for wanting the spacesuits. Conscience
tried to break the lock on hers, but it wouldn’t give. Vain zipped up her
spacesuit and looked at Conscience. "Back
up," she said. "Let me try." Vain
punched the steel door of the locker hard enough to break through the plate.
Once inside she lifted the bolt and the door slid open as Conscience looked at
her with quiet exasperation. "What
happened to subtlety, Vain?" She asked, reaching into the locker and
quickly putting on the baggy suit over her clothing. "No
time," Vain said, pressing a button on the wrist of her gauntlets. The
baggy suit sealed itself over her body as tight as a second skin. She quickly
affixed her helmet to her suit, sliding the polarized faceplate down.
"Made sure to have your eye-shield down. It may at least buy us time to
get to the fighters." "Right,"
Conscience said, sealing her suit and clamping her helmet onto its moorings.
"Walk normally to the fighters, don’t arouse any suspicion or raise an
alarm. That's Kienan's job." They both
regarded the other as Conscience slid the amber shield into place, slowly
walking out of the locker room to the flight deck, right past Soldato and a
pair of his Vanguard officers. Then the
alarm sounded and all hell broke loose. Obviously, Kienan had done his job. Two minutes earlier, Kienan had exited the
stairwell, only to find his path blocked by two uniformed guards. They blocked
his way to the locker room and there was no way around. Kienan didn’t have the
flexibility to squeeze through an air vent, so it fell to him to take the hard road to their
objective. But how to
do it quietly? Kienan
reached into his one of the leather pouches on his belt, his red-gloved fingers
turning over a small silver rectangle in his hands. It was, in reality his
cigarette lighter, but he had another use in mind for it. He pressed
himself into a door alcove five feet from one of the guards and placed the
lighter on the floor, kicking it along the smooth metal floor. It clacked
against the door and one of the guards went to check it out. Kienan was
on him in a second. His red-gloved hand closed around the guard's mouth,
snuffling out any hope of a scream. The guard's rifle clattered to the metal
floor, bringing the other guard around in time to catch Kienan's knife as he
flicked it towards him. It sliced the air and embedded itself in the other
guard's chest, killing him instantly. Kienan
snapped the neck of the guard he was smothering and stopped over the fallen
guard to get his knife out of his sternum, planting his boot in his chest and pulling it free. He
kept his eyes fixed on the corridor before him as he scooped an arm under both guard's chest,
dragging them to a supply closet. Using the passkey in one of the guard's
pockets he opened the closet, threw the bodies in and locked it, making his way
to the locker room below, stopping only to pocket his lighter. He braced
himself against the wall, raising one of the guns he had taken off the guards.
He kept his eye on the group of soldiers standing in front of the locker room,
especially the one in the center, whose gilt-edged uniform marked him as a
command-level officer. Kienan
looked down at the gun he had taken from the guard. A Drazga, he thought.
