[UF][FanFic] Golden Age: Rite of Passage

[Captain Violet, Spectrum]

THE PALACE-IMPERIAL, NEAR SAENAR
PLANET SALUSIA, CAPITAL OF THE UNITED GALACTICA
THURSDAY 1 JANUARY 2015 TSC, 02.23.00 HOURS

Saenar, the capital city of Salusia's planetary government,
blazed with light even at this early hour. It was, after all, New
Year's Day. Salusia's calendar had only been synchronized with that
of Earth for the past fifteen years, but the Salusian people,
always up for a celebration, had fallen into the tradition with
consummate ease, at least outwardly.
Still, as he stood in his study at the Palace-Imperial, King
Jerka (Arconian) VI, Ruler and Protector of Imperial Salusia, knew
full well that there were some elements of his populace who were
unhappy with the transition, even today. The people of Salusia had
voted to change their calendar to that of Earth -- the people of the
United Galactica as a whole had done the same -- to honor the
betrothed of their beloved Princess Asrial Arconian. An ordinary
Earthman had forged an alliance between militarily and industrially
insignificant Earth and the mighty Salusian people, and with them, the
whole of the UG... but there were those on Salusia who thought the
whole thing verged on sacrilege.
One group had been particularly worrisome of late: the
so-called Sword of Salusia Party, a radical, ardently nationalistic
group, had been loudly lobbying in Parliament, the press, and the
United Galactica Assembly in Cheltopolis for one of two alternatives
they felt were the only right ones. Either Salusia should invade and
conquer the weak Earthers and destroy -their- culture, or, should the
King decide to remain weak-kneed, then Earth should at the very least
be expelled from the UG and all trace of its membership expunged.
Jerka had ignored the Sword for some time, but of late they
were becoming louder and more vociferous. Their apparent leader, a
Kumbarai by the name of Alois Greub, was a charismatic and powerful
speaker, and his hypnotic nationalist tirades gained more and more
public acceptance as he traveled the planet preaching his gospel of
hate and paranoia. Many of the Salusian people were starting to
think, right or wrong, that he had a point, and that worried Jerka.
For, while he had no special fondness for Earthpeople himself,
his daughter, who would succeed him, did, and for all his gruffness
and irascibility, Jerka Arconian could never deny his daughter
anything she wanted. As such, he had become something of a sponsor
for the Earthers, and while he, too, was a well-liked and charismatic
figure, there were those who felt he was getting too old for the job.
It was only a matter of time, he knew, before Greub or one of his
cronies in Parliament demanded his abdication. He could refuse --
Parliament aside, the ruler of Salusia was still an absolute monarch
-- but to do so might ignite the fires that were smoldering in the
populace, and plunge the planet into civil war.
Worse yet, he knew full-well that Greub would never willingly
allow Asrial to ascend her father's throne, not without renouncing her
betrothal to the Ambassador from Earth, Jeremy Feeple. And that,
Jerka knew very well, his stubborn daughter would die before doing.
He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but the political climate being
what it was, he could no longer convince himself that there was
absolutely no chance of it.
Fortunately, she was safe right now, safely off the planet.
Some years ago she had decided to get the military service expected of
every Salusian monarch out of the way, and had, rather than serving in
the Imperial Guard or the Royal Navy like all her predecessors, joined
the Wedge Defense Force. That move, like many others, had roused some
controversy, but Asrial was never one to go any way but her own, and
it had never seemed to concern her. She was popular with the people
despite (or perhaps because of) her dogged individualism; but Jerka
wondered whether she was popular enough to stem the rising tide of
dissent, as he had proven unable to do.
He checked his chronometer and discovered that it was nearly
02.30. Time to go and face the music; he had called a meeting of the
Knights-Defenders, the highest order of national hero in the Salusian
register. The Order of Knights-Defenders of the Salusian Crown
Imperial were a group of men and women who had shown valor and
sacrifice for the Imperial Family, and pledged to defend the Crown
with their lives. Jerka was hoping that this body could help him in
his hour of need, and he had to try to organize them before the
situation turned truly ugly.
Not all the Knights had been able to come, he saw as he
entered the conference chamber behind his study. At least two he had
instructed -not- to come; Captain MegaZone and Commander Hutchins of
the Wedge Defense Force he had asked to remain where they were and
protect his daughter, who was, after all, serving with them. They had
sent transmissions acknowledging, and assuring him that all was well,
and he took some heart in that.
Lincon Schel, the Knight-Commander, sat at the far end of the
long conference table; ranked along either side were the rest of the
corps, twenty of Salusia's finest warriors. They came to seated
attention as the King entered the chamber, and as he took his seat at
the head of the table, he bade them be at ease.
"I believe you know why you are here," he said to them, "so
there is no need for long explanations. The political situation on
Salusia is grave, and I have reason to believe that the Crown is in
danger. I must ask you, my Knights, to stand by me in this crisis, to
help me organize the Imperial Guards against this threat, and
hopefully stave off civil war."
Schel, tall, fine-boned and handsome, got to his feet.
"Respectfully, Majesty, I see only one way to avert civil war at this
point."
"And that way is?"
Schel's voice and gaze remained rock-steady as he replied,
"Your immediate abdication and exile. The disowning and banishment of
your daughter and heir, the Princess Asrial. The complete dissolution
of House Arconian and the investiture of a new Imperial Family."
Jerka sat in utter, stunned silence for a moment. When he
found his voice, it was a whisper: "Are you mad?"
"I regret that this is the only alternative I can see,
Majesty, but it is. I am sworn to protect Salusia and its people, and
your removal is the only thing I can see that will accomplish that
task. I am truly sorry, Majesty... but you and your family must go."
"You are sworn to defend the CROWN, Schel!" Jerka raged, anger
helping him to find his voice again. "Not the STATE, not the PEOPLE
-- you are a Knight-Defender of the SALUSIAN CROWN! What you are
speaking of is nothing more than a coup d'etat!"
Schel nodded solemnly. "More or less, Majesty. Regrettably,
our interpretations of my role do not seem to match. I cannot, in
good conscience, assist you in further diluting the Salusian culture,
in poisoning the Salusian mind. You were a good ruler once, Jerka,
but your dotage on your mad, Earth-loving daughter has rusted your
iron will. I will not stand beside you while you destroy our
heritage... and neither will anyone else in this room."
"This is madness! Will -none- of you fulfil your oath to me?
Not ONE?" Jerka looked from face to face along the table; none of
them met his eyes. "Turncoats and cowards, all of you!" he railed,
slamming a fist down on the table. Then, his expression darkening, he
continued, "Very well, then. If I must save my throne by myself, then
that is what I will do."
"I'm afraid the time for that has come and gone," came a voice
from the conference room's door. "As usual, Jerka, you've missed your
cue," continued the silk-smooth, threateningly calm voice of Alois
Greub, radical nationalist and leader of the Sword of Salusia.
"What are -you- doing here?" Jerka demanded.
"Why, my friend Lincon here let me in," Greub replied with a
smile as he entered the room and stood with a hand on Schel's
shoulder. "Did you not dismiss the palace guards for the evening's
celebration, secure in the knowledge that your loyal Knights would
protect you for the night?"
Jerka's face was nearly glowing red through his fur with
outrage, and for a moment, he was utterly speechless.
"Lincon, arrest our erstwhile monarch, if you would."
"Yes, m'lord," Schel replied, and stood, moving around the
table and approaching the King.
"You won't get away with this, you bastard," Jerka spat at
Greub. "The Imperial Guard won't take the overthrow of their rightful
ruler lying down -- neither will the Royal Armed Forces."
"The RSAF are already in my pocket, my dear Jerka," said Greub
with that same calm, dangerous smile. "I subverted their generals
months ago -- many of them are nationalists, patriots, the same as
myself. The Imperial Guard are a different matter, I will grant you,
with their blind loyalty to House Arconian... but my forces far
outnumber them, so if they will not be turned, then they can be
exterminated."
"When she hears of this, Asrial will -- "
"The Princess is not a threat to me either," Greub replied
with perfect confidence. "When she hears that you have disowned her
and abdicated in favor of me, she will be so crushed that she will
never -want- to return to Salusia again... and even if she did, she
would be unable, since my subsequent banishment order will be
perfectly legal." Greub smiled as his lieutenant rounded the corner
of the table. "You've lost, Jerka."
"Perhaps," Jerka replied, "but I'm not going down alone." So
saying, he ducked back away from Schel and, drawing a blaster from
somewhere in his uniform, shot him stone dead. Turning, he drew a
bead on Greub, but before he could fire again, cool and efficient Mara
Ness, the table's only Kumbarai Knight, had knocked him against the
wall with a double-tap from her own sidearm.
"You won't... get away... with... this... " Jerka repeated as
he slid down the chamber wall, crimson blood soaking his orange and
black uniform tunic.
"I already have," Greub replied sweetly to the royal corpse,
and then shook his head. "Shame about Lincon, though. I suppose
you'll have to be the Knight-Commander now, Mara."
Ness nodded as she put away her pistol.
"Well, now. Has anyone here any objection to my ascension to
the Throne, upon the well-witnessed abdication and suicide of the late
Jerka VI, of the duly-designated head of House Greub, Alois I? No, I
thought not." Smiling, Greub took the seat at the head of the table,
put his feet up, and sighed. Then his beatific expression was marred
by a look of irritation, and he sat up, putting his elbows on the
table.
"Mara... get someone in here to clean up this mess, would you?
Then I suppose it would be good to inform the populace of the tragic
news. And I'll want to transmit a message informing the ex-Princess
of her banishment as soon as day-shift begins."
"You know she won't stay away, m'lord," said Ness.
A slow smile crept over Greub's face, and his black eyes
twinkled as he said to her, "Oh, Mara, my dear, I'm counting on that."
Mara Ness had no reply; she bowed and left the room.
"Tobal," Greub continued, turning to another of the Knights.
"Go down to the city and find the younger princess, what's her name.
You know the one I mean. Bring her back and confine her to her rooms
until I have an opportunity to arrange for her exile. If she resists,
kill her."
The lanky, unsmiling Knight nodded and left.
"Henrik," said Greub, gesturing to his tall, somewhat portly,
green-shirted chief of party security. "The Earther Ambassador,
Feeple, will be arriving at Cheltopolis Airport within the hour. Take
a squad and arrest him - arrest, mind you. I cannot publicly execute
a man your trigger-happy goons have already killed."
"Leave it to me, Excellency," said Henrik, bowing and leaving
the chamber at a brisk march. Greub's parting comment grated on him a
little - "trigger-happy goons" indeed! - but even as the leader of the
Swordsmen, the Sword of Salusia's Department of Party Security (so
nicknamed even though most of them had never held a sword in their
lives), he was hardly in a position to demand an apology.
"The rest of you, leave me. I have to think."
The once-Knights-Defenders filed out of the room, leaving the
new King of Salusia with his victim.

/* James Horner "Main Title" _Apollo 13_ */

Eyrie Productions, Unlimited
presents

UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES GOLDEN AGE

RITE OF PASSAGE

starring
MegaZone
Benjamin D. Hutchins
Asrial Arconian
Kris Overstreet
and
Jeremy Irons as Alois Greub

Screenplay by
Benjamin D. Hutchins
Kris Overstreet
and
MegaZone

Special Editing Support by
The Eyrie Productions Team

"Ninja High School" characters created by
Ben Dunn

ED-209 originally designed and created by Craig Davies and Peter Ronzani

Weapons supplied by the Morgan Custom Shop

For Derek Bacon. This one's not particularly wacky, Derek, but I
thought of you at least six million times while working on it... --G.

