[UF][Fanfic] Die Hardly

[Kris Overstreet]

The writers of Eyrie Productions, Unltd. would like to dedicate this
story to the memory of the late Jason Bernard. A talented actor and
inspirational ship's captain. You shall be sorely missed.

We trusted you, Eisen.

And now, on to the mayhem. }:-{D

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The exercise room lay roughly thirty foot square, walls and
floor padded to protect its occupant from serious injury. Although
several doors opened into the room, only the small one in the rear led
to the outside; the rest contained specially designed combat practice
drones, roughly humanoid hovering robots designed to simulate any form
of combat chosen by the user, from multiple- opponent armed assault to
single unarmed combat. Currently, the room was set for random-opponent
assault with quarterstaff; two drones already lay deactivated in the
corners of the room, and a blonde man wearing a grey sweat suit
carefully watched a third drone, circling carefully around him and
examining him for signs of weakness.
The man awaited the drone's attack with apparent calm. Hazel
eyes watched the movements of the drone, carefully gauging the motions
here and there, tensing slightly as the drone advanced a hair, then
relaxing as it retreated, looking for an opening itself. Step by slow
step, the man turned in place, keeping the drone to his front. A bead of
sweat slid down the man's face, tracking through his reddish beard and
onto his exercise suit.
The whisper-hum of a repulsorlift gave the man all the warning
he needed. Wheeling, he brought the staff around him, flowing into a
full baseball-style swing, catching the second drone hard before it
could bring its own staff to bear. Bringing his spin full circle, the
man brought the staff up, deflecting the original drone's thrust and
driving its own staff up over his head. With a moment's concentration,
the man shoved the drone away with a strength not indicated by his
fairly slender build. The drone stabilized itself near the far side of
the room, pausing long enough to allow the man to shut down the second
drone so that its own systems could recover.
Once more droid and human circled each other, watching and
waiting. The man took unusually deep, slow breaths, pulse racing,
attempting to find a measure of calm. Step after step, breath after
breath, the man watched the drone and thought.
The drone observed the man carefully in turn, limited
intelligence evaluating his every move. The standoff continued, slower
and slower, and the drone sensed the man's heart rate slow, noted the
slowing movements and the more deliberate stride. For a moment, the man
stopped entirely, watching the drone but apparently not seeing.
Opportunity.
The man saw a blur of motion. Blocking the drone's initial
strike with only an inch to spare, he began a series of blocks and
parries, looking for an opening to counterstrike. The droid kept the
initiative, pressing its momentum, seeking to wear out its opponent and
exploit any failure to cope with the attack.
The man blocked and parried almost completely on instinct,
moving too fast now to form a strategy. A part of his mind pointed out
that the surest path to defeat was to allow an opponent to dictate your
movements. An idea blossomed full-grown in the man's mind, and as the
drone swung one end of its staff towards him, he dropped to one knee,
ducking the slash. Then, as the droid's staff passed just out of
blocking position, the man drove upward with the butt of the staff,
seeking the droid's head.
zzrrrrmmmmmmmmBZARK!
The staff glowed brilliant red, and a shaft of light leaped from
the tip and drove through the droid's head. The drone froze, then sagged
down to the floor, beam slicing a huge gouge through the drone's head as
it fell.
The man stared at the beam, watched in amazement as it hummed in
his hands. Then the beam flickered and died. The wooden staff crumbled
into ashes in his hands, leaving soot on his otherwise uninjured hands.
-That- never happened before, the man thought to himself.
Taking deep breaths, calming himself carefully, the man said to
the empty room, "End exercise session." The entryway opened; in the
doorframe stood a short, red-headed young woman, hair spiking up into a
magnificent crest before cascading down behind her into a length which
reached almost to her feet. The white labcoat she wore half-concealed
the vague dove-like pattern on the front of her clothes, which were for
the most part cut in blues and blacks.
"Well," the woman said, "looks like we've found something new
you can do, Kris."
"Washuu..." the man gasped, still seeking calm, "what the hells
was that?"
"That," Washuu said, "was coalesced energy. You just manifested
another aspect of energokinesis. Think of it as a built-in lightsaber."
"A lightsaber..." Kris whispered. One hundred seventy years
before, the little woman before him had performed a very experimental
procedure on him, which had radically changed his body. Now, he
regenerated normally lethal wounds in seconds. At will, he could boost
his strength to incredible levels- although, he almost chuckled to
himself, it hadn't always happened at will. Under intense emotions, he
glowed with a red aura. And now, apparently, he could make his own
lightsaber.
And what else, Kris thought to himself, what other surprises
before the end?
"Wake up, Mr. Introspective!" Washuu said, pulling his arm. "We
need to get you down to the examination table! You've just had an
incredible breakthrough, and we have to get all the facts!"
"This is just an excuse to get my clothes off, isn't it?" Kris
said.
"Of course not!" Washuu said. "I'm offended that you think so
little of me! This is purely for the purposes of the advancement of
science and your health!"
"Um... sorry, Washuu," Kris said. "That was uncalled for on my
part."
"No problem!" Washuu said. "Besides, getting your clothes off is
just a special bonus!" As the mad scientist giggled to herself, Kris
sighed and walked out of the exercise room, shutting off the lights as
he left.
One of these days, he thought, maybe I'll understand that
woman...
...maybe...

WHITE LIGHTNING PRODUCTIONS

in association with

EYRIE PRODUCTIONS, UNLTD

presents

REDNECK: DIE HARDLY

a tale of Undocumented Features

December 17, 2168
Cheltopolis, Salusia

(please consult our 32-page color vacation guide)