One of those brand-new plasma guns. This one even has a grenade launcher. Much
as I hate energy weapons, this is liable to get me past those troops a lot
easier than my knife. He reached
for his lighter again, recognizing two of the pilots striding out of the locker
room. Despite the bulky nature of spacesuits there was no mistaking the voluptuous
shape of his companions. He flicked it open and reached out from his hiding
place. One turned
in his direction, the helmeted head nodding once. Signal acknowledged. Then the
world exploded in noise. "Fire
Suppression needed on flight deck," a computerized voice bellowed as a
whooping klaxon split the tense silence of the flight deck. Kienan cursed
himself for his carelessness and did the only thing he could do. He charged
forward. Soldato couldn't believe his eyes. There he was,
surrounded by four pilots, all armed with beam pistols, never mind the guards
posted in the flight deck, and this man was charging him. Is he
insane, or does he know something I don't? Soldato pondered. Whether
it's madness or courage, I'm impressed. "CAPTAIN!" One of the
pilots said. One of the
two female pilots he'd seen walk by had hefted a liquid fuel container --
filled with highly combustible gevenite, never mind weighing tons with a clean
and jerk and hoisted it directly at Soldato. "Captain,
stand clear!" Another of the officer pleaded. At the
last minute, Soldato caught the canister in his hands, planting his feet and
steadying the potential bomb. "Calm
yourself, Ensign," Soldato said, setting the canister down with
contemptuous ease. "I was in no danger. Our infiltrators are certainly
daring, are they not?" There were
two loud noises as the doors to the cockpits of the Angelfish fighters
slammed shut. Two of the pilots drew their beam pistols, but Soldato put out
his hands. "No
guns," he said. "We're surrounded by canisters of unstable fuel. Do
you want to blow up the entire flight deck with a stray shot?" "Captain,
we have a security breach," Lieutenant Londes voice called. "I'm
aware of it, Lieutenant," Soldato replied. "Two, perhaps three
individuals. Two are in the Angelfish fighters. Please clear them for
launch." "Captain?" "They're
in a heavily armed and fully-charged fighter craft. We don’t have a clean shot,
while they could easily destroy this flight deck and break up the entire
station with a few well-placed shots." "Captain,
you're going to let them get away?" "No,
Lieutenant, I am not. Is Lieutenant Mosul's squadron ready to launch in bay
2?" "Yes,
sir." "Give
them priority clearance and tell them to deploy in a wide formation,"
Soldato said. "Then let the Angelfish launch. We won't let them get
away, Lieutenant, but I won’t risk the lives of everyone aboard this base on a
reckless overkill gesture." "Yes,
sir," Lieutenant Londes said. "Mosul's team has launched, orders
acknowledged. They're taking up a position in the asteroid field." "Excellent.
Lieu -- " Before
Soldato could finish his sentence there was a spray of superheated plasma from
behind them. The pilots hit the deck, but Soldato stood his ground, a few shot
shredding his uniform, but he stood his ground. Kienan
stood before him, Drazga at the ready. He was clad in a red and black
spacesuit, helmet down to disguise his features. Soldato's blue eyes narrowed
on him, trying to see through the amber mask of his helmet. "Well
played," Soldato said, smiling. "You snuck in and got ready while we
were distracted by your partners." Kienan
circled him, keeping his weapon on Soldato. He said nothing. Soldato
raised his white-gloved hands. "You really don’t need that, my friend.
Your companions and yourself will be allowed to leave." Kienan
stopped. "I
really am quite impressed, you know," Soldato said. "You've shown a
great deal of courage, skill, and determination to come this far. I applaud you
for that. But to steal what is mine and get away with it . . .for that, my
friend, you will have to defeat me." Kienan
squeezed the trigger of the Drazga, blasting Soldato’s helmet to pieces as both of them broke
into a run for the remaining two fighters. Of the two, Kienan was the fastest,
making his way to the Nighthawk just as Soldato was halfway to the Gryphon. Kienan
quickly strapped himself in as the hydraulics of the seat locked and
pressurized the cockpit. Vain and Conscience's fighters blasted forth,
propelled by the launch catapults up through the long curved launch tube,
accelerating to incredible speed as Soldato finished his preflight check on the
Gryphon. An
untrained observer would have noted he seemed strangely to be in no hurry
despite the urgency of the situation. And even more strangely, he was smiling. Kienan felt the breath squeezed from his body as the
launch catapult shot him up through the tube. He willed himself to hold on,
willed his arms to move despite the incredible G-forces. Whoever that had been
back there had been right -- the real battle was just beginning. Kienan's
mind drifted back to the few UEF officers he'd tangled with. They were capable
soldiers, but the few he had known had often been little more than machines --
drilled to such an extreme degree the initiative had been bled from them. Most
situations they had standard operating procedures for. But against the
unexpected they were hesitant, tentative. Improvisation was their enemy. Fortunately
for Kienan, it was his ally. He felt
the pressure against his chest relax a little and activated two switches above his head.