Copyright (c) 1997 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited

CHELTOPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
CHELTOPOLIS, SALUSIA
02.45 HOURS

"Well, you're all checked out, Your Excellency. Welcome back
to Salusia," the Customs agent smiled, returning the diplomatic visas
and passports to the dark-haired human woman before him.
Ichi-Kun Ichinohei accepted the documents with a smile,
handing them over to the nondescript young man beside her. "Thank you,
sir, but he's the ambassador, not me," she corrected.
"Oh, that's right, sorry," the grizzled Vindari Salusian
chuckled. "Forgive an old man his little slips."
"That's all right," Jeremy Feeple answered, pocketing the
documents in the breast pocket of his old Army-surplus
jacket. "Happens all the time."
"C'mon, Jeremy," Ichi smiled, picking up her small suitcase
and purse, "the driver from the Palace will be waiting."
"Do you really think they're waiting?" Jeremy asked, picking
up his suitcase, Ichi's dress bag, her overnight case, and her other,
much larger and heavier, suitcase. "It's- uggh! It's three in the
morning!" he grunted, trying to find some way to balance the load on
his back.
"Well, that's your fault for insisting on the quickest flight
out from Earth," Ichi smiled. "What's the matter, my company not
enough for you?" she grinned.
"Well, there's a lot here that I have to do," Jeremy said.
"Negotiating the revisions to the joint defense agreements, reviewing
the staff at the embassy..."
"Making wild whoopee with Asrial when she comes in on
leave..." Ichi smiled.
"Making wild whoopee with... hey!!!" Jeremy's face flushed
brilliant red as he glared at Ichi, who was giggling uncontrollably.
Once the giggle fit subsided, she continued, "You know, you're
probably the most famous Earthman ever to visit Salusia... and nobody
recognizes you. I wonder why that is?"
"Beats me," Jeremy said, recovering somewhat. "My guess is,
all the attention I got back home is getting balanced out by the
inattention I get here."
"Well, Quagmire is an interesting place," Ichi
shrugged. "Still, I much prefer being here. After all," she smiled,
"nobody here's looking to take you away from me and Asrial."

Ichi was wrong, both in the way she meant her statement and in
another, more sinister, way.
Baroness Leeanna Zard'al, a Judge in the Justice Department of
the Zardon Republic, had arrived and cleared Customs an hour earlier,
and currently awaited Jeremy in the main concourse of the Cheltopolis
spaceport terminal. Ostensibly, her mission was to conduct
negotiations for expanded jurisdiction in both Earth and Salusian
spheres of influence. In reality, she looked forward to the visit as a
new chance to court the two burning passions of her heart: Jeremy
Feeple and Princess Asrial Arconian.
At the same time, Henrik Gult, along with a full company of
Swordsmen, had just arrived and begun combing the terminal for
Jeremy. By one of those curious coincidences which seem to occur
around Jeremy, the troopers had passed right by him while he had been
filling out customs forms without even noticing him and gone on to the
incoming flights to check the passengers.
At the moment, one of Henrik's lieutenants was reporting their
results, or rather lack thereof.
"What do you MEAN, you couldn't find him??" Henrik roared. "By
all the prophets and minor spirits, how could you MISS him? He's a
HUMAN. His flight arrived on time. You even had a hologram to identify
him by!" he shouted, waving the tiny cube in question in the
lieutenant's face.
"But sir," the lieutenant replied, "all these humans look
alike. Besides, he looks so... so... -average,- sir. How are we
supposed to pick him out of the crowd?"
"Because, you fool," Henrik growled, "NOBODY ELSE LOOKS THIS
ORDINARY!" He flung the cube into the lieutenant's chest, barking,
"Seal the complex off! Go through every cubic inch of this facility,
question every human you see! Check the restrooms for feet and search
the luggage conveyors, just for laughs!! I WANT FEEPLE FOUND!"
A glint of green caught the lieutenant's eye as he endured one
of his superior's well-accustomed rants, and he looked up to see
Leeanna, across the massive main concourse from him, remove her helmet
and brush her hair back in her fingers.
"Hm," remarked Lt. Pels. "There's something you don't
see every day. That's a Zardon Judge over there, sir."
His rant interrupted, Henrik looked distractedly up.
"Obviously," he said, identifying the familiar uniform at a glance.
"From Mega-City One, or I miss my guess, and fairly
high-ranking, too," mused Pels.
"How," asked Henrik icily, "do you know -that-?"
"You can tell by the uniforms, sir," replied the lieutenant,
oblivious by design to his superior's tone. "I wonder what she's
doing here?"
"Why don't you find out?!" Henrik sputtered. "Go and ask to
see her papers." Note to myself, he thought. Once the Earthers are
dealt with, I must convince Greub that Zardon should be next to fall.
Leeanna looked up and smiled as she spotted something back
towards the line of metal detectors which separated the docks from the
main concourse. Henrik followed her gaze, looking at a few humans
coming through the OUT doors: a fat blonde woman in a frilly pink
dress; a dark-skinned man in a suit of Corellian cut; an ordinary kid
with a girl with long dark hair; an old tourist couple; a -
Ordinary kid?
He forced his eyes to focus on the truly insignificant-looking
example of anthropoid life, who was waving to the Zardon woman and
smiling. He looked at the holocube to compare features; hair-colored
hair (a sort of compromise between brown and blonde without being
either), neutral-colored eyes, average build, average height-
"That's HIM!" he gasped. Waving over the troopers he had kept
near the main doors, he said, "Surround that human and his girl... and
do it -quietly.-"
Nodding, the greenshirts moved around the edges of the
concourse, quickly surrounding the pair, Jeremy enthusiastically
greeting Leeanna while Ichi eyed the Judge with open hostility. As
soon as the troopers were in place, Henrik strode confidently forward,
allowing himself a smile of his own. Halfway across the concourse, he
shouted, "JEREMY FEEPLE!"
All eyes were immediately on Henrik as he strode up to Jeremy
and Ich, brushing past Leeanna in the process. Jeremy looked up at
Henrik and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"
Henrik brought himself up to the most impressive stance he
could, declaring loudly and clearly, "Jeremy Feeple, by order of His
Majesty King Alois the First, Emperor of Salusia, I am placing you
under arrest as an enemy alien under suspicion of espionage, sedition,
conspiracy, and treason against the Salusian state."
Eyes narrowing and hardening, Leeanna quickly tied her hair
back into a ponytail, and replaced her helmet on her head. Years as a
street Judge had given her a preternatural sense of impending trouble,
and in this situation, she didn't even really need it to smell a
problem. Assuming that wasn't just the fat guy's cologne...
"Now just a minute!" Ichi protested. "What about King Jerka
and Princess Asrial? What happened to them?"
"Jerka has abdicated and, tragically, committed suicide,"
Henrik smirked. "He has named Alois Greub as his successor. Asrial
Arconian, if she knows what is good for her, will avoid Salusian space
in the future. If she does not..." Henrik's smirk grew wider. "...then
the Crown cannot be responsible for the consequences." Nodding to the
troopers, who had quietly closed in on the couple, he said, "Seize
them."
"Jeremy, RUN!" Ichi shouted. Her thumb moved across the handle
of her suitcase, and from a side panel, a long, gleaming katana sprang
out into a high, graceful curve overhead. With a mighty leap, Ichi
sprang over Henrik's head, grasping the sword in midair and cutting
away her dress as she fell. When she landed, her clothing consisted of
the dark leotard and sash she wore when 'on the job' as the heir to
the Ichinohei ninja clan... and personal bodyguard of Jeremy Feeple.
"Run where?" Jeremy replied, eyeing the surrounding circle of
Sword troops dubiously.
From behind Henrik, Leeanna shouted out, "Hold it right there!
Drop your weapons and prepare to be judged!" Turning, Henrik found
himself looking into the business end of an oversized pistol - a
top-of-the-line Justice Department Lawgiver II. "Court is now in
session!" the Zardon Judge barked, her visored gaze leveled at the
tall Salusian commander.
"You have no jurisdiction here, bitch!" Henrik growled.
"Collaboration with a known terrorist, Alois Greub, ten
years," Leeanna answered. "Attempted armed kidnapping of a diplomatic
official, twenty-five years. Sexual harrassment, two years." With a
small smirk, she added, "Contempt of court, ninety days."
Henrik's face grew dark under the fur. "I want Feeple alive,"
he growled, "but these women must die. NOW!"
Before any of the troopers could move, the Lawgiver
spoke. Five loud, explosive shots rang through the concourse,
punctuated at the end by the loud thump of Henrik's lifeless body
hitting the floor.
"Conspiracy to murder a Judge," Leeanna growled. "Death."
The lieutenant who had been reporting to Henrik a few moments
before barked, "Get them!" and aimed his blaster rifle at the gold
Justice Department shield in the middle of Leeanna's helmeted
forehead. Even if the blast failed to defeat the helmet, she wouldn't
be going anyplace for a while.
A shuriken struck the barrel of the rifle, shattering the
collimator lens and diabling it. Even as she threw the star, Ichi
leaped forward, knocking down the trooper nearest to Jeremy in one
kick. "Jeremy, damn it, run!!" she shouted, shoving him back with one
hand as she slashed open another trooper's guts with her blade.
Blaster fire erupted in the concourse, and the few remaining
bystanders scrambled for cover. Ichi leaped and cartwheeled through
the fire, dodging bolt after bolt, slashing with katana and shuriken
as she found the chance. Meanwhile, Leeanna had dragged Jeremy to
cover behind a large decorative planter and was picking off the
troopers one by one.
Glancing around her, Ichi saw more and more troopers gathering
from around the terminal. There were just too many of them to continue
fighting here. They had to get out of the terminal, and fast. "We need
an exit!" she gasped, leaping over to where Leeanna and Jeremy knelt
behind the planter.
Leeanna smiled and said to her Lawgiver, "Hi-X."
The red LEDs on either side of the weapon cycled down and back
up with a quiet whir and click, and a mechanized voice replied,
"Selected."
Smiling, Leeanna aimed for a large metal panel about forty
feet away. "Get down!" she said, shoving Jeremy to the floor. A second
later, she fired, flattening herself as a glowing sphere shot from the
gun to the panel.
BOOM.
Metal and masonry flew everywhere. A small piece of shrapnel
streaked past Leeanna's head, barely missing her as she flattened. As
the smoke began to clear, she could see the upper rungs of an access
ladder revealed by the blast. "Into the maintenance tunnel!" she
gasped. "Move!"
Ichi flipped into the hole, sliding down to the corridor
beneath, dimly lit by auxiliary service lights. Jeremy soon followed,
landing in her waiting arms. Leeanna followed a second later, pausing
only long enough to take a gold brick from her belt and press the
side. "Move!" she shouted, shoving the two Earthers down the
corridor. As she ran behind the three, blaster bolts and bullets
rained into the hole.
Then, the small explosive charge blew, throwing the three of
them off their feet and sealing up the hole behind them. "Are you two
all right?" Leeanna asked when the dust began to settle.
"Fine," Jeremy replied, and Ichi nodded agreement.
"Well," Leeanna sighed, safeing the Lawgiver and returning it
to its holster, "where do we go from here?"
Ichi dusted herself off, cleaning and sheathing her katana as
she said, "Well, I for one don't believe Asrial's father would step
down until he died. He was murdered."
"We have no proof," Leeanna said.
"But reasonable suspicion," Jeremy pointed out.
"Not that it matters. Alois Greub has a list of charges
against him longer than the Chiisai Zardon Elevator. Now that he's
revealed himself, I can act." Leeanna sighed a little bit, and
muttered, "If I don't get shot by the first Salusian trooper who sees
me..."
"There must be some troops still loyal to... to Asrial,"
Jeremy said. "We'll find some of them and figure out what to do
there."
"Good plan," Leeanna nodded. "Which way do we go?"
Jeremy looked around them. The service tunnels branched out
around them in all directions, seemingly endless. After a moment's
thought, he pointed to a tunnel bearing northeast. "That way," he
said.
"Are you sure that's a way out?" Ichi asked.
"No," Jeremy answered. "But it's as good as any other way."
"That way it is, then," Leeanna nodded.
Quietly and slowly, the trio set off into the tunnels beneath
Cheltopolis.