The current session of the General Assembly of the United
Galactica seemed doomed to continue unto eternity. Previously scheduled
to adjourn on November 2, the Assembly had extended its session by two
weeks, then four, and now the session threatened to continue through the
Salusian Winterfest. The nerves of all the ambassadors in attendance
were frayed to the point of rudeness, and not a day went by now that the
President of the Assembly didn't gavel down some speaker or other for
insults or rude personal remarks towards some other ambassador in
attendance. A couple of arguments were now on the verge of being
continued through seconds.
Of course the ambassador from the Confederate Freespacers
Alliance, Rear Admiral Kristan Overstreet (ret.), was feeling just as
frayed and irritated as all the other ambassadors. Furthermore, the
discovery of his new 'ability' two months ago preyed on his mind. It had
taken something like thirty years for him to bring his ability to boost
his strength under conscious control, and another twenty to eliminate
the accidental uses of that ability. If he had a similar problem with
this... "coalescent energy" ability...
... well, kiss a whole bunch more beds goodbye, that's for sure,
he thought to himself grimly.
As Kris toyed with his pen and notes, the ambassador from Earth
moved that the vote on the measure authorizing spending for the United
Galactica Navy- the issue over which the Assembly had stalled- be
postponed yet again, and that the assembly go ahead into the standard
Special Orders session. About twenty people seconded the motion;
obviously nobody wanted to keep hashing on the deadlocked issue into the
dead of the night.
Sighing, Kris packed up his briefcase. Yet another case of the
Assembly in general electing to play hooky rather than sit down and work
out some sort of compromise on a rough issue.
There are some days when democracy just plain doesn't work.
As Kris sidled his way out of the row of seats near the rear of
the Assembly Hall, he brushed around a young lady representing one of
the newer Earth colony worlds, Neo-Texas. "Pardon me," Kris mumbled,
trying to squeeze behind the lady's chair and get out to the doorway.
"Oh, just a second," the ambassadoress said, grabbing up her own
notes and standing, turning to face Kris. Eyes widening, she said,
"Wait! You're Redneck, aren't you?"
Kris looked nonplused at the young woman. "Um, have we met?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, where's my head?" the woman said. "I'm Debbie
Robinson. We're, like, cousins."
"Robinson?" Kris had long since lost track of his relatives; the
last family funeral he had attended was that of his uncle Charlie
Thornton over a hundred years before. "Um, what's Diane Robinson to you,
then?" he asked.
"Um..." The young woman counted on her fingers for a moment,
then said, "Five times great-grandmother. I'm descended from Kaleb
Robinson."
"Um... Kaleb John Henry?"
"Yes, that's the one," Debbie smiled.
"Well," Kris mumbled, "well, um, nice to meet you. I'm sorry I
haven't kept track of the family... but I've been kinda busy over the
years."
"Oh, no problem," Debbie said. "You know, I've been studying
your military career. The Zardon Revolution, the War of Restoration, the
Sivar Expedition, both Darlok Wars, the Sixth Kilrathi War... you've had
a remarkable life, Redneck."
"Please," Kris said, "just call me Red. Or Kris, Kris would be
just fine."
"If you say so, Red," Debbie said. "Hey, look, I've got this
invitation to a pre-Winterfest reception for some of the representatives
tonight. Would you be my escort? It would be, like, SO boss!"
Kris thought for a moment. "Funny I wasn't invited..." he
mumbled. "Anyway, I haven't got any plans for the evening... what the
hell? Sure, I'd be honored to escort you! Where do I pick you up?"
Debbie smiled. "Meet me at the Kings' Park Hotel at 6:00," she
said. "And can you wear your uniform? That would be just SO cool! See
you there!"
"See you," Kris mumbled. As Debbie packed up her notes, and the
first speaker for the night's Special Orders session began droning on
about bantha herder subsidies, he pushed and shoved his way through the
gossiping representatives out the doors of the Assembly Hall. Near one
of the granite columns in the huge foyer outside the hall, a short
redheaded woman and a battered R5 astromech unit waited for him.
"'Evening, boss!" a voice called from a speaker on the
astromech's chassis. "Get anything done today?"
Kris sighed. "Hey, Washuu, Sparky. Not much, just listened to
the Salusians and the Earth bloc ambassadors lock horns again. Oh yeah,"
he said, brightening slightly, "and I met a distant relative of mine.
The Neo-Texas ambassador is a descendant from one of my cousins."
"Really?" Washuu said. "I wouldn't mind meeting him. Maybe I can
see some family resemblance."
"You might get a chance later on," Kris said. "She's asked me to
escort her to a reception tonight."
"Her?" both Washuu and Sparky said.
"Yes, her," Kris said. "Sparky, I'll need a decent skimmer or
groundcar to pick her up in. Washuu, can you dig up one of my old dress
uniforms? Complete with sword?"
"Um, sure, I'm pretty sure there's one lying around," Washuu
said.
"Excellent. Let's go, then, we've got an hour for me to get
ready."
As Kris strode off towards the transit tubes, Sparky whispered
to Washuu, "So, I take it the 'Kick Me' sign is put off for now?"
"Oh, no," Washuu said, "in fact, this just makes it even
better..."

The Jerushi Tower stood like a giant gleaming crystal shaft near
the edge of Cheltopolis' business district. (Of course, this was
because, to all intents and purposes, it was a giant gleaming shaft of
crystal, but that's beside the point.) In front of the building, valets
parked groundcars while people in incredibly expensive clothing strutted
through the doors into the foyer and on to the reception hall.
One couple stood out for the relative plainness of their
clothing. The lady wore an embroidered denim jacket and matching
knee-length skirt, with a ruffled white blouse and understated jewelry.
The gentleman escorting her wore a long grey overtunic belted at the
waist, double-breasted front buttoned up to his chest, ceremonial sword
belted to his right side. A white undershirt and tie, grey slacks and
polished boots completed the outfit. The wreathed star of rear admiral
in the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet rode on his left lapel.
Debbie presented her card to the doorman at the assembly hall,
who read the card and, without batting an eyelash, read, "Her
Excellency, Deborah Robinson, Ambassador from Neo-Texas, and escort."
The 'and escort' grated slightly on Kris' ego, but then his ego had
received a lot worse hits in the past than the ignorance of a doorman.
"Come on, Red, let's mingle," Debbie said, dragging Kris down
into the small groups of dignitaries, ambassadors and minor Salusian
nobility exchanging small talk and nibbling on hors d'ovures.
Kris allowed his senses to dull as Debbie re-introduced him to
people he saw on a daily basis anyway in the Assembly. The uniform
brought more than a few disapproving stares; most diplomats had little
or no use for mercenaries, even those with a legitimate government
backing them. Furthermore, those who remembered him tended to remember
his more pompous, longwinded speeches with frank irritation, and
therefore Kris had little problem keeping to himself.
Still, Kris managed to relax a bit, and as he sipped his fruit
punch, he watched the subtle by-play going on between the different
groups. The issue of how much funding the UG Navy would receive was the
main topic of discussion that evening, and the Earth-bloc and
Salusia-bloc ambassadors probed each other subtly to see just how far
each side was willing to give. The Earth party supported a stronger
fleet, whereas the Salusians supported a weaker fleet to assist the
Wedge Defense Force and various member government fleets. Neither side
had managed to reach the middle, which Kris had been quietly preparing
the non-aligned smaller powers to support.
Sooner or later, Kris thought, we'll all get to the same place
and we can go home for a month or two, at least until the next session
begins.

In a corner, one of the caterers whispered into a walkie-talkie,
"All the people on the list are here."
"Excellent," a heavily accented voice replied. "Secure the
reception hall. Escort the people on the list out... and dispose of the
rest."

"Would you like me to get you some punch?" Kris asked Debbie.
"Sure, thanks, Red," Debbie said, not paying much attention,
listening instead to a Salusian lady go on at length about the reforms
Queen Asrial had been proposing to the Salusian peerage.
Kris allowed his gaze to wander around the hall as he refilled
his and Debbie's cups. It took two passes for him to notice the person
in the catering uniform with an automatic rifle in his hands. Before he
could react, a voice behind him cried out, "Nobody move!" Stuttering
barks of rapid-fire rounds rang through the room, and fixtures shattered
here and there under the assault.
Kris dropped to the floor with the first shot. Looking around,
he counted at least eight armed "caterers" covering the screaming and
cowering dignitaries. A couple of the armed men herded a select group of
people into a group near one of the doors. Kris picked out the gunman
closest to him and crawled carefully towards him on his belly. Tackle
him, get his gun, turn the tables... at least that's the plan, Kris
thought as he inched forward.
Behind him, a voice said, "All right, that's all of them!"
Another voice said, "Okay, take care of the others!"
Bolt-actions chinked around the room. Kris leaped up screaming and ran
the remaining thirty feet towards his target gunman. Fire lanced through
his body as bullet after bullet pierced his chest and back. The room
filled with screams and gunfire as other dignitaries and nobles fell to
the rain of bullets. Kris staggered back to his feet and tried to
advance. More bullets struck him as he rose, and Kris fell a good
fifteen feet away from his original quarry.
"Red! REDNECK!!" a woman's voice screamed as the gunfire died,
and Kris tried to move, to see whose voice it was.
And then Kris passed out.