The lower skids on the Nighthawk's bottom pair of wings extended out to
the walls of the launch tube, the landing arms screeching and starting to melt
as they sparked against the walls. He quickly
tapped a series of keys on a pad next to his arm. On a nearby display, the
instructions for the ship came up in a readout so pedestrian it seemed to
parody the urgency of the situation. Kienan had flown space fighters before,
but nothing this advanced. The plan had been for him to grab the more heavily
armed one, but his hand had been forced by his carelessness with the lighter. The plan
was now well and truly out the window. Everything from here on out was
improvisation and luck. He glossed
over the manual, quickly absorbing what he needed to know about the ships
engines and defensive systems. The rest he could take in later. Assuming he
survived, of course. Like a blue-steel juggernaut, the Gryphon
roared through the launch tube. Soldato activated his shields and began arming
his primary weapons arrays. He could outfight the Nighthawk, he was sure of
that -- the Gryphon was designed to take on ships at least three times
its size single-handedly, but the bravado demonstrated in the raid had impressed
him. Whoever
these people are, they’re not anyone to take lightly, he thought. He checked
his readouts. All weapons armed. Around him, the panoramic display dotted the
launch tube with various readouts -- ammunition count, collision detection, shield
strength, hull integrity, everything he would need to know. One of the
readouts suddenly turned from green to red. Soldato caught it out of the corner
of his eye. Almost
before he could react, Soldato saw it. The Nighthawk, braced against the
walls of the launch tube, gun turrets ready to fire. They erupted with a red
volley of laser fire as Soldato fired the Gryphon's retro-rockets,
trying to stop. The
G-forces were nothing to him; the sudden deceleration only caused him to shift
a little in his seat as he let the shields absorb the laser volley. As he came
to a stop he pulled the triggers on the vulcan cannons mounted on the forward
section of the Gryphon, but the Nighthawk was rocketing backwards
through the launch tube, still firing. Kienan
felt a trickle of sweat go down his spine as he blasted backwards through the
launch tube, doing a slow backward roll to reorient himself. Seconds behind
him, the Gryphon rocketed outwards, hovering over him. Soldato
smiled and pulled a lever above his head. The neck of the Gryphon extended
forward and down as more gun batteries and missile launchers were deployed. The
four hinged bays on either side of the cockpit opened, revealing drone pods
with even more remote weaponry. Kienan
gunned his thrusters, intending to make a run for the asteroid field beyond the
base. He would be insane to fight him head on; the only option left was to make
a run for it. "Captain,"
Lieutenant Londes said. "Lieutenant Mosul reports engagement of the other
two fighters on the far side of the base. I have base defences available at
your command. Mosul recommends drawing the fighters close to the base and
letting our gun batteries shoot them down." "Negative,
Lieutenant," Soldato sighed. "Shut down all base
defenses except for barrier shields, Lieutenant. There's too high a risk
Mosul's squadron could be destroyed. Remember -- these are UEF fighters -- our
friend or foe targeting computers haven't been reprogrammed to discern which is
which." "But
sir, I can have crews on manual -- " "Shut
them down, Lieutenant. That's an order." Soldato said, banking into the
asteroid belt, the stars behind him glowing white with the flaming corona of
flame from the Gryphon's engines. "This battle must be between
pilots." The Angelfish's frame rotated around the
cockpit a perfect three hundred and sixty degrees as Conscience banked to dodge
a blast from the Centaur fighters. She pressed a series of switches and
two canisters ejected from the rear of her fighter, exploding and blanketing
the area behind her with small metal strips. She closed
the window on her display. After all, she'd read the entire manual for the
fighter in a few seconds, all the while keeping the fighter squadron off her. The two
gun turrets on the wings of the Angelfish swiveled behind her and blew a