WEDGE DEFENSE FORCE SUPER DIMENSIONAL FORTRESS WAYWARD SON (SDF-17)
PATROLLING THE VEGA SECTOR
09.40 HOURS

It was a standard day on non-hostile patrol. Little activity
was expected -- Kilrah had been quiet since the end of the last war,
two years previously. Various members of the bridge crew went here
and there in the big room, performing routine duties. Chris Smith and
Jer Johnson were manning helm and tactical in place of Yuri and Kei,
who were on a 3WA operation. Chris was wearing a VR helmet and a
power-glove and seemed oblivious to his surroundings, while Jer was
tinkering with an X-Window-based toy in his main terminal window. q
was locked in an incomprehensible conversation with one of his
innumerable ham-subspace contacts. MegaZone, for once looking
comfortable in the center seat, was reading all the news on USEnet and
replying to three-quarters of it.
Surrounded by the near-officelike mass of terminals and
stations that was the Executive Officer's position was Senior
Lieutenant Asrial Arconian, currently serving as XO (thus freeing
Gryphon to take a semi-sabbatical and pursue his newest
hobby/obsession, robotics). She, like Smith, was wearing a VR helmet
and power-glove, and Zoner, as he looked up from his news to survey
his bridge, thought he knew what they were doing.
His suspicion was confirmed a moment later when Smith jerked
like a puppet whose operator has tripped and fallen off the back of
the stage, then turned around and said in Asrial's general direction,
"Oh, you bitch! I didn't even SEE you!"
"Gotta pay attention, Chris," Asrial replied with a smile, "or
you're dogmeat. Thusly... "
"Wha -- augh!!"
Zoner snickered and went back to reading his news, wondering
who the other two players in their CyberDoom deathmatch were.
Life aboard the SDF-17 was comfortable right now; there were
no major hostile actions, which left plenty of time for other
activities. The Grav-Ball League's annual playoffs had entered the
round of sixteen, and, as usual, Morgan's M-Deck Marauders were
dominating the pools; the billiards championship had reached the
semi-finals; the Rocket-Assisted Jai-Alai Association was in
pre-season training; the Drama and Stagecraft Society was in full
swing preparing for their spring performance of Wagner's _Tristan and
Isolde_.
q abruptly stopped babbling in whatever language he was using,
muttered something apologetic-sounding, and fiddled with some
controls; then he turned around and said, "Yo, like incoming
transmission from Salusian Central Command."
Zoner looked up, eyebrow crooking, as the rest of the bridge
crew stopped what they were doing and paid attention. "Really? On
screen."
Over the projection pit at the front of the bridge, a
holographic viewplane rezzed into existence, and on it was the smiling
face of Alois Greub.
"Greetings to the Wedge Defense Force," said Greub. "I am
Alois I, King and Protector of Imperial Salusia."
"Er, exqueeze me?" Zoner replied.
"You heard me, impertinent Earthman. I regret that it is my
sad duty to inform you all of the abdication and suicide of Jerka VI,
my predecessor."
There was a moment of stunned silence; then Asrial got to her
feet and went to the side of the conn, expressing her consternation
with the classic, "What?!"
"Ah, Asrial," said Greub, his face becoming somber in a
plasticene, insincere sort of way. "Your father, I am afraid, was
quite mad. No doubt the loss of your mother finally claimed him; it
has been eating away at him for some years. At any rate, he abdicated
his throne last night, declaring me his rightful successor. House
Arconian is dissolved. You are no longer an Imperial personage."
"You're a liar. I recognize you, Greub -- where is my father?
What have you done with him?"
"Sadly, your father took his own life after abdicating. I did
my best to stop him -- one of the Knights-Defenders, Lincon Schel,
paid for his devotion with his life. Jerka killed him before turning
his blaster on himself."
Fighting back tears, Asrial struggled to keep her presence
regal and commanding as she replied, "That's a lie! It has to be!"
Greub shook his head sadly. "You really are just like your
father... delusional. For your own protection, Lieutenant Arconian, I
am banishing you herewith from the planet Salusia and all her Imperial
territories. If you return, you will be institutionalized, probably
for the rest of your life. My advice to you is to remain with the
Wedge Defense Force, where your insanity will be valued and encouraged
rather than treated, since that is what you seem to want."
Asrial could not reply; slackening the muscles of her jaw
would have permitted her to simply burst into tears. Instead she kept
her face an iron mask and glared at Greub's image.
"You can't speak to an officer of mine that way," Zoner cut
in, half-rising from his seat. "Disowned, banished, Imperial or not,
and I don't give a DAMN who YOU are -- you do NOT speak to one of my
officers like that!"
"Calm yourself, ape," Greub replied. "Oh, yes, that reminds
me. On Monday morning, I will place before the UG Council a measure
demanding the immediate expulsion of the planet Earth from the United
Galactica, as well as the immediate dissolution of the Pact Galactica
with the WDF. Enjoy the weekend, Captain. On Monday afternoon, you
will be out of a job."
"You don't think you're going to get away with this, do you?"
Zoner replied evenly.
"Oh, I have no doubt in my mind," Greub replied. "I have the
Royal Salusian Armed Forces backing me up, including the Royal Navy.
You do not want me to turn their might on your homeworld, do you? Or
your shipyards?"
"I'd like to see you try it, you son of a -- "
"Careful, Captain. Don't provoke a war with rash words. I'm
sure if you are at all true to your vaunted WDF Code, you will wish to
avoid plunging the Galaxy into civil war."
Zoner glared, but said nothing.
"Good day, Captain, Lieutenant." The display zone flickered
into the Salusian Imperial Sigil, then de-rezzed.
Zoner turned to look at Asrial, who stood beside his chair,
fists clenched and lower jaw trembling.
"Asrial, are you okay?" he asked.
For a long moment, she gazed down at him, eyes watering and
quivering, fighting with herself. Then, letting out only a single
sob, she turned and fled the bridge.
Zoner watched her go, and then, cursing, punched a key on his
conn.
"Von Frankenstein Robotics," Gryphon's voice answered after a
couple of buzzes.
"Gryph, Zoner here. We've got a problem."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Get up to my ready room -- and if you see Asrial on
the way here, -bring her with you-."
"Will do. What's this about?"
"I'll explain everything when you get here."
"Okay."

Zoner paced his ready room, a largish conference room off to
the left of the bridge-level turbolift foyer, and waited, hands behind
his back. He was on the verge of having Security run a full-ship
sweep looking for his missing officers, or at least asking Eve to look
for them, but before he could get to the intercom, the door opened,
and Gryphon came in. He was dishevelled, to say the least, dressed in
an Engineering Division coverall which was smeared with grease and
burned in several spots. His hair, which he had taken to wearing
short on a whim a while back, was mussed and greasy, and his arms and
hands were filthy where he'd had them deep in the guts of whatever he
was working on.
He was also alone, Zoner was displeased to see.
"Sorry about the delay," Gryphon said as the ready-room door
hissed shut behind him. "As you can see, I never got the chance to
even wash up. I -did- see Asrial on the way up here, but I couldn't
get her to come with me... and believe me, I tried."
"Where is she?"
"Officer's O-deck. Staring-spot of choice for the thoroughly
upset -- what happened, anyway? She wouldn't tell me."
Zoner, with a few of his own editorial comments thrown in,
explained the message from Greub.
"So do we stand for that?" Gryphon asked, plopping himself
down in one of the conference chairs and putting his sneakered feet up
on the table. "I don't think we should."
"Neither do I," Zoner replied grimly.
"What can we do, though? If this Greub person really achieved
the throne through legitimate appointment by the previous King, he's
the rightful ruler of Salusia... he can do whatever he wants. If we
overthrow him by subterfuge or force of arms, then we're interfering
with the internal operations of a sovereign state."
"So?" Zoner replied without a pause.
"... OK, well, you have a point there," Gryphon conceded.
"The Wedge Defense Force exists to do what we feel is best,
with or without the agreement of established laws and governments,"
Zoner reminded him. "We were intended to outlive governments, outlast
entire dynasties if need be. Sometimes, people forget that -- Alois
Greub apparently has. He thinks we're just a hired mercenary army,
the paid equivalent of the United Galactica Department of Military
Affairs - he doesn't realize that we're -above the law-. He just
fucked with the wrong guys."
"True enough," Gryphon admitted. "Still... I don't think
military action is our best option here. Not on any kind of scale.
We're talking about the people of Salusia here, and the last thing I
want is for our guns to be aimed at decent people who've been duped by
this Greub jerkoff. And besides - I don't think the United Galactica
Assembly would look kindly on a military takeover. I don't want to
make the wrong step and throw the galaxy into a war we could avoid,
just because we wanted to prove a point. That's like getting into a
traffic accident because you had the right of way, and wouldn't swerve
to avoid a drunk because dammit you were right. Y'know?"
Zoner nodded. "Then what do you suggest? Some kind of
deniable commando operation? Go in, find this guy and take him out?"
"Cut off the head, and the body dies with it," said Gryphon.
"I think our first priority is to address what's happened on a more
personal level, though. With her father dead and her world in
turmoil, Asrial is going to need more immediate support, and it won't
help her for the two of us to be up in some ivory tower pushing
buttons."
Zoner nodded. "Officers' O-Deck, you said?"

Asrial heard the doors open, despite the fact that she had
locked them behind her, and stared resolutely out the window, the tips
of her primary ears twitching in annoyance. Didn't people understand
that a locked door represented a situation in which someone wanted
privacy? No, the people here seemed to think that a lock was an
interesting electromechanical puzzle, not a device with any particular
purpose.
It was strangely comforting, though, to know that locks could
still be bypassed in a universe which had suddenly lost all logic.
The footsteps coming across the carpeted O-Deck were uneven,
stumbling. [Oh, prophets,] thought Asrial to herself, [whoever it is,
they're drunk. You'd think intoxication would keep them from working
the locks, at least!] Turning, she prepared to give the intruder her
best attempt at a good shouting-at.
Instead, she stopped and took a step back with an astonished
gasp, for standing before her, looking haggard and unwell, was Helmar
Vant, one of the Knights-Defenders.
In obvious pain, Vant knelt on the O-Deck floor, bowed his
head, and spoke in the ancient and formal form of their native tongue:
>Majesty, I present myself to thee: Helmar Vant, a single, unworthy
knight.<
Asrial's breeding overcame some of her shock; stepping
forward, she touched Vant's shoulder and replied, >Rise, Helmar. Tell
me what has happened. Is it true, what they say of my father?<
Struggling to his feet again, Vant replied, >No, Majesty. It
is not. This is what truly happened: Thy father called a meeting of
the Knights-Defenders. All attended save the two who are on this
ship; they, thy father instructed to remain here and guard thee. The
King feared an uprising by the Sword of Salusia... little did he
know.<
Vant paused, as if the next part were hard for him to put into
words, and then continued haltingly, >Lincon Schel, our Commander...
he betrayed thy father, and all the other Knights followed him. I
kept quiet, hoping for an opportunity to act, but things unfolded too
fast. Alois Greub tried to have thy father arrested; he resisted, and
slew Schel. Mara Ness then slew thy father.<
>Mara?! Why??<
>I do not know, Majesty. I fear they have all gone mad.
Either that, or Greub has bewitched them. He is a powerful speaker,
and a persuasive man. His personality is forceful.< Vant lowered his
eyes again and continued, >Forgive me, Majesty. Thy father was
murdered before my eyes, and I could do nothing to help him. I waited
until the others were abed, and then made my way to the Imperial
Spaceport, pausing only to warn thy sister.< He winced, then added
ruefully, >At least, I -thought- they were all abed.<
It was only then that Asrial noticed the bloodily bandaged
wound in Vant's side, which was spreading fresh crimson under the
sodden dressing.
>Thou art wounded, Helmar. Speak no more; I will find a medic
for thee.<
>No,< Vant replied. >I must atone for my failure to defend
thy father, Majesty. Thou art the true ruler of Salusia; Alois Greub
has no proper claim. If he is to be prevented from severing all ties
with Earth -- from invading, for that is his true goal -- thou must
return to Salusia and destroy him. He has the Royal Armed Forces, it
is true, but he can only consider the Royal Navy loyal to him. His
conspiracy to seize power has many more roots in the Admiralty than
the Army General Staff, and he cannot yet consider the Army truly
loyal. Also, the Imperial Guards have gone into hiding, doubtless
thou wilt know where better than I. Field Marshal Rann awaits thy
command.<
Vant fumbled in a pocket, then pressed a cold, hard object
into Asrial's hand -- the gleaming gold signet ring of the Salusian
monarchs, decorated with a stylized Salusian equivalent of the letter
"A" (signifying House Arconian, and resembling a Greek sigma). >This
I recovered from thy father's body... Greub cares so little for
tradition that he refused to take it.<
>Enough, Helmar, enough. Thou must rest.<
>My life is forfeit, Majesty. I betrayed thy father's trust
in me.<
>Nonsense. Thou didst the only intelligent thing -- escaping
from the situation to warn me of Greub's treachery. Watching the
situation unfold and doing nothing, so thou couldst keep thy life and
warn me, was far braver than sacrificing thy life for my father. We
will mourn later, Helmar, together. For now, thou must survive -- for
thou must come to me once I have reclaimed Salusia, and be honored.<
Vant's grizzled face broke into a strained smile, pain nearly
but not quite forgotten. >I thank thee, Majesty... I am redeemed.<
The doors opened again, and Zoner and Gryphon entered the
O-Deck to find the unusual tableau of the old, veteran Knight leaning
on Asrial's shoulder, the bloody wound in his side soaking so
thoroughly through the wrapping that crimson droplets were spattering
the floor.
"Asrial?" said Zoner, uncertain what was going on.
"Quickly, help me!" she replied. "We must get him to sick bay
at once."