The Cheltopolis police and Royal Security troops surrounded the
Jerushi Tower, lights flashing in the cool winter night. The police had
arrived to discover the ground floor deserted save for the wounded lords
and ladies in the reception hall. The elevator doors and stairwell
accesses were all welded shut- all save one staircase, which was well
guarded by heavily armed defenders.
Standing by a mobile command center in the main driveway, Police
Lieutenant Lerin Brosyl, a gray-muzzled Cheltari Salusian, stood and
sipped a mug of coffee, sighing. Of the thirty or so people they'd found
in the reception hall, eight were in intensive care for their wounds,
another ten were in emergency surgery fighting for their lives, and the
others were beyond rescue. Salusian medicine had advanced a great deal
since even the days of the Salusia-Zardon Wars, but it still could do
very little for a bullet through the skull.
Limited questioning had produced a list of the attendees to the
reception; of those attending, twenty-one were unaccounted for, all
ambassadors to the United Galactica Assembly. Among the missing were the
Andorian representative, the Rodian ambassador, half a dozen ambassadors
from Salusian colonies and eight ambassadors from Earther colonies.
As Lt. Brosyl sipped his coffee, and tried to figure out some
way of cracking the puzzle before him, a voice called out, "What has
happened here, officer?"
Brosyl turned to see a blond-haired young woman in the uniform
of an officer in the Royal Space Navy. The humanized Salusian stared at
the shining building, eyes flashing with anger held carefully in check.
Brosyl checked the collar tab, noted the peaked crown, and gulped. "Your
Imperial Majesty... my liege..." he stammered.
"Oh, stuff the titles and give me a report," Asrial growled.
"Ah... well, apparently some terrorists lured a group of nobles
and dignitaries into a trap under cover of an informal diplomatic
reception. We're still unable to account for about twenty or so of the
ambassadors; eighteen people are hospitalized, and another fifteen are
dead. We've tried calling into the offices on the upper levels; no
answer so far."
Even as Brosyl spoke, a radio operator inside the command center
said, "Lieutenant! One of the terrorists wants to talk to you!"
Asrial said, "I'll speak with him." The radio operator goggled
at the young woman, but with a nod from Brosyl, he gave the handset to
Asrial. "This is Queen Asrial. Who are you and what do you want?"
A heavily accented voice- German Earther, Asrial guessed from
her years on that planet- replied, "You may call me Gregor. As for what
I want... well, your Majesty, I already have what I want.
"In a moment your man shall receive a list of our captives. In
one hour precisely a ship shall arrive to transport my people and our
captives offworld. Once we are safely away, we shall arrange for the
ransom of the captives. Interfere in the pickup, or attempt to rescue
the captives, and they will die, one by one. Do you understand?"
Asrial's face curled into an angry frown as she whispered, "I
understand."
"Excellent," Gregor chuckled. "Please put your man back on, my
little Queen Asrial."
Asrial slowly handed the receiver back to the radio man.
Quietly she strode over to the curb, and then with a yell of
pure rage, she drove her fist into the concrete, driving a decent hole
into the ground. A few people stared in wonder at the feat; it wasn't
often that the full strength of a Salusian of the true Imperial line was
demonstrated.
Rubbing her hand slightly, Asrial returned to the mobile command
center, where the radio man checked off names from a list as he listened
to the radio phone. Finally, the man replaced the receiver on its cradle
and handed the list to Lt. Brosyl. Brosyl looked over the list, finally
saying, "They are holding twenty people, all told. That leaves us with
one person unaccounted for, however..."
"One person?" Asrial asked. "Which one is that?"
"The ambassador from the Confederate Freespacers Alliance,"
Brosyl said.
Asrial's eyes lit up. "Let me see that list," she said, and as
she quickly scanned the list, her angry scowl was replaced by a smile.
"Redneck," she chuckled to herself, "Kris, you poor man..."
"Your Majesty, are you all right?" Brosyl said.
"I'm fine," Asrial smiled, looking up at the tower, "but those
rotten bastards in the tower are in deep, deep shit."
"Um... as you say, Your Majesty," Brosyl said. "Shall I call the
palace and ask them to send a car down?"
"No, that won't be necessary," Asrial said. "I think I'll wait
here and watch the fun."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," Brosyl said, and he took a deep
pull on his coffee. One of these days I ought to retire...

Kris lay in an air conditioning duct and rested, allowing his
system to finish repairing the damage the bullets had done. Kris had
come to a few moments after the gunmen had taken their captives and
vanished. Despite the pain, Kris had managed to pull himself up one of
the hall's support columns and climb into a ventilation duct. A little
crawling and blood trail later, he'd climbed up a couple of stories, and
now he looked down into one of the elevator lobbies on the third floor.
More to the point, he looked at a couple of snack vending
machines just across the lobby from the elevator doors.
Fifteen minutes earlier, two gunmen had emerged from the
elevator, separating and vanishing down the halls. Kris had watched as
first one and then the other passed by the lobby on their patrols.
Meanwhile, every now and then a quiet -ping- echoed from the air vent as
one bullet after another emerged from Kris' rapidly healing body. Kris
waited patiently, healing as completely as possible, waiting for the
goons to make just one more pass.
And when they do, Kris thought, it's snack time. His stomach
rumbled its agreement; regeneration had taken a lot out of him, and the
prolonged strength boosts hadn't helped either. To a certain extent, he
could recover energy from the environment- light, heat, ambient
electricity- but his system also burned biochemical energy with each use
of his abilities, and that could only be replenished in one way.
About a minute later, the goons met again in the lobby.
"Nothing?" the first one, a thin man with long, greasy black hair, said.
"All quiet on this end," the other, a largish man with
cinnamon-brown hair, replied. "Think Gregor'd mind if we got a snack?"
he muttered, nodding to the machines.
"You know Gregor," Long-Hair grumbled. "Always the plan, always
the timetable, always the Masters. They may be his masters, but some of
the rest of us can't wait to be shed of this op, get me?"
"You and me both," Generic replied. "Well, give it another
forty-five minutes and we can grab our paychecks and fade into the
woodwork. Personally, I wish we could do the waiting up top watching the
prisoners, not stuck down here chasing fluorescent shadows."
"It's a paycheck," Long-Hair shrugged. "Back to work." The two
parted, striding away slowly down opposite corridors. Kris counted to
thirty silently, listening very carefully to the fading footsteps, and
then he gently forced the vent cover off, careful not to let it drop to
the floor.
A few seconds of maneuvering and contortions later, Kris slid
from the vent to the floor. In all directions, the corridors lay empty
and quiet. Kris released a long, low breath, relaxing slightly, and then
he turned to the vending machines.
Hate to have to damage this stuff, he thought, but dammit, I'm
hungry...