wing off one the Centaurs pursuing her. Kienan had warned her that engaging any
pursuit force would only slow them down and give them time to swarm her, but
they were too close. If she just let them chase her without creating some kind
of distraction to allow her to make her escape, they'd follow her back to the
rendezvous. And since
the Angelfish couldn’t have its weapons armed while it was in Space Drive, she would have no
way to defend against a pursuit force. She
deployed her missile launchers and turned the fighter hard, steadying it by
firing her retrorockets. Before the advancing Centaurs knew what was
happening, they flew into a hail of missiles. One of the rockets slammed into a
Centaur's cockpit, blowing the ship to bits and throwing the other
fighters off balance in the resultant blast wave. Conscience
looped the Angelfish with impossible speed and grace, disarmed the
weapons and activated the fighter's Space Drive. There was a ripple, a sudden
acceleration and the Angelfish was gone. The Gryphon slowed as it made its way to the
asteroid field. Soldato smiled to himself, tapping a series of keys on his
console. "Now
that we're alone, I can speak freely," Soldato said. Kienan reached up and
touched his helmet. At the moment he was directly underneath the Gryphon,
holding onto the bottom of one of the asteroid, his fighter at low power. "Don't
be shocked. I know you’re here. I know you can hear me. I built a specially
shielded channel into all of my fighters. If I read your actions right, you and
I both know there's no way you can fight through me." Soldato
activated two levers above him. "You’re
hoping I'll chase you in here and then you can slip out and away. A wise
decision. Excellent instincts." From the
lower of the four bays in the Gryphon, two cylinders were released. The
extended, looking like giant metal necklaces, drifting on gravitational eddies
to the asteroid below. "But
you can’t hide," Soldato said, pressing and releasing one of the targeting
switches on the arm raker on his left. A display came up on the Gryphon's screen:
Demolition Chains -- Armed. "After all, I built the Nighthawk, and
I built the Gryphon. I know them as I know my own hands." "And
I can take away your hiding places." Soldato
pressed a switch, and the compact series of mines blew the asteroid to bits.
Kienan barely had time to reactivate the engines and rocket away before a spray
of debris smashed against his engines, knocking him into an uncontrolled spin. Kienan
attempted to right himself, but the engines weren't fully reactivated. He
fought the controls as he spiraled into the gravity of another asteroid. It was
smaller than the one he'd hid behind, but enough to shatter the Nighthawk's
spaceframe and leave him easy pickings for his pursuer. He stomped
hard on the pedals under his feet and the retrorockets flared to life. Above
him two rocket-powered pincers fired from the Gryphon, punching through
the asteroid as Kienan flipped the Nighthawk backwards and fired at the Gryphon
again. Kienan was
puzzled. Why is he doing this, he wondered? Why didn’t he finish me
when I was out of control? Why? He
rocketed away, banking in tight with the asteroid, trying to use the stealth
fighter's superior maneuverability to get away from the Gryphon. Soldato
responded by firing two remote pods from the upper bays. The triangular pods
ejected a stream of hundreds of micro-missile, blowing up the asteroid field
Kienan had been steering towards. Think,
damn it, Kienan chided himself. What is he doing? What does he think you’re
doing? Another
volley of micromissiles, some so close Kienan blew them apart with his laser
cannons. As one of the warheads flashed in front of him, overloading the
display, it came to him in a flash. He expects
me to run. Do the last thing he'd expect. Kienan
seized the controls and ran the engines to speed, turning towards the Gryphon,
his laser cannons deluging the heavy fighter with rapid-fire energy bolts. Soldato
smiled and diverted his weapons power to his shields, his hands tightening on
the controls as the Nighthawk bore down on him. At the
last minute, Kienan engaged the maneuvering verniers on the Nighthawk,
its shields slowly crumbling against the onslaught of the Gryphon's plasma
vulcans. The Nighthawk flew over the Gryphon at a 90-degree