Once they had Vant secure in sick bay and were assured that he
would recover, Asrial, Zoner and Gryphon returned to the ready room.
Asrial informed the two Earthmen of Vant's news, which generally
confirmed their suspicions; then she paused, looked down at the
tabletop, and then looked up again.
"Will you help me?" she asked them.
"Don't be ridiculous," Zoner replied. "Of course we'll help."
"Aside from Vant, who's in no condition to help out, we're the
only Knights-Defenders left," Gryphon added. "And -I- haven't
misunderstood my oath."
"Nor I," said Zoner. "Here's what we have in mind... "

"OK, settle down, children," Gryphon announced as he entered
Pilot Briefing Room #4, over on the Prometheus, half an hour later.
The assembled pilots, all those who had been on standby alert, wrapped
up their conversations and turned their attention to the front as
their Chief of Starfighter Operations plopped a datapad down on the
lectern.
"As you've probably heard by now, there has been a shift in
power on Salusia this morning," began Gryphon. "The new regime is
decidedly against the alliance with Earth and with the Wedge Defense
Force. That's the bad news. The good news is that we have
considerable evidence that the new ruler, one Alois Greub, a
well-known radical Salusian nationalist, demagogue and terrorist
leader, did -not- achieve his current lofty position legitimately."
"Considerable," said Dave Ritchie with a knowing smile, "but
not conclusive enough for the United Galactica Assembly?"
Gryphon smiled, laid a finger against his nose and pointed at
Daver. "So direct military action against Greub's regime is out - the
UG would perceive it as an action against the legitimate power
structure on Salusia, and although Zoner and I don't think they can
take us, we really don't want to start a galactic war if we can help
it. What's more, if we can, we'd like to prevent Greub from starting
his own."
Gryphon tabbed a control on the lectern, and on the briefing
screen behind and above him, a map of a familiar part of the United
Galactica glowed into being. "The Royal Salusian Navy is currently
massing near Seltonia, ostensibly to regroup following the power shift
back home and carry out 'exercises'. Our intel indicates they're
actually forming up the vanguard for a Salusian assault on the
Centauri Sector - and an all-out invasion of Earth."
Gryphon waited for the murmur of consternation to fade, then
said, "We might be able to take them, but hopefully, we won't have to
try. I need six pilots for a deniable operation in Salusian
airspace."
Convinced that he was in danger of being drowned out by a
massive chorus of volunteers, Lt. Mark "Haywire" Luchini shot to his
feet, nearly dislocating his shoulder in an attempt to reach higher
than his relatively short stature would allow, and shouted at the top
of his lungs,
"MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!"
Since no other pilot had so much as twitched or coughed, this
sent the entire room over the edge into gales of howling laughter.
When the dust cleared, Gryphon continued, "I need -five- pilots for a
deniable operation in Salusian airspace. You must have no dependents,
no moral qualms about toppling what may be a legitimate regime because
we don't like their policy, and at least 800 logged hours or an
instructor's certification in the Koensayr BTL-A4 Myrmidon. Lemme see
those hands."
Gryphon considered the field, thought on it for a moment, and
made his selections.
"The rest of you will remain on standby. I expect that within
the next couple of hours, the SDF-17 will be moving to support the
Earth Defense Forces frontier line, in case we don't manage to head
off this war. Let's go over the deployments... "

Half an hour saw Gryphon passing through the third door on the
right, along the corridor leading from the main turboshaft to the
bridge - the door marked "EXECUTIVE OFFICER". In the outer office, he
was greeted by his current yeoman, an attractive human girl by the
name of Ellis. She was an efficient administrator and able to stay
calm when the office was under the most obnoxious of sieges; he knew
he'd have a hard time replacing her when the time came for her to move
on up the ladder. Who else would have thought of having three baskets
on her desk: IN, OUT, and, for the material she deemed worthy of the
Exec's personal attention, THROUGH?
"Good morning, Commander," she said, looking up from her
terminal as he entered. "General Todd from the Earth Defense Forces
is holding for you on line three, and you've got seven messages from
Commodore Overstreet with the CFMF."
"Thanks, Ellis," said Gryphon, scooping up the contents of the
THROUGH basket as he passed. "Tell General Todd I'll be right with
him, would you?"
After a quick thumb through his mail and a brief conversation
in which Gryphon outlined to a worried General Todd the WDF's basic
action plan, the WDF's Executive Officer put down his desk phone, sat
back in his chair, and momentarily reflected on how much he enjoyed it
when things started happening this way. The orchestration of
different elements, briefing people who needed to be briefed, making
sure all the players were in their right places - the people who said
the Executive Officer's job wasn't interesting didn't have the proper
appreciation for the special joy that comes from stage-managing.
And as for the much-fabled paperwork, well, Ellis saw to that.
Whistling a little tune, he picked up the phone and hit the
speed-dial button for Commodore Overstreet's office.
"Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, Lieutenant Bronsky
speaking," came a burly-sounding voice.
"Commodore Overstreet, please," said Gryphon.
"Who's calling?"
"Tell him it's Gryphon returning his call, he'll know."
"Hold, please." There was a burst of dreadful music,
country-style house dance, and then the familiar voice of former WDF
officer turned Freespacer Kris Overstreet came on the line. "Hi,
Gryph, three questions: How's Asrial; is this shithead Alois for real;
and when does the party begin?" Overstreet's normal Southern accent
was more controlled than usual, hard and to the point.
"Very depressed but heading for righteously cheesed; we don't
think so; won't be long now," replied Gryphon, forgetting entirely his
mental note to mention the poor quality of the hold music. "Let's
talk logistics."
"Okay. Hang on a second." There was the sound of a hand being
put over the mouthpiece of the phone, which didn't quite cover
Overstreet saying, "(Lieutenant, let Captain Jerani know his sister is
okay for now, and stand by for orders.)" Then Redneck returned fully
to the line as he said, "Okay, what do you need to know?"
"Are you aware that the RSN is gathering a fleet at Seltonia?
They say it's for maneuvers, but we have intel that points toward an
Earth invasion."
"Yeah, I'm aware," drawled Redneck. "I've been pulling in
what I can here to Zardon, but I didn't want to commit to a battle
plan until I knew what you were up to."
"Within the next couple of hours, SDF-17 will be moving to
support the EDF frontier line. We're taking a page from the RSN's
book and calling it an exercise. We let them shoot first, we don't
have to justify ourselves to the UG Assembly when the smoke
clears... our evidence that the Greub regime is illegitimate is enough
to convince -me-, but the UGA is another matter. If you want to hear
about our -other- plans, well, we'll have to secure the line."
"Right, then, just a sec..." There was a sharp electronic
blatter as Redneck activated a scrambler at his end; Gryphon punched
the key on his phone which would figure out what scrambler key the
CFMF command line would be using at this time of this particular day,
and a moment later, the line mostly stabilized. A couple of random
bleats and squawks died away as Overstreet fine-tuned the less
sophisticated equipment at his end. "...damn cheap encryptor parts,
OK..."
"OK. We have evidence that Greub got where he is by
subverting the Order of Knights-Defenders and assassinating Jerka.
Now, I didn't like the guy much, but that burns me anyway, y'know?"
Redneck released a long breath before answering, "I suspected
as much, only I didn't know he'd actually gotten the Knights in on
it. I take it Asrial's not taking it well."
"Not at the moment, but she's tough," said Gryphon. "It won't
be long before she gets past the initial grief, digs her heels in and
gets mad about it. Anyway, it looks like, at this point, the only
Knights-Defenders left who are both loyal and ambulatory are me and
Zoner. We're putting together a small force for a deniable operation
on Salusia - go in, find Greub, and kill his ass, to oversimplify the
objectives a little."
"Hm." For a couple of seconds, the line went silent. "Well,
then that leaves me with two questions. One, what can the fleet do for
ya, and two, what can -I- do for ya?"
"Best thing the fleet can do is join us in our rendezvous with
the EDF frontier forces, unless you get a better offer from the
Centauri. We can work out a standard subcontract for it. As for
yourself, I know you're an experienced insurrectionist... got any
orbital insertion experience?"
"Cap-drop? Once in training and once in action, and hated
every second of it both times. Give me a stealth transport any day of
the week, I'm a hell of a lot more comfortable -and- experienced with
'em."
"Actually, I was talking about sneakship insertion."
"Oh. Well, just a little bit... after all, that's how I got
into my current mess to begin with," replied Redneck with a grin in
his voice.
"Oh, sure," replied Gryphon cheerfully, "by -blowing- a sneak
job. That's supposed to fill me with confidence?"
"Hey, I did complete the mission."
"And scored in a big way somewhere along the line, if I recall
correctly," said Gryphon with a laugh. "All right, if you're
interested, there's a space open for you in the strike team."
"Yeah, I'm interested all right," Overstreet said roughly.
"Okay, let me see..." The hollow sound of Redneck typing echoed over
the line. "I'm sending the bulk of the fleet to join the Son ASAP.
Give Isarugi another promotion, he hates that, he'll be Captain
commanding the force. I'm withholding the Palendrom and two MASS units
to slip in beneath the Salusian defense grid. Ace in the hole in case
things go FUBAR."
"OK. Hopefully, we won't need them, they'd blow our
deniability," Gryphon pointed out. "Either way it's good to have
backup in place, anyway."
"Well, seeing as Kalen would refuse just about any other order
short of a direct assault on the palace, I'm glad you approve,"
Redneck chuckled. "Anyway, send me the rendezvous coordinates and
I'll be there."
"They're on the way," said Gryphon, turning to his own
workstation and bringing up a mailer. "Bring a lunch and your
favorite personal weapons, it's gonna be a long afternoon."
"Gotcha. Black tie and twin .40's, will do. See you
then..." Overstreet's voice caught for a moment, and he added
irritatedly, "Oh, yeah, and Washuu and the fish say hi."
"Uh, yeah," Gryphon replied, but the line had already gone
dead.
Gryphon finished dashing off the email with the rendezvous
coordinates, then xlocked his station and headed out of his office.
"Hold my calls, Ellis," he called over his shoulder on his way
out the door.
"Aye aye, sir," replied Ensign Ellis.

Perhaps an hour later, a nondescript spacecraft left the
SDF-17. It was a Corellian Engineering Corporation FB117 bulk
freighter, one of CEC's big, square, slow cargo vessels. Built to
haul hundreds of tons of bulk cargo - grain, water, crated supplies,
troops, what have you - the FB117 was still ubiquitous over a hundred
years after its introduction despite the fact that most of its
components were several generations outmoded, for the simple fact that
they -worked-.
This particular FB117 was one of the WDF's small fleet of
sub-ships, barely large enough to be capital ships, which were carried
within the SDF-17's cavernous cargo-docking bays. They served as
evacuation ships for crippled starships and space stations, survey
vessels, perimeter scouts, and a number of other useful things. This
particular example of the type looked innocuous enough, unarmed and
with only the standard tiny navigational-deflector generators visible
on its battered hull.
At the helm, Gryphon opened up the sublight engines -- which
were, in the typical FB117 fashion, underpowered for the ship's
tonnage and thus had to be run wide open at all times -- while Zoner
laid a course for Zardon into the navicomputer. One of the FB117's
outdated features was its hyperspace motivator drive, kept around
in some warships largely for its unusual tactical value in this day of
realspace-warp patrol ships and instant-fold war wagons, and in
freighters because it was still the cheapest FTL method known.
"It's ready," Zoner reported after a moment.
"Excellent." Gryphon reached forward, gripped the hyperdrive
throttles, and pulled them back. Outside, the stars smeared into
lines, and then the universe was gone. Operation PWEI had begun.
"I love that," Gryphon commented of the hyperspace transition.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
"Mm-hmm. We should look into fitting a hyperdrive array to
the Wayward Son... figure we'd need about fifty motivators, scattered
around the wilderzones."
"What the hell would we do with it?"
"Who cares? Backup drive systems are always a good idea.
Suppose something happens to the fold drive while we're cruising the
Crab Nebula?"
"Point."
Gryphon leaned back in his seat and put his feet up on the
instrument panel. "The only bad part about hyperspace is the wait...
and even that has its uses." Sighing, he got to his feet. "Speaking
of which, I'd better make sure Ed is really finished... hate for him
to break down right when it's time to rock."
"You do that. The last thing I want to have to worry about is
friendly fire."
Gryphon made his way aft, leaving the control room (too small
to be a bridge, too big to be a cockpit) and going down the narrow set
of steep steps to the main corridor rearward. Doors led off to either
side into small cabins -- the officers' quarters, in an operational
FB117. As he passed one, he paused, then backed up and rapped on it
with his knuckles.