The gunman who called himself Jellicoe (not his real name)
glanced down the corridor towards the main elevator lobby. In forty
minutes, he would be well out of this solar system, and the last thing
he wanted was to have to shoot up some local cops trying to play hero.
Jellicoe watched for a few seconds, fumbling with a lock of his
long, greasy hair. When he saw no movement, he relaxed and turned to
continue his patrol... wait a minute... Turning back, he noticed the
vending machines, service doors wrenched open, empty wrappers and cans
piled beneath them.
What the hell? Into his walkie-talkie, Jellicoe said, "Gregor?
This is Jellicoe, something suspicious on third floor, I'm checking it
out. Over."
Gregor's voice replied, "Understood. Thirty-eight minutes to
pick-up. Keep me informed. Gregor out."
Jellicoe slipped his walkie-talkie back on his belt and raised
his rifle, walking slowly down the corridor towards the lobby. Twice, he
turned and crouched at a hint of movement in the corner of his eye,
finding only empty, fluorescent-lit halls and offices. Finally he
stepped into the foyer, gun wavering, eyes flicking nervously around
him. Once, twice, three times his eyes tracked around the room, down the
corridors, seeing nothing.
Not relaxing for a moment, Jellicoe stepped cautiously up to the
vending machines. Something had grasped the service doors and ripped
them open, ruining the locks and warping the panels. Whatever that
something was had then gone on to devour bag after bag of snack chips,
granola bars, fudge cookies, and cans and cans of fruit juice, soda, and
iced tea.
The sheer volume of food and drink consumed frightened Jellicoe
deeply. What kind of monster was this? If it was intelligent, it had to
know there were hostiles in the building, why would it stop for a snack?
Intelligent thought wasn't Jellicoe's department. Holding the
rifle in his right hand, he reached around to his walkie-talkie with his
left and said, "Gregor, this is Jellicoe. We've got trouble down here!
Something big ripped the doors off a couple of vending machines and ate
all the food!"
"Calm down, Jellicoe," Gregor's accent deepened slightly with
irritation. "Maybe, perhaps, you are exaggerating slightly?"
"I'm telling you, there's something down here!" Jellicoe
squeaked. "I need backup, quick, before-"
The wrapper from a Rice Krispies Treat floated down from the
ceiling.
Jellicoe looked up, saw nothing, and spun around. Above him, a
blond-headed, red-bearded human clung to the ceiling, grasping a section
of paneling in his hands and bracing against the wall with his legs.
"Hi," the man said.
Jellicoe paused only half a second before screaming and bringing
his rifle up to bear on the new target. Before his gun rose past his
waist, the man on the ceiling swung down and kicked Jellicoe hard in the
chest, knocking him down. Jellicoe fumbled with his rifle, then wheezed
as the man landed directly on his stomach, hitting the solar plexus.
"Night-night," the man said, and Jellicoe blacked out.

Gregor sat behind a desk in one of the penthouse offices,
holding a walkie-talkie and listening, as two guards and a radio
operator stood and waited. His immaculately-tailored brown business suit
matched his equally immaculate brown hair, brown beard and mustache; in
fact, were it not for his piercing amber eyes, Gregor might never have
been noticed in any crowd of humans. Those amber eyes, thought, those
eyes almost glowed with frustration as he heard Jellicoe's nervous
ravings cut off suddenly.
"Rogers, where are you?" Gregor said. "Back up Jellicoe, now!"
"I'm on it," Rogers' voice said. "I'm in the lobby now...
Jellicoe's on the floor, he's still breathing. There's food wrappers
everywhere. Something really went to town on-"
Gunshots sounded over the channel, and then silence. "Rogers,
report!" Gregor shouted into the walkie-talkie. "Rogers, Jellicoe, God
damn you, answer me!"
In reply, the faint sound of someone munching on a Krispie treat
echoed over the channel.
"Damn," Gregor said. Setting the walkie-talkie aside, he picked
up the receiver on the desk's telephone and dialed a short number. A
couple of rings later, a voice replied, "Asrial here."
"I told you not to mount any rescue attempts, Your Highness,"
Gregor growled. "You will order your men out of the building at once, or
we start in with the ambassador from Giesi."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gregor, but we don't have anyone in the
building," Asrial replied. "It seems you didn't quite finish off one of
those 'non-essential' guests earlier... and if I know him, he's just a
little bit annoyed at being considered non-essential."
"Then you know this gentleman," Gregor said.
"As a matter of fact, I served with him once," Asrial said.
"Back when I was serving as an officer in the Wedge Defense Force. He
was a starfighter pilot on the Wayward Son, before he resigned his
commission and went independent. His call-sign is Redneck, if that means
anything to you."
"I'm afraid it doesn't," Gregor said, calm voice belying a
worried face. A former WDF officer, Detian no doubt, loose in the
building...
...well, Detians were tough to kill, but not impossible. It
looks like my men will earn their pay on this mission, Gregor thought to
himself. "Well, my little Queen, this Redneck person will find it most
difficult to express his... annoyance. I do hope you are not too fond of
him. Remember, thirty-five minutes, Your Majesty. And no rescue
attempts... otherwise all these ambassadors shall find breathing a
sudden and interesting challenge." With that, Gregor replaced the phone
on the cradle.
"Contact the landing ship," he said to the radio man. "Inform
our masters that there is a minor complication."

Kris closed the elevator cab's escape hatch behind him. After a
moment's thought, he took off his half-shredded uniform overtunic; it
looked like crap, and it restricted his movement somewhat. The necktie
followed, leaving Kris in a hole-riddled white dress shirt and his grey
slacks. Kris looked in irritation at his formal boots, but decided to
leave them on; better to have something between his feet and whatever
booby-traps the enemy might have.
As Kris picked up his newly acquired rifle and adjusted the
extra ammo in his pockets, a voice blurted from his stolen walkie-
talkie. "Hello? Mr. Redneck?" the heavily German-accented voice asked.
"Mr. Redneck, can you hear me?"
Kris ignored the voice, strapping the radio to his waist and
reaching for the elevator cable. The voice continued, "Mr. Redneck, if
you do not answer me, I will shoot this prisoner."
A female voice spat some choice expletives in Salusian at the
captor, then said, "Redneck, or whoever you are, this sorragi bastard
has a gun to my head. I would appreciate it if you answered."
Kris sighed and spoke into the walkie-talkie, "What do you want,
whoever you are? I'm a little bit busy."
"You may call me Gregor, if you like," the voice purred. "And I
would very much like to know what you have done with my associates, Mr.
Redneck."
"Well, one of them is sound asleep... and when he wakes up,
he'll be in a universe of pain. His buddy came in shooting... he won't
be wakin' up, ever again."
"That is unfortunate," the man said. "Of course, you understand
we will have to kill you before we leave."
"You're welcome to try, buddy," Kris growled. "As I recall, your
goons gave it their best down in that reception hall. They didn't do
very good with it."
"Evidently not, Mr. Redneck," the voice said. "Ah... Redneck,
you are American by birth, are you not?"
"Yeah," Kris growled.
"I have studied you Americans, Mr. Redneck," Gregor said. "You
all seem to have this silly, misguided delusion that you are like those
cowboys in the old movies, the lone hero who kills the villain and
rescues the lady just in time to ride off into the sunset. Well, Mr.
Redneck, I am sorry to say you are not John Wayne, the villain has
already won, and the lady... well, the lady is fairly fat and quite
ugly, so I doubt you'd want to save her anyway." More Salusian invective
could be heard in the background.
"Well," Kris said, "pardon me if I keep trying."
"Oh, but of course... oh, and by the way, you are in the
elevator shaft on the fourth floor, correct?" the voice said.
Gunfire slammed the elevator doors across from Kris, punching
dents and then holes into the heavy metal plates. Kris instinctively
leaped up the shaft, enhanced strength thrusting him up several floors.
At the top of the leap, Kris grabbed the cable with his free hand and
wrapped it around his arm. His rifle dangled from its shoulder strap,
and a low chuckle emanated from the walkie-talkie as the gunfire tapered
and died beneath him.
"Goodbye, Mr. Redneck," the voice chuckled.
Kris brought the walkie-talkie up to his face and said,
"Yippie-ki-yay, mother fucker." Pausing to place the radio back on a
belt clip, Kris concentrated and, legs blurring, kicked a hole into the
elevator doors opposite him. Swinging through the hole, he hit the floor
rolling, rising up with rifle in hand.
The two gunmen guarding the lobby didn't have a chance.