angle, so fast Soldato didn’t have time to lay in a pursuit course immediately. Kienan
opened up the throttle and left the Gryphon far behind, as Soldato
closed the weapons bays on the Gryphon and rocketed after him. His heart
beat somewhere beneath his ears. The thief wouldn’t have attempted a
kamikaze attack, he thought. Not when he went through so much trouble to
steal my starfighter. No, he thought. He
knew the last thing I expected him to do was turn and fight. He counted on me
to hesitate and give him an opening He smiled
and hit a series of keys on a console beside his arm raker. A small
window popped up inside the display. Three words followed by six blanks filled
with asterisks. "REMOTE
SHUTOFF ARMED." The thief
wasn't the only one with an ace in the hole. Ensign Kamadev, report status of your group's
pursuit," Mosul said, tracking the second Angelfish fighter. The
plasma vulcans spun like roulette wheels as the agile fighter dodged the
volley. Mosul fired a blast from the VSBC at it, but the Angelfish spun around
and fired at him. "One
fighter destroyed, one critically damaged," Kamadev responded. "We've
lost her. Unable to continue pursuit." "Damn,"
Mosul said, firing his vulcans and the VSBC simultaneously. This pilot was
cagey and knew the machine cold. The pilot would sucker Mosul's targeting
sensors in and then use a quick vernier boost a half-second before he fired to
dodge the attack. As ambivalent about Soldato as Mosul was, he couldn’t deny
the skill of the man's designs. "Can
you rescue your stricken wingman?" Mosul asked. "Yes
sir, but I'll have to grapple him," Kamadev responded. Mosul listened as
he slipped into the wake of the Angelfish, attempting to exhaust its shields
with the remaining ammunition in his plasma vulcans. "Do
it, and get back to base," Mosul said, taking the vulcans offline as they
exhausted the last of their fuel. "Our good Captain will have to be happy
with only two fighters recovered." "Yes
sir," Kamadev responded. "Beginning gra -- " Kamadev's
voice cut off as Mosul felt his Centaur begin to decelerate. He checked
his readouts. Every screen was dark. He tried his controls. No response. The
entire fighter was shut down. There was
a flash from the Angelfish's thrusters as it blasted away from his
slowing pursuit. In a matter of seconds the stolen fighter was lost in a sea of
stars, enveloped in the concealing blanket of stars called a galaxy. Mosul
slammed his fist against the canopy. The War Academy had taught him lots of things
-- the basic principles of starfighter construction, the physics and basic
maneuvers of space combat, but the one thing they couldn’t teach him was how to
bear the bitter taste of loss. Kienan checked his radar screen. The pursuit force
that had been engaging Vain and Conscience had vanished from his screen. All
six of them. He pondered for a moment if they were capable of stealth as his
fighter was, but did a scan for the residual heat of their engine exhaust and
found each came to a fixed point instead of immediately vanishing. They had,
to use an ancient term, seemingly ran out of gas. He flew
past two of them, then two more. None offered pursuit. What's
going on? Kienan
didn’t have an answer, but didn’t intend to stick around for it to become clearer.
Besides, there was another question on his mind -- namely, where was the Gryphon? No sooner
had the question drifted through his mind than the massive fighter loomed
before him. Kienan readied his laser cannons and prepared to fire, but found
the triggers stuck. A flashing screen told him the laser's power coils had
burnt out. No weapons
left, Kienan thought. That means I can ram him, or . . . As the Gryphon
drew closer, he
could see the small gun turrets on the Gryphon track his advancing fighter.
Kienan reached behind his seat and found the Drazga, checking the air supply in
his suit as he slowed the fighter down and unstrapped himself from the seat. I can
eject and fire a grenade at his cockpit, Kienan thought. It'll
trigger his forward shield, but if I arm the fighter's self-destruct, it'll
take him with me, and I'll have a chance to fire two more times. One should
smash his cockpit and since he isn't wearing a helmet he'll die in the vacuum. He raised
the Drazga. I'll still be close enough to get caught in the explosion. We'll
both be killed. He sighed.