/* James Horner "Darkside of the Moon" _Apollo 13_ */

"Come in," Asrial's voice replied, sounding small and fragile.
Gryphon keyed the door and stepped in; the room was dark, and he could
barely make out its occupant, half-sitting in the narrow bunk along
the far wall, dimly silhouetted by the tiny reading lamp above the
bunk's head.
"My Queen," said Gryphon, kneeling beside the bunk.
"Am I?" she replied, not sounding at all convinced.
"You are," Gryphon replied. "You are Asrial Arconian, are you
not? You are the rightful heir of the throne of Imperial Salusia."
He reached up and gently took her hand in his own. "My sword will
serve no other."
Despite her mood, Asrial found herself snickering slightly.
"You sound so... official."
"Sorry. It's the royalty thing, I think. Being American by
birth, I never quite learned how to deal with it."
She smiled. "I know. Jeremy is the same way... oh, prophets,
Jeremy! He was to arrive on Salusia this morning, right in the middle
of everything! If Greub's storm troopers have found him... "
"... then I feel very, very sorry for them," said Gryphon with
a sly smile. "For such a small man, Jeremy Feeple casts a long, sharp
shadow... if you follow me." That Asrial followed was evident in her
own slow smile. "Unless I miss my guess, he'll be up in the mountains
with the Guards by the time we arrive, waiting for you to show up and
sort this mess out."
"Do you think we can really do it?"
"Do what? Take back the throne? Restore Salusia to its
rightful ruler? You bet I do. There's no way we can lose -- and with
the Imperial Guards behind us, well, hell! We're golden." He leaned
forward, then, and gently kissed her cheek. "Don't worry about
anything. We've got it all covered." Then, getting to his feet, he
continued in a brisker tone, "We'll be coming out of hyperspace in
about eight hours... you should get some sleep, even though it's
earlyish. Don't know how long it will be before you get another
opportunity."
"You're right, I should. Thank you, Ben... thank you for
standing with me, you -and- Zoner."
"I could do nothing else," Gryphon replied with a smile, "nor
could MegaZone. It's our job... it's what we live for. And
besides... you're our friend. You're -my- friend and I love you. My
friends get my help when they're in trouble."
Asrial used the back of his hand to brush away a tear rather
than release it, then smiled tiredly.
"Get some rest," said Gryphon. "The Control Center will let
you know when it's time." He stood. "We're going to do this,
Asrial."
Asrial smiled, a little brighter this time, and as Gryphon
left, she switched off the light and curled up to sleep.

The nondescript bulk freighter dropped from hyperspace near
Zardon at 7:30 PM. This was well before a stock FB117 should have
arrived, given its departure time and location from the SDF-17, but it
was Gryphon's hope that, since they had arrived in the system on a
Zardon approach, the Salusian defense grid would not scrutinize their
arrival vector and the energy signature of their hyperspace transition
closely enough to notice how overpowered the freighter's hyperdrive
was. It didn't appear they had, since the sensors showed no interest
at all from the direction of Salusia's orbit.
The freighter quickly negotiated a space in the flight grid of
the Confederate Freespacers Alliance Home Fleet, roughly forty ships
in a parking orbit outside Zardon's ring and wheelworld. The
official purpose of the rendevous, at least the one given to the
Freespacer ATC and passed on to the Zardon authorities in the Chiisai
Zardon wheelworld below, was "personnel rotation". This struck no one as
unusual; the Zardons regarded it as business as usual, what with the
freighter's Confederate Freespacers' Alliance registration, and the
Freespacers didn't ask many questions.
From the nondescript Freespacer freighter, an equally
nondescript Multicon MT32 shuttlecraft departed the freighter's small
hangar bay, docked at the Freespacer's capitol ship (not a typo), the
CFA Independence, and discharged two passengers, volunteers whose part
in the operation was limited to spending a relaxing day or two in the
Home Fleet. In their place, only one man boarded, a wiry human fellow
with reddish hair and a beard. He wore a greasy gray spacer's
jumpsuit and a battered Confederate Freespacers' Alliance ballcap, and
carried two toolboxes. His ID listed him as one Alex Likier, born on
Earth, a machinist's mate who for the past ten years had been a
Freespacer national.
As the shuttle carried him toward the freighter, Commodore
Kristan Overstreet regarded Alex Likier's ID and chuckled. Not bad,
not bad, he thought to himself.
I just hope nobody asks me to fix anything.

The beeping of the wall alarm roused Gryphon from the sleep
he'd fallen into, and he roused himself to have a look at it. Right
on schedule: 20.00 hours. Smiling, he threw aside the raggedy
emergency blanket he'd pulled out of a wall locker to sleep under, got
to his feet and went through the back of the cluttered utility room
into the empty storage compartment. There, he discarded the grimy
coveralls and sneakers he wore, going into the sonic shower
compartment off to the side and letting it pound most of the heavier
crud off him.
Returning to his workroom, he opened up the duffel bag he'd
brought along and got out his working clothes: underwear, a dark grey
t-shirt, grey-and-white mottled ripstop fatigue pants, and a matching
mottled overshirt over which he buckled a clamshell of hard polymer
armor, black on the inside and hastily sprayed grey-and-white on the
outside. A pair of black Docs, daubed with some white polish to break
up their outlines in snow, went on his feet. After making certain
everything was where it belonged, he spread out a large piece of grey
cloth on the staging table in the middle of the room and laid out his
equipment on it, preparatory to tucking it away in various portions of
his wardrobe.
On the one previous occasion in which Gryphon had gone into
the field, he had been woefully underprepared, and had noticed this
almost immediately upon entering a touchy situation. Once he got
himself out of that situation, more by luck than anything else, he had
been taken to task by several of his more expert friends regarding
what he -should- have been carrying. Hence, he was now woefully
overpacked, and had to figure out what to leave behind.
The first thing he picked up was a small rectangular block of
shiny stainless steel rods and linkages, intricately machined. Inside
this device was a knife blade; through a series of motions rather like
a pantograph in nature, the block would appear to magically sprout
that blade. It was a complex but smoothly operable contraption, and
Gryphon had long admired the design, originated in Germany during the
Second World War, for its complex elegance. It was a paratrooper's
knife, more tool than weapon, which was fine with Gryphon, since he
had never been terrific at knife fighting anyway. He stuck it in a
trouser pocket and continued on.
The next item was also a blade, a Ka-Bar fighting knife.
Gryphon doubted he would need a knife at all, let alone two of them,
but he couldn't think of -not- bringing this one; after all, Daver had
prepared it for him and presented it with what, for Daver, was a good
deal of formality (he had thrown it into the wall next to Gryphon's
head). So it was strapped with appropriate care to its owner's right
hip.
MegaZone had insisted he carry a "hold-out pistol" of some
sort. It was Gryphon's opinion that, should he ever be in a situation
where he had to use anything called a "hold-out", there would be
little point in the attempt, but to humor his commander, he had
strapped a comically small ExoSalusia Arms CC-09 blaster pistol in a
Spring-O-Matic (tm) holster to his left forearm.
A double shoulder holster rig was next to go on, and then the
items which filled it: a near-identical pair of somewhat elderly Bryar
blaster pistols. The Bryar was a Corellian weapon, fairly ubiquitous
on the Outer Rim and anyplace else with a thriving grey and black
market in somewhat advanced weapons. An efficient and powerful
weapon, its design had yet to be surpassed in the eyes of many weapons
collectors. The pair was a gift from Kei, who knew his fondness for
antique weapons. She had done some surgery on the weapons herself,
sanding, filing, tinkering, until at last she had pronounced them fit
for action. MegaZone had shaken his head and tsked when he saw them,
making dire pronouncements about the inefficiency of the design's
chem-action power pack and aligned crystalline collimator array;
Gryphon had replied that Zoner didn't have a goddamned idea what he
was talking about.
Since most of the fighting he was anticipating would take
place in the medium-close quarters of the Palace-Imperial, the weapon
he had chosen as his main gun was a powerful midrange one: a Stouker
Type III concussion rifle. The Stouker carried a reputation as a
wicked, brutally lethal weapon, and for good reason: a blast from a
properly tuned Stouker could nearly cut an armored target in half at
close range, or reduce several unarmored targets to pulp. One had to
be careful not to fire it in such close quarters that one would catch
some of its charge's shockwave oneself, but that was a skill long
hours in the sim-center had helped him comfortably master. Gryphon
figured it'd be good enough to cover his butt.
Checking that the weapon's powerpack was fully charged, ready
and safed, he slung it over his shoulder, then stocked the thigh
pockets of his fatigues liberally with extra packs for it. He
dispensed with throwing knives; there was only one edged object
he had yet been able to figure out adequately how to throw, anyway.
That item he tucked into one of the upper pockets of a matching
winter-camo field jacket which he would wear over his armor plate once
he was out of a climate-controlled environment. He ran a brush
through his hair a couple of times, then put a winter-mottled SWAT cap
on. Black leather gloves protected his hands; the left one was
missing its fingertips, for better sensitivity in his shooting hand.
Clothed and armed, he donned the last two components of his
kit - a pair of battle specs (multifunction optics which looked not
unlike blade sunglasses), and a set of smartears (electronic earplugs
which would amplify quiet sounds and dampen dangerously loud ones, as
well as providing secured radio comm for the team).
Satisfied with his kit, he climbed up a ladder on a nearby
wall and through a ceiling hatch into the next room above.
That room had once been a cargo hold, until the clever
engineers at the Utopia Planitia Naval Shipyards had converted it into
a small starfighter bay, just big enough for the craft docked
therein. Gryphon did a slow walkaround, taking in the sleek black
lines of the Lockheed-Allied Shadow Legios Combined Variable-Geometry
Fighter System, and smiled to himself. It was no Valkyrie - but then,
what was? - but the Legios was quite an impressive machine, and the
Shadow Legios doubly so. Without it, this mission would have been a
whole lot harder.
Redneck leaned against the hull of their Legios dropship near
the Beta section's main gear, smiling quietly. He had shucked his
machinist's coverall in favor of a white sweatshirt and a matching
windbreaker which hung open to reveal a dark green reversible
lining. His dark grey pants were loose-fitting and fitted with baggy
pockets, each of which bulged at the snaps. Twin black .40 caliber
pistols, heavier RebelTech knock-offs of the original Smith and Wesson
.40 S&W automatics, rode in holsters at his hips, and a classic
Remington 30.06 hunting rifle, equipped with a modern telescopic
sight, hung across his back from a shoulder strap. He'd taken a set
of smartears and a pair of battle specs from the equipment bag too.
Redneck pushed his white ball cap up slightly and nodded to
Gryphon. "Ready to go when y'all are," he said confidently.
Gryphon chuckled. "You look like you're about ready to go out
for a weekend with the guys and bag a deer."
Redneck shrugged. "Not that much difference between a deer
and a traitor," he replied. "Both dumb."
MegaZone, standing by a nearby upturned fuel drum and using it
for a setup table, chuckled as he snapped a clip into his M41A1 pulse
rifle, racked a round into the chamber and set the safety. He wore a
mottled black-and-white insulated coverall which the WDF Special
Forces had jokingly nicknamed "the cow suit" when testing them,
all-weather boots and a SWAT cap that matched his cow suit. At his
hip he had a heavy autopistol, an Ares Arms Predator. The Predator
was a brand new item, just announced; they hadn't yet actually hit the
market. Zoner had received his only a few days earlier, as a birthday
present from Kei. She wouldn't say how she'd gotten it ahead of the
ship date, but he knew she had many contacts in the armament industry,
so it didn't surprise him all that much that she had.
Zoner unholstered the Predator and held it with a smile. It
was a huge handgun, even bigger than the Desert Eagle he was so fond
of, and chambered for the most ridiculously powerful cartridge in the
entire commercial handgun industry, .650 Turbo Express, developed
especially for it. He racked back the massive slab-sided slide on the
empty magazine, causing it to lock open, then popped out the mag and
set down the weapon. A box of .650 TE ammunition (commonly nicknamed
".650 Crosstown Express" or simply "Crosstown" on the assumption that
it's like getting hit by one) sat on the drumhead next to the pistol,
and, whistling a happy tune, Zoner began extracting the fat, heavy
rounds from the block of foam and thumbing them into the stack of
magazines he had standing by.
Asrial emerged from a small room off to the side, tying her
hair back in a braid. She'd changed to a pair of hiking boots with
heavy socks, what looked to be a white one-piece mock-turtleneck
swimsuit, and a pair of brown safari shorts. Her main weapons were a
pair of custom-made submachineguns, built by the Morgan Custom Shop on
the same basic planform as the Kuromi series of small subguns, but
chambered for the same bonecrushing caliber as Zoner's Predator. When
she presented them to their owner, Kei had joked that they really
qualified more as small autocannons than as subguns. Asrial had them
holstered on either hip, and flanked by extra clips of ammo that hung
down after the fashion of waist-mounted armor plate.
A special sling arrangement on the side of the small leather
backpack Asrial wore held a folding-stock pump shotgun where her right
hand could reach it and pull it free easily. She, too, had battle
specs and smartears - a single set of the latter in her secondary
ears, since her primaries could adjust through a similar tolerance
band of their own accord.
Gryphon took in this spectacle for a moment, then cleared his
throat and said calmly,
"Let me just take this opportunity to say, for the record:
'Boggle!'"
"Oh, you're just saying that," she replied, tabbing her
fingerless leather gloves tight.
"Aw, c'mon," drawled Redneck, clapping the WDF officer on the
shoulder. "It ain't like you've never seen a nearly naked, nubile
young Queen before."
"It ain't?" Gryphon asked, confusion in his voice, as he tried
to remember when else he might have. Well, there was the time Kevin
Tefft had tried out that Speedo swimsuit, but he would hardly call
-that- a nubile sight...
"You're gonna freeze in that getup," Zoner pointed out.
"(Or at least poke somebody's eye out,)" Redneck muttered,
making Gryphon and Zoner strangle laughs down to coughs.
"Don't worry about me," Asrial replied with a smile. "A
Salusian of Imperial birth can handle extremes of temperature with
considerably more ease than you humans."
"If you say so," Zoner replied. "OK, let's go. Kris, Asrial,
you're with me in the Beta. Gryph, you take the Alpha, you've flown
just this kind of op before."
"You ride, I drive the bus. Roger," said Gryphon with a grin
as he climbed into the cockpit of the Alpha. The chronometer built
into the instrument panel was reading 20.20, which was right on
schedule. He strapped in, plugged in, and powered up the avionics,
patching through to the communication system, into the intercom, and
up to the control room.
"Control room," came a voice.
"Are we as close as I think we are?"
"That's affirm. We'll reach the defensive perimeter in
approximately twenty seconds."
"You ready to rock?"
"Just about."
"Good. Just like we planned it."
Gryphon reached out and flicked the toggle for the cockpit
down, and as the canopy locked itself into position, he gave his
flight systems one last check. It wouldn't do to have something out
of position, after all, when the Big Moment came.
"OK, let's do the conference," said Zoner down in the Beta.
His hands tabbed over several controls in the comm panel, and in the
holoHUD before him, a number of small comm windows appeared in
increasingly-complex geometric cleverness. A window appeared for
Gryph and two for the rest of the Beta's crew, one for Lieutenant
Jennings's relief crew up in the control room, and one for each Y-Wing
pilot in Auslander Squadron:
Lieutenant Commander Greg "Torpedo" Thomas, in real life the
solid, reliable commander of Thunderbolt Squadron;
Senior Lieutenant Mia "Gunship" Satori, one of the loyal
proliferation of Satori siblings doing that Salusian military family
honor in the WDF;
Senior Lieutenant Mark "Haywire" Luchini, Eight-Ball
Squadron's resident loose cannon on deck;
Junior Lieutenant Rob "Ashura" Shannon, who felt a little
nervous about being in any operation with Haywire;
Junior Lieutenant Carol "Harry" Martinez, a subscriber to the
"speak softly and carry a tac-nuke" philosophy; and
Ensign Frank "F.N.G." Gordon, who would never live down his
initials.
"Take it, Gryph," said Zoner.
"Anybody's had any second thoughts, now's the time," Gryphon
said. "It's a little late to back out, but you can get your
objections down on record."
No one spoke.
"OK," Gryphon continued. "Here's the breakdown. We're about
to violate the Salusian defense perimeter. We'll probably have to
shoot our way to orbital altitude, which, once we clear the perimeter,
won't be tough - their cap-ships will be too far out of position to
reach us in time if we spring it right. Auslander Squadron, your job
is to provide cover against the fighter patrols; if Zoner and I have
all this calculated accurately, they'll be the only enemy elements
that can reach us before we make the drop zone.
"Auslanders, it's down to you to keep them off us while
Jennings gets us into position. Once the drop is made, you'll have
forty seconds - maybe less - to get away from the gravity well and
beat it into hyperspace before those big Salusian battlewagons get you
under their guns, so don't screw around - understand, Mark?"
"Got it," replied Haywire. "I'm crazy, not -stupid-."
"Just you keep that in mind," said Gryphon. "OK, that's it.
Your astromechs should already have a hyperspace course laid in for
the rendezvous point. Do a standard hyperdrive bolter - dash on a
straight vector for two light-minutes, drop to sublight and regroup
for the haul to the rendezvous. You'll link up with the SDF-17 and
the EDF fleet and render assistance, if need be, in the defense of
Earth. Hopefully, by the time you get there, it'll all be over and
there won't be any need of that defense. Questions?"
There were none.
"Let's do it to it."