"Get over there!" the gunman growled, shoving Alysa Wryns, the
ambassador from the Salusian colony of Giesi, back into the group of
various ambassadors spared the massacre downstairs. The matronly
ambassador straightened her dress, attempting despite the situation to
present an image of dignity.
The room the ambassadors had been imprisoned in lay empty and
featureless; no furniture, no fixtures aside from the lights in the
ceiling, no decorations at all. The beige carpet matched the wallpaper,
effectively depressing the ambassadors more effectively than any normal
prison ever could.
"what news do you have?" Rieto Baas, the Rodian ambassador,
asked. His antennae trembled slightly with anxiety, and his solid black
eyes conveyed the worry he felt.
"Apparently, someone named Redneck is causing grief to our
captors," Alysa said.
"Redneck?" Debbie looked up from her seat against the wall. For
the first time since the gunfire had begun, a smile appeared on her
face. "Are you sure it was Redneck?"
"Quite sure," Alysa said.
Also smiling, T'haska, the Andorian ambassador, said, "Well,
then, we are not as without hope as might have been thought. I thought
Mr. Overstreet was dead, but evidently the Great Mother has seen it not
to be so."
"Overstreet?" Alysa asked. "You mean the Freespacer ambassador?
That's this 'Redneck' person?"
"this explains much," Rieto whispered. "i have suspected
ambassador overstreet to be immortal or something like for some time
now, but i had no definite knowledge."
"You people don't know your galactic history, then," Debbie
said. "Red was the founder of the Freespacers. The original. He's seen
more combat than most Salusian officers. I can't think of anyone more
qualified to save us... unless the Wayward Son was here... or maybe the
Solo twins... or..."
"Thank you, Ms. Robinson," Alysa said. "I don't concern myself
much with the history of such minor nations myself. If Mr. Overstreet
can rescue us, fine, but from what I have seen of him on the assembly
floor, I have my sincere doubts."
"You would," Louis Gordon, the ambassador from Kane's World,
chuckled. "Me, I think he'll be great."
"in any case, do you think we can help him in any way?" Rieto
asked.
Alysa laughed. "Aside from calling our captors names, I doubt
there is much we can do," she said. "So long as they have their weapons,
they can overpower us. We must bide our time, wait for an opening... and
maybe then-"
"Break it up!" a guard growled, walking over to the knot of
ambassadors. Without breaking stride, he slammed the butt of his rifle
into Alysa's head, knocking the Salusian unconscious.
Debbie glared at the guard, his stubbly face watching them
impassively. "What did you do that for?" she shouted at him.
"The boss wants you all kept alive," the guard growled. "What
kind of 'alive' you are doesn't matter to me." Pointing his gun
offhandedly at the prone Salusian, he said, "She talked too much. I shut
her up. Keep quiet or I'll shut the rest of you up." Waving the gun more
forcefully at the rest of the ambassadors, the guard resumed his
position by the door.
The ambassadors kept quiet.

Asrial sat in the command center and waited as the radio
operator worked on isolating the specific band the walkie-talkies inside
the building were using. The task would have been child's play for a
military-grade communications unit, but Asrial didn't want to risk the
lives of the captives within the building by making Mr. Gregor nervous.
As a result, the inferior civil police equipment was being gimmicked
into doing tricks it had never been designed to do.
Of course, the limitations of the police equipment were
infuriating. The police were limited to thermal scans and hi-sensitivity
sound pickups, both of which were made ineffective by the tower's
construction. No military scans, no radio monitoring (yet), and a storm
unit was out of the question.
Which meant that Asrial would simply have to take matters into
her own hands. It wouldn't be the first time.
A quiet thump from the command center's roof startled Asrial
into wakefulness; she'd dozed off without noticing. The radio operator
had already dropped his equipment and was staring up at the ceiling, not
noticing the shadow which dropped past the open doors and flowed into
the room.
When a strange female voice said, "We're here, Asrial," the
radio operator screeched and jumped backwards, pulling loose equipment
from the shelves and looking around for the source of the voice.
Finally, he noticed a figure standing beside Asrial, dressed in black,
raven hair cascading to her shoulders, mask concealing most of her face.
As the ninja greeted Asrial, a youngish-looking human, fairly
nondescript in appearance, stepped into the command center behind her,
followed by a startled Lieutenant Brosyl.
"Your Majesty," Brosyl stuttered, "I don't know how these two
got through our security, but-"
"Oh, please be quiet, Lieutenant," Asrial said. "This is my
consort and his bodyguard. I doubt they're here to harm me."
"We brought your new armor, Asrial," the young man said. "Ichi
wanted me to leave my sword at home, but I insisted."
Asrial smiled. Jeremy wasn't the violent type, but that had
never stopped him from wanting to protect his loves. "Jeremy," she said,
"thanks for the offer... but I'd feel a lot better if you were on the
sidelines for this one."
"The government would feel better if you stayed on the
sidelines, too," Ichi-Kun said. "I'll signal you when it's safe for you
to move in. After all, this is my specialty."
Asrial chuckled a little, saying, "You know Leeanna won't
forgive us if Kris gets seriously hurt."
"Like he could get seriously hurt," Ichi replied. "I'll keep an
eye on him, don't worry. See you later." The ninja turned, swung herself
up through the door onto the roof, and vanished into the night. Asrial,
Jeremy and the radio operator stared out the door for a moment, and then
Asrial said to the radio operator, "Haven't you isolated their frequency
yet?"
The radio operator blushed slightly and said, "Well, Your
Majesty, I was close, but they've stopped using their walkie-talkies.
It's hard to isolate the enemy's command frequency when they aren't
using radios."
Asrial sighed. "Right. Never mind, then, just keep listening and
trying. If you want me, Lieutenant, I'll be suiting up." Smiling to
Jeremy, Asrial walked out of the command center, followed by her
husband. Brosyl and the radio operator stared behind them for quite some
time, trying to put their professional demeanor back together.
It took a few minutes for the radio operator to realize he was
drooling slightly.