Oh well, he thought. The
display before him shifted. He was close enough to the Gryphon to be
able to see Soldato through his cockpit, smiling at him. Kienan leveled the
rifle, his free hand on the ejector/self-destruct handle. Soldato
looked at him and saw the rifle. His smile became a grin. He raised his
white-gloved hand in a salute, engaged his verniers and flew off. Kienan
held the rifle at the front of the cockpit and didn’t take his hands off the
handle for a whole minute. It wasn't so much shock or disbelief, it was more an
inability to process what had just happened. He let me
go. He had me, and let me go. Once that
thought had flashed through his head he engaged the boosters and flew off,
determined to be long gone before he changed his mind and came back. As Kienan
cleared the local system, he activated his own Space Drive and as space folded
and compressed around him, everything fell into place. Every doubt, every
stroke of luck, every question he had asked himself during the raid, it all
made sense at last. Kienan was
furious. Later that day, Soldato relaxed in his garden,
unable to believe that he was the same person anymore. Unlike the day before, when he
had stood, surrounded by his stone maidens, he didn’t feel alone. He felt
alive. At last he
had proven himself an able and noble soldier, with no quarter asked or given.
No one told him he was too crippled to fight, no one could gainsay the weapons
he used. It had
gone exactly as he arranged it. A chess game, well played. He had
fought on his own terms, and the exhilaration of the battle had given his
spirit wings, even now he felt the exhilaration of dueling with the unknown
opponent, and the only thing better than reliving it in his mind was the chance
to do it again. He walked
to the statue at the end of the line. My dear Gala, he said, touching
the marble cheek of the effigy of his lost lover. I've found myself again.
And now, I feel I can say goodbye to you, and commit myself to the work ahead.
Never stop believing in me and loving me, as I must now believe and love
humanity. He closed
his eyes and smiled. My path is
now clear. "How
long have you been there, Lieutenant Mosul?" Soldato asked, not even
bothering to turn around. "Long
enough," Mosul responded. The blaster pistol he held in his hands was
pointed at the back of Soldato's head. A single shot would blast through
Soldato and probably take the head of the stature he was touching as well. "This
is a somewhat conspicuous place for a murder, Lieutenant," Soldato said.
"My people know where I am. You'd never made it out alive." "You
set us up," Mosul said, teeth grit with determination. "Did
I?" "I
did some checking once the salvage crew brought us back in," Mosul said.
"Our Centaurs were disabled by remote signal. A signal only you'd
have. Furthermore, you countermanded my order to use the base defenses to bring
down the rogue fighters. You even refused to close off the launch bay." "Circumstantial
evidence, Lieutenant," Soldato replied, lowering his hand from Gala's
cheek. "But it seems to me you've already decided to circumvent a court
martial. But if I'm guilty as charged, why haven’t you shot me dead yet?" "Why?" Soldato
raised an eyebrow. "Why what?" "All
of it. The private army. The strange orders. Arranging a glorified dogfight,
breaking every rule and abusing the chain of command and your rank to suit your
whim." "Can
you name me a UEF officer who wouldn't do the same?" Soldato asked. "That's
not the point!" Mosul said, stepping towards Soldato. "You let them
in, let them get to those fighters, hell you even had them prepped for launch!
You arranged this whole crisis! And then you let them get away after they
killed one of my men! WHY?" "Can
you prove that?" "I
wasn't aware I had to, Captain," Mosul said. "I'm the one with the
gun." Soldato
closed his eyes and sighed. Slowly he smiled. "I knew you were the right
man. You're livid over the loss of one of your squadron. I'd imagine if he had
survived, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now. Or at least you
wouldn’t be armed during it." "You
told me yourself -- a good commander respects the men who serve him,"
Mosul said. "You wasted one of mine on a glorified ego trip. I'm a strong
believer in an eye for an eye." "Hammurabi's
code," Soldato said. "Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.