Salusia, as it always did, hung suspended in the so-called
"void" of space, slowly rotating and bluely beautiful in the light of
its G-class primary. Around it, the normally tranquil space was busy
with a show of armaments unseen since the end of the Zardon Wars, ten
years previously. The Home Defense Detachment of the Royal Salusian
Navy was patrolling along a line of demarcation which more or less
corresponded to the orbit of Salu I, the planet's primary satellite,
keeping a close watch on all ships entering and leaving the area.
Alois Greub had warned his new soldiers that the Wedge Defense Force
was likely to attempt some kind of countermeasure, despite his harsh
warnings to them, and the misguidedly loyal fighting men and women of
Salusia were ready to see them repelled.
They -weren't- ready for what happened, though. At the
perimeter, a Corellian FB117 bulk freighter was cruising slowly toward
Salusia. Its identification signal tagged it as the Hanson's Luck, a
Freespacer freightliner, bound for Cheltopolis with a load of
Triganian furniture, redsward grain and assorted comestibles. It
cleared the perimeter and chugged toward a parking orbit, but once
inside the out-turned guns of most of the perimeter defense, it did
something remarkable.
It gained speed, and with showers of sparks all around, it
shed its outer skin. The broad, squarish lines of the bulk freighter
sheeted away, shattering into twinkling constellations of ceramic
debris, as demolition charges blew them away to reveal the spindle
hull, bulging thrusters and gleaming weapon mounts of a CR90 corvette
fitted for blockade-running gunship duty. The bulk freighter Hanson's
Luck was really a warship, armed to the teeth and ready to fight, and
surrounded by a staggered box formation of six Koensayr BTL-A4
Myrmidon starfighters. A startled defense operator remembered his
morning's instructions and scanned it for Wedge Defense Force
markings, but found none. Instead, the ship bore a distinctive logo,
a stylized humanoid skull with a set of earphones. Down the side of
the ship, large letter spelled out the name:

PAN WORLDS ENFORCEMENT, INCORPORATED
MINUTEMAN NINE

As the stunned defense network rebounded from this shock and
swung into action, so too did the CR90, turning its hammerhead prow
toward the planet and speeding for it with the maximum of raw thrust
and minimum of subtlety for which Corellian ships were so famous. As
it did so, there was a crackle of interference, and then the Salusian
tactical comm network resounded with the sounds of a loud techno-rock
song.