Kris had tried returning to the air vents and climbing. That had
been stopped by several rounds of gunfire through the duct walls.
Then he'd tried climbing up the underside of the stairwells.
That had played out when he'd had to take out another goon, and the
gunfire had attracted the attention of his companions.
Now he stood just inside the door of an office on the
twenty-seventh floor, waiting for an opportunity to get to another
elevator. Twelve floors to the top, where supposedly the captives were
being held.
How to get up there? Kris thought to himself. Twenty minutes,
maybe, and they'll have flown the coop. Twenty minutes, twelve stories,
and I'm sitting here waiting on them to make a move...
The surest path to defeat is to allow yourself to be reduced to
reacting to the opponent's moves. Somehow, Kris thought, I have to seize
the initiative.
And that means I'm liable to get hurt. Oh well.
Goosebumps rose on Kris' arms, and he shifted his rifle into a
ready position. Now and again, Kris could sense esper talents, or the
potential for them; a minor talent was near, very near...
"Konbanwa, Redneck-kun," a voice whispered in his ear.
Kris released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Ichi!" he said quietly. "Damn, I hate it when you do that!"
"Perhaps you would prefer me to return to the palace?" Ichi
purred.
"NO!" Kris said. "No, I need a favor, Ichi. I can account for at
least five goons out of commission, but I need a clear path to the
hostages and a decent count on what the opposition's strength is up
there. Can you take care of that?"
"I think I can," Ichi smiled. "By the way, I took care of three
more on the way up here. And Asrial is ready to back you up on my
signal, if you want it."
"Thanks," Kris said. "Get moving, I'll see about providing a
distraction."
"I am already there," Ichi's voice said, and the ninja vanished
into the halls of the tower.
Kris sighed and picked up the walkie-talkie. Now, what would be
a good way to distract the bad guys?

"GOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING, CHELTOPOLIS!!!"
Gregor almost jumped out of his seat at the loud voice coming
out of the formerly silent walkie-talkie. Why would that Redneck person
want to call attention to himself now?
"Hidehidehidehi, this is the Redneck comin' at you on K-HERO,
your favorite anti-terrorist broadcast network, and here's a big hello
to all you nice, peace-loving high dignitaries held hostage, and to all
the rest of you, well, I'd be making out my funeral arrangements if I
were you!" The voice sounded inordinately cheerful, on the point of
total manic collapse in fact, but Gregor had no doubts now as to the
ability of the voice's owner.
"Now, just in case you want to appear on the show, all you have
to do is watch your local neighborhood stairwell, 'cause me and my
favorite gun will be appearing soon in person at a floor landing near
YOU! And I'll be giving out autographs and free bullets for all the
kiddies! And now, for the first song of the evening, let's look back at
a true golden moldy from the late, great 20th Century!
"Me... and my SHA...DOWWWW.... strollin' down the
A-VE-NUUUUUE...."
Gregor switched the radio off and drew a small pistol from a
shoulder holster, walking out to the room with the hostages inside. As
he left, he said to the man at the radio rig, "Tell the masters we'll be
waiting on the roof. Then get a rifle and help the others hunt that
bloody bastard down! And tell them to finish the verdammt job this
time!"

The door to the captives' room slammed open, and a man in a
brown business suit walked in holding a pistol. To the guards, he said,
"Go get the others together. I want that bastard dead, now! We leave in
fifteen minutes!" As the guards walked out, the man waved the pistol at
the captives. "We're going up to the roof," he said. "Get moving."
One by one, the ambassadors stood and filed out the door. Debbie
helped Alysa to her feet; the Salusian was still a little bit woozy from
the blow she'd taken. As Debbie and Alysa walked past Gregor, Alysa
looked straight into Gregor's amber eyes, trading glance for glance.
Gregor stared right back, refusing to allow her defiant anger and hatred
to disturb his calm exterior.
Alysa turned away, took a step- and then swerved back around,
knocking back Gregor's gun hand. For a moment, the two struggled against
each other; then Gregor brought his knee up into Alysa's gut, doubling
her over, and in a swift motion Gregor brought the gun down and fired a
round into Alysa's skull. Blood and brains splattered on Debbie's denim
skirt and on the wall of the room, and Debbie screamed loudly.
"If anyone else has ideas of heroism, there's a bullet in this
pistol for them as well!" Gregor shouted. "My employers want you alive,
but make trouble for me and I'll make sure you never repeat the
mistake!"
Debbie stopped screaming, staring instead at the angry man in
the still-immaculate brown suit. This monster, Debbie thought, means
what he says. He's ready to kill all of us if he has to.
Gregor shoved the barrel of the pistol into Debbie's ribs.
"Move. Now. Or you may join your friend on the floor."
Debbie nodded and took one shaky step, then another, out the
door. The remaining ambassadors followed, careful not to step on the
corpse lying across their path. When the last captive had passed, Gregor
closed the door behind him, looking around carefully before herding the
ambassadors towards the stairwell.
Behind him, a dark-haired shadow crawled back into the air vents
and began making her way back to Kris. Had circumstances been different,
she might have killed Gregor herself, as she wanted to.
Of course, life was seldom favorable. As her grandfather had
said long ago, all things in life average out to odds of five-to-three
against; watch your bets. A live ninja has a greater chance for revenge
than a dead hero.
In any case, a rescue would be useless in any case if the
hostages died in the process. No, time rather to go back and finish off
the loose ends. Then, she and Kris could take out the head at their
leisure.
Thinking of the dead Salusian on the penthouse office floor, Ichi
looked forward to the event with sincere pleasure.

"AAAAAND... once again, by popular demand, 'Trigger Happy,'
originally recorded by good old Weird Al Yankovic, re-recorded by my
very dear casual acquaintance Martin Rose and the Clay Pigeons, and now
soulfully rendered by yours truly!" Kris said as he fired up the
stairwell at the five or six people gathered ahead of him. Three more
bad guys lay stiff on the landing behind him, having failed in their
attempt to encircle him on the landing. Unfortunately, both his ammo and
his singing voice were about to play out on him, and when that
happened... well, pain would have a new dimension to it, he grimly
suspected.

"No, you can't take my guns away, I got a Constitutional right!
Yeah, I gotta be ready if the Commies attack us tonight!
There's no feeling any greater
Than to shoot first and ask questions later
Now I'm
Trigger happy, trigger happy every day!!!"

A voice in his ear said, "Not bad, but don't give up your day
job."
"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please," Kris said,
nodding to the ninja standing in the shadows behind him. "K-HERO is
going off the air, but don't worry, you'll be seeing me sooner than you
think! So long for now!" With that, he threw the walkie-talkie at the
landing above him and leaped down to the lower landing, diving through
the doorway and scrambling around to stand behind it. Ichi followed a
moment later, somewhat more gracefully.
"The hostages are guarded by one person. All the rest of the
thugs are about to come through that door," Ichi smiled.
"Excellent," Kris said. "Are you ready for some football?"
"You know it!" Ichi grinned, and then the door burst open. Five
gunmen stumbled through it, fanning out facing all directions.
Except, that is, behind them.
A few seconds later, five gunmen lay incapacitated on the floor.
Ichi quickly went around the group, trussing them up and administering a
handful of herbs to each sleeping beauty to make sure they stayed
asleep.
Finally, Ichi stood up. "Well, one more to go, and ten minutes
to do it in. Shall we proceed, oh mighty Redneck?"
"After you, oh beauteous kunoichi," Kris replied.
"Oh hush," Ichi said, "we wouldn't want Leeanna to get jealous
again, eh?"
"What can I say?" Redneck said. "I have a thing for Japanese
girls."
"Oh? So, when are you going to ask Yuri Daniels out on a date?"
"Cute. C'mon, let's go make the donuts," Kris said. Together,
the Freespacer and the ninja started up the stairwell.