Unfortunately, any attitude that reactionary would leave the galaxy blind and
toothless in short order. Tell me, Lieutenant, if a regular UEF officer had
been in command, what do you think he would have done?" "He
would have ordered us to pursue the rogue ships as far as necessary and covered
us with fire from the base." "Of
course," Soldato nodded. "He would also have killed your men, because
as I told my command and control officer, our friend or foe systems hadn't been
reprogrammed. Your ships would have been targets as well. And so you would have
had to chase them, exhaust both fuel and firepower, perhaps get lost in the
deserted zone between Zwei Base and the nearest galactic shipping lines. And
you would die before our teams could recover you." "That
doesn’t justify my man losing his life," Mosul said. "No
it doesn't," Soldato said. "But it does illustrate the difference
between myself and the UEF. I won't waste men to press a point. The technology
we battle with is impressive, but the human element is the most critical
variable in the equation. The UEF sees humans as functionaries -- something to
make the guns fire and the ships fly through space. No more, no less." "And
what are you offering?" "To
put the human element back in," Soldato replied. "To make sure no
man's life is wasted in the noble endeavor of combat ever again. To unite every
man who will serve under the banner of my Olympus Vanguard without regard to
race, and to teach them dignity and nobility. And once they are so taught, we
will in turn teach the galaxy." Mosul
lowered down the gun. "Am I
acquitted, Lieutenant?" "I'd
call it a temporary stay of execution." "I
see I'll have to prove to you my aims are not personal glory, Lieutenant,"
Soldato said, chuckling and shaking his head. "On
the contrary, sir," Mosul replied, holstering his gun. "I'm still
convinced your aim is your own greater glory. I'm waiting for you to
prove me wrong." "Then
it appears I have a lot of work ahead of me, Lieutenant," Soldato said.
"But I am equal to the task. I will prove worthy of your faith, you'll
see. You, and the galaxy beyond." Light years away the silver arrow shape of the Silhouette
glided out of the nebula it had spent the last four days in. The Hades Nebula
was a perfect place to hide a ship carrying three stolen ships -- its clouds of dust,
gravity wells, and electromagnetic storms made scans unreliable and navigation
foolhardy. For a
human, anyway. For an android woman with superior reflexes it was only somewhat
foolhardy. The woman brushed a lock of brown hair from her eyes and checked her
readouts as Conscience and Vain strode onto the bridge. Though they were incapable of fatigue, Mirage could
tell at a glance the toll the job had taken on them. "How
did it go?" Mirage asked, plotting a course away from the standard
galactic shipping lanes. "I'd
say it went well," Vain asked, removing one of her gloves and waggling a
finger through a burn hole in it. "I'm not sure Kienan thinks so,
however." "Hasn't
said much since we got the fighters secured," Conscience said. "He
seems . . .angry." Mirage
looked at the two of them. If they could have been called almost human, it
could have been betrayed by the mutual worry they all shared at that time. They
were like children wanting to please a parent, living or dying on his favor. "What
did he say . . .about us coming with him?" Mirage asked after a long
silence. "He
said . . .we did fine," Vain replied. "And that was all. He's still
in the hangar bay, working on his fighter. Something happened out there, I
think." Kienan threw the burnt-out laser coil onto the deck.
While the fighter's design was esoteric compared to the older models Kienan had
flown, he was grateful the designer had decided to use standard parts that were
easy to replace. It made the task of repairing the fighter nothing more than
mechanical motions. That
suited Kienan fine because all he wanted to do was think. He still
bristled at what had happened. He was angry -- not at the Marionettes; they'd
proven their worth ably. Had it not been for their distraction, the pilots
could have cut him down before he even got close to the fighters. He owed them. No, Kienan
was angry with himself. He'd been
played. Set up. Led right in with a scenario too good to be true and waltzed
through and was only alive because someone else had chosen to spare him. For
someone like Kienan who survived despite the odds against him and lived life by
his own rules, the idea that he danced on anyone's strings was an insult, and
it stuck in his gut even now. Kienan
hated to lose, but he hated to win by forfeit even more. He plugged
in the new coil and tested it with a tool at his belt. All green. Good,
he thought. The next time I meet that guy -- and if I have my way, we will
-- I won't stop until there's a victor. I fought
on his terms this time, he thought. Next time I'll make sure he fights
on mine. And I'll make sure he doesn’t walk away.
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