/* Pop Will Eat Itself "Ich Bin Ein Auslander" _Dos Dedos Mis Amigos_ */

Fighter Squadrons 1 through 8 of the Royal Salusian Naval
Aviation Wing 94 (Cobalt Talons) converged from their sector patrols
on the ship, tightening up their formations and readying the anti-ship
missiles they had been prepared with this morning, intent on seeing
this unauthorized invader go down in flames. As they did,
Minuteman 9's many rapid-fire turbolaser emplacements began to
awaken, tracking and firing with the dogged determination of expert
systems. Alarmed, the fighters, contract-built ExoSal Rapier and
Raptor space superiority craft, scattered, breaking to two-ship
elements and reorganizing to deal with the hail of laserfire.
"Alert the King!" the Talon commander cried into his
comm unit as he swung his Raptor into attack position on the
interloper ship. "An unknown attacking force is at the perimeter!"
"Acknowledged, Talon Leader."
"Mm," Gryphon observed as his tactical analysis HUD lit up
like a Christmas tree. "There certainly are a lot of them... "
"Mm-hmm," replied Zoner in the Beta, observing a similar
phenomenon. "You ready?"
"But oeuf course. Lemme hear 'em, Auslanders!"
"Auslander 1, ready!"
"Auslander 2, ready!"
"Auslander 3! LOCK and LOAD, baby! WOOO!!"
A pause.
"Er... Auslander 4, ready!"
"Auslander 5, ready!"
"Auslander 6, ready!"
"Auslander Squadron, this is Minuteman Control," Gryphon
announced. "Break formation and attack, repeat, break and attack!"
"WOO!!" cried Haywire, ramming his throttles to the firewall.
"It's GREAT to be ALIVE!!"
Memo to myself, thought MegaZone. Increase his medication.
When people talk about all hell breaking loose, they're
talking about things like what happened next. The Cobalt Talons were
the RSN's most elite fighter group, each of them having logged over a
thousand hours in their nation's fighting ships. But here, they were
up against a group of avowed fanatics at the controls of heavily
modified, hotrod Y-Wings, and so all precepts of proper fighter combat
went straight out the window.
"OK, gang," Torpedo announced over the Auslander tac net.
"We're outnumbered eight to one, but remember, we don't have to beat
'em - just keep 'em off the ship long enough for them to do the job."
"Roger," replied the rest of the pilots, except Haywire, who
was busy lining up on a Raptor.
Pilot Officer Tal Kramnar bore down on the Minuteman 9, his
target acquisition systems staring hungrily at the distinctive
signatures left by the massive engines. He readied his heavy
missiles, hoping that, at the very least, he could slow the ship down,
cripple it so that his wingmates would have an easier time of blasting
it to bits. He checked his vectors and smiled; he was at least two
kilometers out. There was no way that those mercenary Y-Wing pilots
could intercept him in time. He rechecked his missile lock and
squeezed the trigger -
WHAM!
Kramnar's Raptor suddenly pinwheeled out of control. The
cockpit went dark as the instrument lights flickered out, then strobed
with brightness as sparks rained down from the couplings in the aft
bulkhead. Kramnar cursed and fought the controls, feeling the heavy
fighter reacting sluggishly and jerkily. As his computer systems
recovered and his one unblown VDU came back online, he was able to
call forth a damage assessment.
His fighter was gravely wounded - shields completely wrecked,
the main power core knocked out, extensive damage to the flight
control systems, one of its two primary thrusters down, the missile
delivery system destroyed. How? What had hit him? Had he collided
with something, a random micrometeoroid or piece of space debris? His
shielding should have been up to the job of protecting against such a
threat.
Then he glanced in the rearview and saw the spatulate prow of
a Y-Wing bearing down on him. The bastard had hit him from that
opening range, and managed to get on his tail in the time it took him
to recover from the tumble? Hit him with -what-? What had that kind
of range and power that a Y-Wing could carry?
"No," he said aloud as the realization struck him.
"Impossible. He couldn't have - "
Laser fire from the Y-Wing's nose cannons began slamming into
the wounded Raptor's remaining armor, and Kramnar pushed all thoughts
out of his head and tried to evade. He could not call for help - his
communications system was destroyed; he could only hope that someone
would notice his plight and save him before the attacker destroyed
him.
For his part, Mark Luchini couldn't believe he'd actually
tagged the son of a bitch with a protorp. Sure, Raptors were big for
starfighters, but proton torpedoes were so damned slow! He'd never
expected to score with that shot. But now that he had, he gleefully
bored in to follow it up.
The enemy pilot was game. He tried to evade as best he could
with his crippled ship, but Haywire bracketed him with fire and then
lined him up rock-solid for the kill.
His grin slipped for just a moment, and, almost on impulse, he
reached down to the weapon-select panel and flicked a toggle. Then he
thumbed the cannon trigger, and instead of deadly laser fire, the
volley he poured into the crippled Raptor came from the twin ion
cannons mounted aft of and above his seat. Sparking and sputtering,
the Raptor darkened and began to drift as its electron power system
was disabled.
Haywire spun his Myrmidon in a brief roll of acknowledgement
as he darted past the disabled craft, and Tal Kramnar would never say
he had never seen a human show mercy.
As the dogfight raged around it, the Minuteman 9 charged into
a high orbit of Salusia. (Technically, it was not in fact an orbit,
since the ship remained under power, but given the distances involved,
we might stretch the term for simplicity's sake.) Lt. Jennings kept
the ship on a straight and steady course, tracking across the planet's
major northern continent, while Lt. Brokaw in the Drop Control seat
peered into a device not unlike a Department of Motor Vehicles
eyesight tester and made a few adjustments with the controls under his
right fingertips.
"Strike force, prepare for drop!" he announced. "Three! Two!
One! DROP!"
Amidships, on the bottom of the CR90's hull, fifty circular
hatches swung open, and from them, black metallic pods, not unlike
oversized photon torpedo casings, burst forth in a rippling wave, two
by two, to streak into the atmosphere of the planet below. Even as
they did so, the concealed fighter bay above them opened to the top,
and the Shadow Legios slipped out and boosted down after them,
serenely invisible.
At 45,000 feet, the pods' outer layer exploded, shattering
into sheets of shrapnel and disgorging tons of metallic chaff,
designed to confuse the air-defense radars looking up at them. At
30,000 feet, small drogue chutes and verniers began adjusting their
courses, aiming them for a pre-determined landing zone programmed into
their drop computers by Lt. Brokaw. At 20,000 feet, Salusian ground
defenses opened fire on the pods, their fire controllers doing their
best despite the myriad of false signals coming from all the chaff and
4444the pods' own built-in ECM systems. Six of them were destroyed by
missiles lucky enough to home on the proper targets. Had there been
drop troops in the pods, only forty-four would have made it to 10,000
feet. Not that it mattered, since there weren't.
The remaining pods braved the thicker layer of air defense at
10,000, and eight more were destroyed; the remaining thirty-six burst
at an altitude of 100 feet, disgorging no power-armored shock troops
into the forest south of the Palace-Imperial.
But Alois Greub and his Party defense coordinators did not
know that.
In response to this non-threat, the Sword of Salusia poured
from the Palace Imperial into the snow-covered palace grounds,
demonstrating a comprehensive level of finesse, competence, and
leadership to rival any rabid mob anywhere. The cooperation of the
Royal Army was as yet unsecured; the area had been abandoned by the
Imperial Guards; and the Royal Marines were all off at Setonia
preparing to invade Earth - and so it fell to the Swordsmen and only
to them to secure the grounds around the palace from this sort of
assault. Armed with the latest infantry weapons Salusia had to offer,
their wind up, and their ears still ringing with one of Alois Greub's
patented nationalistic tirades, they were prepared to make short work
of the thirty-six power-armored drop troopers who weren't waiting for
them in the South Woods.
No one paid any attention at all to the single Shadow Legios,
which descended from orbit along an entirely different vector,
settling among the Cheltar Mountains west of Saenar and the Palace and
then following a winding, subsonic course below peaktop level through
the mountain range itself. But then, even had anyone wanted to do so,
they couldn't - the Shadow fighter's invisibility rendered the cover
of the mountains all but visually superfluous.

In orbit, its job finished, the Minuteman 9 buttoned up its
drop bays, swung its nose away from Salusia, and hauled ass, thrusters
flaring to max power as the ship dashed away from the planet's gravity
well. The six Y-Wings, battered but functional, broke off their
engagments with the Salusian fighters and followed, outrunning their
adversaries as they formed up with their mothership along the same
vector.
Now, the only ship that had a hope of catching them was the
Royal Salusian Navy's brand-new flagship, HMS Greub's Pride (very
recently Arconian's Pride). So new the carpet glue in the turbolifts
still stank - so new that the fold drive was not yet operational,
which was why the flagship had not gone to Seltonia with the fleet
-the battleship was stuffed with all the latest innovations. These
included a Corellian powerplant which gave it sublight speed, if not
maneuverability, superior to that of almost any starfighter.
On the bridge, Admiral Alar Tharn stood at the main window,
his hands folded behind his back. "Time to range?"
"Fifteen seconds, present speed," reported the helm officer.
"Destroy the capital ship first, then the smaller vessels at
leisure. You may fire when ready."
Fifteen seconds passed, and there was no responding fire from
his ship's batteries. For a moment Tharn thought he might not have
been heard; then he realized that his entire bridge crew had turned
away from their stations and were staring at him.
"What are you waiting for?!" he demanded. "Destroy them!"
Slowly, deliberately, Chief Gunnery Officer Kal Maran stood up
and, without taking his eyes away from the admiral's, reached up,
unfastened the Sword of Salusia armband he had found with his uniform
that morning (as had all Royal Salusian soldiers), dropped it to the
deck, and ground it under his heel. One by one, the bridge crew all
followed suit, from Tharn's Exec all the way down to the most minor
environmental control officer. The same message was clear in the
steady eyes of every last one of the young and talented officers, who
represented the very cream of the younger elements of Salusia's Royal
Navy officer corps: they knew instinctively what these forces were
here to do, and would not fire upon them.
"You'll all pay dearly for this," Tharn declared, and made for
Maran's console, reaching to throw the young officer out of his path.
He never got the chance; one of the Bridge Security Officers, a young
and well-built woman, intercepted him.
"You're under arrest, sir," she said quietly. "Please do not
resist. You were a fine officer once, and I would hate to have to
kill you." Her steady eyes and steadier blaster made it quite clear
that she meant exactly what she said, and Tharn, shoulders slumping,
relented. What was the universe coming to when a Satori rebelled
against legitimate authority?
As two other BSOs took the defeated flag officer away, Kara
Satori turned to Captain Jodan Rel, the Exec (and, incidentally, a
friend of Asrial's from the Salusian equivalent of grade school), and,
saluting, said, "Captain, the bridge is yours."
Outside the window, the Minuteman 9 and her fighter escort
leaped into hyperspace, sending up a cheer from the bridge crew of the
battleship Arconian's Pride.

Below, Gryphon smiled as he spotted a good place to put the
Legios down, about a mile and a half from the Palace-Imperial, at the
very end of the mountain chain. Mount Aisan, the mightiest of the
Cheltar Mountains, bulked to the east, the last mountain in the chain;
directly to the south by a mile or so was the much smaller peak of
Mount-Imperial. Between the two was the thick Northwest Forest.
He flared the Legios and brought it down gently in a forest
clearing just barely big enough for it, locked the systems down, and
thumbed the key that deployed the automatic camouflage net. The net
sprang out from its housing atop the Beta, draping down over the craft
like a collapsing parachute, and Gryphon wondered not for the first
time why Lockheed-Allied had never come up with a decently automated
way of repacking it.
By the time he had climbed down from the Alpha's cockpit, the
remaining crew were waiting for him, checking their kits one last
time.

/* Juno Reactor "Guardian Angel" _Beyond the Infinite_ */

"Everybody ready?" he inquired.
"Looks like it," Zoner replied. "Going to unpack your science
fair project?"
"Now's the time."
"Science fair project?" asked Asrial.
"I prefer to think of it as a squire to fit my modern
knighthood," said Gryphon. He grinned and thumbed the external
override for the Beta's bomb bay. It hissed open with the
characteristic sound of heavy servopneumatics, and a
specially-installed lift within lowered its cargo to ground level.
Asrial let out a small, involuntary gasp when she saw what that cargo
was.
It was an automaton of some sort, she saw -- bipedal and
standing at least eight feet tall on its massive digitgrade legs and
symmetrical, cruciform, four-toed feet. The upper torso was a rounded
carapace, and its arms were enormous, mostly unarticulated vambraces
ending in paired, nasty-looking muzzles. The ammunition feeds for
those muzzles, double-thickness armored ammunition belts, hung from
the undersides of the vambraces for a foot or so before rising in
smooth curves to outlets on the enormous pauldrons marking the
"shoulders" of the huge arms. Curved around the outside of the right
vambrace was a strip of small, red-tipped missiles on a track, feeding
to a launch tube which lay along the outside of the arm; in that spot
on the other arm was a long, thin pair of metal rails, an induction
cannon.
The front of the torso was dominated by a recessed speaker
grille, resembling an impassive, remorseless mouth, and the slight
beetling of the carapace above it gave the machine the impression of
glowering somehow, despite the fact that it lacked a face at all and
was only vaguely humanoid.
Gryphon pressed a key on the small control unit affixed to his
belt, and, with a growling noise that was part capacitor and part
synthesized sound, the machine snapped upright, small locking plates
snapping outward at its joints to free it for movement. Its movements
were subtle despite the thing's immense stature, and it gave the
impression of being slightly unreal, which was a bit disconcerning
given its very real presence.
"ED-209/A1," the machine boomed in a deep, resonant, synthetic
voice. "Power-on self-test. Main power: 100% operational. Secondary
power: 100%, standby. Cybernetic decision net: 100%. Motive
power/drive train: 100%. Sensor systems: 100%. Weapons systems:
100%, standby. Target tracking system: 100%, standby. Ammunition
feeds: 100%, standby. All systems fully functional. ED/209A1
awaiting instructions."
"Ed," said Gryphon, and the machine turned on its waist
rotator ring to face him, cocking slightly to one side in a gesture
Asrial found weirdly reminiscent of a dog. "Prepare for combat
operations. Combat response mode initiate."
"Combat response mode initiation: engaged," ED/209A1 replied.
There was a series of clicking and ratcheting noises as the four
ammunition belts for the cannons were drawn up into the vambraces a
few inches and racked back a few more; the cannon muzzles extended a
little more out of the front of the arms. The missile rack on the
right side ratcheted up one, feeding a missile into the launch tube.
There was a capacitor whine as the delivery system for the induction
cannon charged. Laser designators mounted near all of the weapons
flicked on and off as the machine named them in turn.
"Ammunition feeds: Engaged. Main armament, 20mm autocannons 1
through 4: Armed 1. Armed 2. Armed 3. Armed 4. Secondary armament,
4-inch micro-missile launcher: Armed. Secondary armament, 2mm
induction cannon: Armed. Secondary armament, 4mm point defense
minigun: Armed." For the first time, Asrial noticed the
five-barrelled minigun that was mounted on the machine's back, between
its shoulders, as it popped up into position, spun around on its small
turret, and twirled the barrels without firing. "Target tracking
systems: 100%. Combat decision booster: Enabled. ED-209/A1 awaiting
instructions."
Redneck looked the machine up and down with an impressed but
dubious look and remarked, "Well. So much for subtlety."
"You'd be surprised," said Gryphon, patting the robot's right
vambrace.
"I sincerely hope so," Red replied skeptically.
"I would have brought the SAINT prototype, but it's not
operational yet. And anyway, Ed here isn't as unwieldy as he looks."
Gryphon turned to Asrial and indicated her to the robot. "Asrial,
this is ED-209/A1, the prototype of the Enforcement Droid Series 209.
Ed, this is Asrial. Recognize and lock."
The robot turned to face Asrial, its body leaning forward on
its legs a bit in a motion which Asrial found slightly intimidating,
and she knew without any visual signs that she was being scrutinized.
"Arconian, Asrial, Senior Lieutenant, Wedge Defense Force,"
said the robot. "Service number: 0040051a03b6. Date of birth:
October 24, 1956. Blood type: M negative. Religion: Unregistered.
Decorations: Salusian Expeditionary Force First Contact Medal, October
31, 1999. Wedge Defense Force Gold Star for Meritorious Service,
April 3, 2004. Wedge Defense Force Blood Cross with Bars for Valor,
July 12, 2013. Current assignment: Assistant to the Executive
Officer, SDF-17. Clearance level Violet A1. Recognized and locked."
Tch, thought Gryphon to himself, I never noticed how long that
takes when I was testing it in the lab. I'd better change that part
of the OS so that it doesn't even read the abbreviated service file
when it pulls them from memory.
"Nice outfit," continued the robot impassively.
Gryphon blinked.
"I see you've given it your taste," observed MegaZone dryly.
"I dunno how that got in there," said Gryphon, making a mental
note to check that out when he had a moment. "Anyway," he said to Ed,
"prepare for command instruction."
"Ready."
"This instruction is Ultraviolet-Alpha level. No
contradictions. You are to protect Asrial. No instructions may
countermand except at level UV-Alpha. Whatever the risk to yourself,
no harm is to come to her. Do you understand?"
"Instructions received and understood." Ed stalked forward
two long strides on his massive legs to stand nearer Asrial.
"ED/209A1 protection mode engaged."
Asrial looked quizzically at Gryphon, who replied to her
unspoken query, "With the instruction set I've just given Ed, he'd
stop an artillery shell for you. Now... where do we go from here?"
"East," Asrial replied. "Mount Aisan. That's where the
Imperial Guards have their hidden command bunker."
"Surely Greub's men have raided that by now?" Zoner asked.
"No one knows the location of the bunker except the Imperial
Family and the Field Marshal of the Guards until it's implemented,"
explained Asrial. "Not even the Knights-Defenders. The Guards have a
history of preparing for any eventuality... even a mass revolt that
leads to the Order of Knights. If the Guards really have taken to the
mountains, then Rann will have taken them to Mount Aisan. I'm sure of
it."
"All right... let's get moving."