Eight minutes, Gregor thought to himself, looking at his watch
and trying not to tap his foot in irritation. Eight more minutes and
nineteen ambassadors would be en route off-planet, and his masters would
have what they'd asked of him, and he could wash his hands of this
operation. Every step of the plan, since the initial planning, seemed
cursed by fate.
In front of him, the ambassadors- humans, Salusians, Andorian
and Rodian- watched Gregor carefully, especially the pistol twitching
dangerously in his right hand. Each looked at the others, looking for
some sign of resistance, each finding terror and uncertainty. This
wasn't a situation which called for connections, or for quick talking,
or for the art of the deal. This was a matter for heroes... and simply
put, none of the people here thought of themselves as the heroic type.
The door to the roof creaked open. Spinning around, Gregor fired
two shots into the doorway.
The empty doorway. Gregor stopped and stared for a moment,
wondering. Then a low moan from behind him made him turn around; a woman
dressed in black lay curled up on the ground, clutching a bleeding left
leg. Ichi's leap hadn't quite been in time to keep her out of harm's
way. Beside her, Kris stood holding an empty rifle pointed at Gregor's
chest, while Gregor aimed his pistol at Kris.
"Ah, Mr. Redneck, I presume," Gregor said. "So glad we could
meet face to face. And I see you brought a lady friend," he smiled. "I
told the little Queen that wasn't part of the deal."
"Go... to... Hell," Ichi growled still holding her shin.
"Oh, not before you, my dear," Gregor said. "And not before I
kill one of the hostages. After all, a promise is a promise." Looking
over the ambassadors crowded near the edge of the roof, he said, "Pity I
had to kill one already, but I'm sure another of these would be equally
useful. Ah, I know. Since I had to kill the lady ambassador from Giesi,
perhaps now I'll kill her good friend." Aiming the pistol at Debbie, he
said, "After all, it's not nice to keep your friends waiting for you in
the afterlife."
Kris yelled, "Like hell!" and leaped high overhead, brandishing
the empty rifle like a club. Gregor looked up, shifted his aim, and
pumped four rounds into the airborne Redneck. Kris hit the ground
sprawled out and bleeding, rifle skidding across the roof away from him.
Gregor quickly pulled an ammo magazine from his inside jacket
pocket and swiftly reloaded his pistol, aiming the gun at the
ambassadors threateningly. "Your saviors are dead or incapacitated," he
growled. "In five minutes, we will all go on a little ride in a ship,
and in a couple of days you'll all be returned safe and sound to your
loved ones... once we're through with you, that is." he smiled grimly.
"I don't think so."
Four slugs bounced off the roof at Gregor's feet. Gregor pivoted
on his toes, turning to see Redneck, glowing with a dull red aura,
standing and walking towards him. With a cry of raw fear, Gregor pumped
round after round into Kris' chest; this time, the Freespacer didn't
even pause. One by one, the wounds closed up, bullets falling to the
roof one by one.
"NO!" Gregor said. "Dammit, Detian or not, you should go down!
Why the hells won't you die??"
Kris made a fist, willed a staff into existence, and was
rewarded with a seven-foot bar of humming red light. "Because, my dear
murdering companion," the Redneck growled, swinging the staff in a
circle over his head...
"I'M NOT A DETIAN!" Kris brought the staff into a wide swing,
severing Gregor's head from his shoulders cleanly. Sparks flew from the
stump of his neck, and for a moment Kris saw the ends of wires and
servos through a slight smoky haze. Then, suddenly, Gregor's body glowed
hot white, and vanished. The head followed suit, leaving a small charred
spot on the roof where it lay.
Kris sagged to his knees, allowing the beam-staff to vanish, and
took several deep, labored breaths. With his concentration broken, the
pain of the multiple gunshot wounds flowed over him, fading to a dull
ache a few seconds later. Through the pain, he heard his stomach rumble
loudly; apparently, the trick with the staff, plus regenerating all
those wounds, had run through his energy reserves almost completely.
The whine of a small set of military-grade personal repulsor
drives grew louder in Kris' ears. Looking up, he saw a woman in a
powered armor closely resembling the basic design of a Valkyrie fighter
turned into a bikini. The armored woman held a gun roughly the size of
an average anti-armor weapon, which she handled with all the ease of a
child's BB gun.
Asrial Arconian, Empress, Queen of Salusia and Protector of the
Realm, had formally arrived.
"You're... a little... late," Ichi said, struggling to her feet;
wobbling for a moment, she stifled a cry of pain and collapsed to her
knees.
"Holy Mother!" Asrial gasped. Looking at Red and then at Ichi,
she keyed a panel in the arm of her suit and said, "This is Asrial. The
building appears to be secured. Send a medical team immediately, we have
wounded."
"At once, Your Majesty," Brosyl's voice replied.
"Asrial!" Kris shouted. "Their pick-up ship will be here any
minute! We need some sort of reception for them!"
"Already on it, Kris," Asrial smiled. "One of our patrol ships
intercepted their ship a few minutes ago. They self-destructed rather
than be taken alive."
"Crap," Kris said. "Looks like we'll never know what this was
all about, then."
Debbie heard this and asked, "What do you mean, what it was all
about? Wasn't it just a kidnapping attempt?"
Kris shook his head. "If they were going for ransom, why would
they try to kill off a bundle of nobles and dignitaries they could get
more money for? Why pick a very specific list of UG representatives? No,
this was something deeper than a ransom... don't see what at the moment,
though..."
"Oh, I wonder why," Asrial smiled. "Some mysteries you have to
live with. Don't worry about it. You've done more than your share of
work for the evening."
"Not quite," Kris said. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked
over to the group of ambassadors and said, "My fellow representatives,
let's talk about that UG Fleet budget..."

Late that night, Kris stumbled into his apartment, thinking only
of the nice, soft bed a few steps away. Every trace of adrenalin had
vanished, and now only with a supreme effort of will could he keep
moving at all. It had been one of those nights.
"So, Kris, did you have a nice evening?" a voice piped behind
him.
Kris jumped forward, adrenalin back in force, searching for the
source of the voice. He only relaxed a little bit when he saw Washuu
standing in the doorway behind him. "Wh.. Wha... Washuu, don't do that,"
he gasped.
"Ah, musta been one hell of a reception," Washuu grinned. "Am I
going to read about this one in the papers?"
"You could say that," Kris said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I
need to get some rest."
"Aw, c'mon, Kris," Washuu grinned, "you can tell me all the
sordid details. Don't be shy."
"Well..." Kris smiled a tiny smile of his own. "I did get to
fulfill one fantasy..."
"Fantasy? Which one?" Washuu's smile turned into a leer. "Did it
involve bananas? Ice cream? Black leather with spikes? Maybe even...
lemon curry?"
"No, no..." Kris smiled innocently. "I just finally got to say
something I've always wanted to say..." With that, he grabbed Washuu's
shirt collar, hoisted her up, and set her gently in the hall, saying,
"Yippie-ki-yay, mother fucker!" With that, the door slammed, and Washuu
stared at the closed wooden door irritatedly.
"Oh, drelt," she cursed mildly, "at this rate I'll never get him
in the sack." Shrugging, she walked away, muttering, "I was sure he was
the lemon curry type..."

A couple of days later, in an office deep within a tower in
Tokyo, Earth, a balding, overweight scientist knelt at the feet of a
dark-headed man in a black suit. By the hand of the seated man lay a
small bowl, in which lay twenty tiny blobs of greyish jelly, or
something jelly-like; bio-chips, originally developed by MannSystems,
Inc., specifically designed to alter the personalities of the implantee.
"So, Dr. Henries," the man known as Largo said, "you altered the
Trinetra chip to act as a sleeper chip, activated by remote, and decided
on your own initiative to implant these chips in twenty United Galactica
representatives, individuals chosen both for their influence and their
relative anonymity. You then failed to give your operatives sufficient
support and information to accomplish this entirely unauthorized
mission. And now I find the results of this failure printed on the front
pages of every newspaper, in the headlines of every news broadcast, in
every media outlet the United Galactica has to offer!"
"It was meant to be a gift, Master!" Dr. Henries gasped. "An
offering to your magnificence, to use as your will decreed! And it would
have succeeded, had this 'Redneck' person not come into the picture!"
"Well, Doctor," Largo growled, "that is what separates leaders
like myself from followers like yourself. One must expect factors to
change, unexpected obstacles to crop up. You failed to anticipate. No,
strike that. You FAILED. Period.
"Doctor, you have demonstrated in the past week both
insubordination and failure. I punish both very severely in this
organization. Tell me what possible reason there could be for me to
spare your life."
"But, Master!" Dr. Henries said, bowing at Largo's feet.
"Master, I am a true and loyal servant! I won't fail you again! Next
time- uk!"
Largo grasped the doctor by the throat and effortlessly lifted
him into the air, slowly crushing the man's larynx. When Henries stopped
twitching, Largo tossed the limp form into a corner, saying, "Wrong. The
correct answer was, 'There is none, Master.' Consider yourself
corrected."
Pressing a button on his chair, Largo summoned one of his
Security Bumas, who picked up the limp form without a word. Turning and
bowing to its Master, the Buma said, "What is your wish, Master?"
Largo handed the bowl of biochips to the Buma and said, "Have
these destroyed. No traces. Make sure nothing remains to link Dr.
Henries' little escapade to GENOM."
"As you wish, Master," the Buma said. "Will there be anything
else?"
Largo paused to think for a moment. Dr. Henries' basic concept
had something to recommend it... but next time, perhaps, it would be
better for the original creator to continue his work...
"Arrange a meeting with Dr. Mann," Largo said at last. "I wish
to discuss some... future developments... with him..." After a moment,
Largo waved the Buma in dismissal, and the Buma turned and left to do
its Master's will.
Largo spent 4.7 seconds considering possible plans, and then
returned to his paperwork. The matter of Redneck and Dr. Henries'
project had already vanished completely from his mind.

A week later, after the Assembly had finally adjourned for the
year, Queen Asrial personally awarded Kris a knighthood for, as she put
it, 'service to the Crown not owed by fealty or debt, but given freely
by a brave heart and a true friend.' The official title of Knight Patron
of the Realm, as high an honor as a person not a subject of Salusia
could receive, carried no peerage or other award with it, but the huge
medal with all its spikes and flares would make a snazzy addition to
Kris' full formal uniform.
That evening, Kris lay in his bed in his Cheltopolis apartment,
looking at his medal for the fiftieth time and thinking. In one hour,
he'd seen more combat, felt more alive, than in forty years of speaking
and listening and dozing in the Assembly. Simply put, he was getting
desperately bored with the political life. Deep inside, part of him was
shouting for excitement, adventure, and really wild things.
Another part of him recoiled at the killing he'd had to do that
night. Sure, he'd shot down hundreds of fighters, ordered the deaths in
battle of thousands upon thousands of the enemy, and killed not a few
men in personal combat before. Experience, however, didn't make the
guilt any less. Just as one part of him craved adventure, another part
recoiled at the thought of more battle and bloodshed.
And then, Kris thought, summoning a small ball of light into
place, there was this new ability to consider. This time, he'd made it
work; many times, before and since that time on the roof, he'd failed.
He'd need to practice, learn just what he could do with this new talent,
and make it a sure and reliable skill instead of an off-again, on-again
thing.
What to do, Kris thought, what to do.
A knock at the door roused Kris from his reverie. "What is it?"
he asked, not wanting to rise from the bed.
"Delivery from the Neo-Texas ambassador!" a male voice said.
Kris groaned and walked to the door, unlocking it and opening
it. Two boxes, one white wrapped in red ribbon, one wrapped in green
paper with a red bow, sat in the arms of a short Salusian delivery man.
As Kris set the boxes aside, the man produced a pad and pen. "Sign,
please." Kris scrawled his signature on the pad, returned the pad and
paper, and closed the door. From the other side, he heard, "What? No
tip?"
Sighing, Kris looked at the two boxes. The white box: he knew
who sent that, and all things considered he wasn't up to opening a
Washuu Surprise Box right now. The other, though, was labeled TO: RED,
FROM: COUSIN DEBBIE. That one, he opened carefully.
Inside, Kris found a small ceramic statue of a knight with
gleaming sword, standing atop the Reluctant Dragon, which feigned death
with a small, secret smile. A note inside read:

To my gallant knight, from the family. We miss you.
--- Debbie

Kris sat down and, for a second, felt very, very old.
Then he chuckled, set the statuette on the nightstand, and began
to get ready for bed.
Tomorrow promised to be a very busy Christmas.

...and life goes on...

AUTHOR'S NOTES

My thanks to Lawrence "R-Type" Mann, for his advice on this
story, and for his inestimable assistance with several upcoming
projects. Watch this space for further developments...

More thanks to Phil Moyer and Robert Shannon for their
cheerleading.

Also thanks to Gryphon, MegaZone and ReRob, for the obvious (and
less obvious) reasons.

Further thanks to Ben Dunn and the creators of TenchiMuyo!.

Finally, thanks to the creators and stars of "Die Hard," from
whom the idea for this story was shamelessly stolen.

Those of you who have managed to get completely through REDNECK:
THE QUAGMIRE PROJECT might question the developments in Redneck's
character... you ain't seen nothin' yet. }:-{D If Redneck is based on
any outside character besides a more straitlaced, agressive version of
myself, it is in the direction of Ryoko from TenchiMuyo!. Which is to
say, not much, so don't worry about it.

The beamstaff idea is due to the fact that of all melee weapons,
quarterstaff is my favorite. Also, it seems like everyone and their
brother-in-law has a lightsaber or similar gimmick, and I wanted
something slightly different.

Diana Robinson is my father's sister. Kaleb John Henry Robinson
is her grandson. For the purposes of UF, the family was fruitful and
multiplied, but since Redneck was all over the galaxy _except_ Earth, he
lost track of his family.

Lessee, what else?

Oh, yeah. A few people are asking about the loose ends regarding
romantic entanglements in Quagmire Project, especially how Leeanna's
loves, and the Airbats problem, were glossed over. I intend one of these
days to go back and do a companion volume to fill in the parts I had to
leave out for some semblance of story pacing, which fleshes out JJ's
loves, Takuya Isarugi's dilemma, and Leeanna's search for love and
companionship.

Also, someone asked, "what happened to Leeanna's sisters?" This
will be touched on in flashback in another upcoming project, which at
this point looks to be every bit as long as Quagmire Project.

Finally, yes I do intend to do a non-UF fanfic one of these
days. Just give me some time, eh?

... That's it, nothing to see here, move along.

Kris Overstreet, will write for food... | "The universe is already mad.
http://www.txdirect.net/users/redneck | Everything else is redundant."
Member of Eyrie Prod., Unltd. | --- Londo Mollari, BABYLON 5
http://www.eyrie.net/ | ***QUESTION EVERYTHING***