An Imperial Guards patrol spotted them near the base of Mount
Aisan, just as planned, and within moments the four were being rushed
to Field Marshal Rann's command center in the bunker itself. The
corridors they rushed through were dimly lit, and a bit cramped for
one of Ed's immense stature; they were also damp and musty, giving an
air of long-term disuse. The place was starting to come alive,
though, and even as they passed through the corridors, the lights
brightened as a tech crew got more of the generators working.
They had no more time to notice things, as a huge blast door
ground open and they were shown into the presence of Field Marshal and
Imperial Guardsmaster Talon Rann. Although Redneck had met the old
warrior on occasion through his duties with the CFMF, neither Gryphon
nor Zoner had actually met Rann before; both had seen pictures, but
those had not completely prepared them for the first meeting with him.
He was immense, nearly seven feet tall and so broad-shouldered the
brush epaulets of his ornate Marshal's uniform seemed to stretch to
reach all the way to the ends. His hair had gone white, and the black
parts of his fur were shot through with grey, but he had not lost a
bit of his impressive stature, nor had the steel of his eyes softened.
It was incongruous to see this enormous, authoritative man
drop to one knee and bow his head, rumbling in a seismic voice, >My
Queen.<
>Rise, Field Marshal Rann,< Asrial replied, and when the
officer had returned to his feet, she continued in Standard, "How many
of the Guards are here?"
"All, Majesty," Rann replied, then continued bitterly, "Three
divisions of the finest soldiers of Salusia, hiding like rats in a
mountain shelter built by their grandparents."
"The skill of your warriors will do them little good,
outnumbered twenty to one by the Army. You have done well to bring
them here, and now I must ask you to do something even more difficult,
even more contrary to your valorous nature... I must ask you to do
nothing."
"Nothing? I do not understand."
"If there is to be war with Earth, the Earthers will need the
assistance of the Guards, as well as their Martian and Centauri
allies, the Wedge Defense Force, and the Freespacers, to stand against
Greub's forces. These last remaining Knights-Defenders and I will try
to stop it from happening by subterfuge, but if we fail, you and your
soldiers will be desperately needed. For that reason, I ask you to
wait here. Complete your preparations and await further instructions,
but whatever you do, do not reveal yourselves until it is absolutely
necessary. The job that must be done at the Palace is a job for
commandos, not soldiers."
Rann considered, then rumbled in acquiescence. "Your command,
my Queen. The Imperial Guards will remain here and await your
orders."
"Thank you, my friend. I know how hard it is for you to
remain in hiding... but I hope you can understand my hope that it will
not be necessary for you to fight at all."
"You misunderstand me, my Queen," Rann replied. "I do not
wish for there to be bloodshed. I simply wish I could better protect
you."
"Don't worry about me," said Asrial, cracking her first smile
since their arrival at Mount Aisan. "Within twenty-four hours, you
will know what you must do. Until then, remain vigilant, and wait."
"As you wish."
"Is there any word of Ambassador Feeple?"
A somewhat indulgent smile split Rann's granite face. "I was
wondering when you would get to that. His Excellency the Ambassador
joined us just outside Saenar, an hour or so after Greub's thugs
raided the Earther Embassy." Rann turned, in a sweeping motion, and
punched an intercom key on the wall behind him, bellowing, "Adjutant
Harz! Go and get His Excellency the Ambassador, if you will -- Her
Majesty wishes to see him!"
"At once, Field Marshal!" a voice replied, and the intercom
light went out. Smiling, Rann turned back to Asrial, saying, "He's
been a great help, your ambassador. His talent for organization is
great."
Redneck grinned, "Jeremy's got a lot of hidden talents."
Asrial's smile grew, threatening to become a giggle. "That's
my line, Kris," she said.
A few moments later, a liveried young Salusian led in Jeremy
and two women. The first, a Japanese woman with long dark hair framing
a perpetual look of suspicion, wore a dark leotard and sash with a
katana scabbarded behind her back. The second strode in wearing the
armor of a street Judge in the Zardon Department of Justice, except
for the helmet, which she carried in the crook of one arm. Her
shoulder-length emerald hair flowed freely atop the gold metallic
epaulets of her armor, and her green eyes seemed fixed directly into
the back of the ninja's head. Every movement spoke of discipline and
duty, tightly controlled.
"(Well,)" Redneck's mouth muttered before his brain could hit
Mute, "(I wasn't expecting the Zardon Inquisition.)"
Light-years away, Josh Brandt flinched.
A couple of feet away, Gryphon murmured, "(No one expects the
Zardon Inquisition,)" out of the corner of his mouth, then caught an
elbow from Zoner, who was too busy gawking to say anything. "(Oof,)"
Gryphon added.
Asrial and the others paid them no mind; instead, she leaped
forward, hugging first Jeremy and Ichi tightly. The three stood
together for a long moment, while the others looked on
impassively. Kris thought he heard Asrial crying happily, while Jeremy
and Ichi mumbled their condolences and support.
Moving carefully around the group-hug, Leeanna took a quick,
longing look at the open expression of love and friendship before
facing the WDF and CFMF commanders. "Hello, MegaZone,
Gryphon... Kris," she said quietly, with all the professional
detachment of her office as a Judge. "Thank you for keeping Queen
Asrial safe."
"It's good to see you, Leeanna," Kris managed to say. "What
brings you here, anyway?"
"I was en route to meet Jeremy at the airport on official
business when the coup went through," Leeanna said. "Now, though, I
have another duty to carry out, provided it can be done with any hope
of success."
"Would this new duty have anything to do with the new occupant
of the Palace-Imperial?" Zoner grinned.
"It does," Leeanna nodded. "The Justice Department has had
outstanding warrants for the arrest, extradition, and sentencing of
Alois Greub for some time now, but up until now he has remained
underground on Salusia. Now that he is in the open, though..."
Something unpleasant seemed to glitter in Leeanna's eyes as she
finished, "Now justice will be served at last."
"Well," Red muttered, "isn't this convenient."
"Hey, don't knock good luck," Zoner said. "It got me where I
am today. Well, Your Honor, it so happens we intend to infiltrate the
Palace-Imperial in a few minutes, and you're more than welcome to join
us... provided Asrial agrees, of course."
"Hm." Gryph walked over to Asrial, still hugging Jeremy and
Ichi tightly, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Majesty," he
said quietly, "we have to get moving."
Reluctantly, Asrial pulled away from the others, straightening
her pack straps. "Well," she said. Nodding to Leeanna, she said, "It's
good to see you here, Leeanna."
"Likewise," Leeanna nodded. "Would you object to my joining
you in your operation?"
"Not at all," Asrial replied. "Just remember one thing: Greub
is -mine.-" The expression on her face left no room for debate.
Leeanna smiled grimly. She knew that some things in the
universe are more ancient and more deeply ingrained than the Justice
Department and its prerogatives, and one of them was the Salusian
nobility's tradition of kanly. "So long as I get the pieces left
over, I have no problem with that."
"I'm going, too," Jeremy and Ichi chorused.
Asrial turned to them and shook her head. "Jeremy... oh,
Jeremy, love, it's good of you to offer... but this is going to be a
dangerous and tricky operation, and you just don't have the training
for it. And Ichi, I need someone to stay with Jeremy... no matter
what." Leaning closer, she whispered something into Ichi's ear which
made the ninja's eyes widen with shock.
"You can't mean that..." she gasped.
"Promise me," Asrial pressed. The two locked eyes for a long
moment; then, finally, Ichi nodded. "I promise," she said. "Just make
sure you come back."
"We'll see," Asrial answered. She looked at Jeremy one last
time, and said, "Jeremy... take care of yourself." With that, she
leaned in and kissed him, hard and passionately. The two hugged and
kissed each other for several moments, only breaking off when Red
cleared his throat loudly.
"I don't mean to be disrespectful," he drawled, "but sooner or
later, those chickens in the Palace woods will get their heads back
on."
"I'm ready whenever you are," Leeanna said.
Asrial broke away from the embrace, touching a finger to her
lips and then to Jeremy's. >I am with you forever, my heart,< she
whispered.
"Take care," Jeremy replied hoarsely.

ONE HOUR LATER
AT THE BASE OF MOUNT IMPERIAL

The base of the small mountain on which the Palace-Imperial
had been constructed centuries before was surrounded by thick,
coniferous forests. In fact, that type of forest dominated much of
the surrounding area, the Imperial Preserve. There was little
automated security; normally, the forests and the palace itself were
patrolled by large numbers of Imperial Guard troops. It was a matter
of pride for Field Marshal Rann, as it had been for his predecessors,
to keep the palace secure without dependence on contrivances. Sensors
could be disabled, fooled, or jammed; a good sentry was a much bigger
challenge.
Today, those troops were replaced by a garrison of Greub's
green-shirted storm troopers, the private army of the Sword of Salusia
he had built up over the years, and supplemented by Army personnel and
the quisling Knights-Defenders. The Sword storm troopers were of
uneven talent and skill, to say the least, and the Army's soldiers
were well-trained but unsuited for the task. This left the bulk of
the castle's defense, although it was not understood by their
commander, to the eighteen remaining traitor Knights.
The extensive catacombs under the Palace-Imperial were an
example of an area which would have at one time been patrolled by at
least a platoon of Guards, on a rotating patrol scheme. Now there
were green-shirts stationed at the major intersections of tunnels, the
occasional Army enlistee scattered here and there in the tunnels
themselves, and, guarding the main entrance at the back of the
Mont-Imperial, a detachment of Sword green-shirts and a single Knight.
As she knelt behind a bush a hundred yards away and surveyed
the situation through a pair of infrared rangefinder binoculars,
Asrial did not fail to note the Knight.
"Six guards," MegaZone whispered. "No... seven, there's
another over there by that big rock. Looks like he's having a smoke.
And the Knight, of course. Which one is that?"
"That's Ilai Farn," she replied. "The bladesmaster. I wonder
what happened to him? He looks like he recently had an argument with
a speeding truck."
"Want me to take him?"
"Now, Zoner," Redneck interjected lazily, removing his
Remington from its sling and clicking off the safety. "Don't waste
your energy on a guy like that. I mean, he's doing us the favor of
standing right out in the open like that." He raised his rifle to his
shoulder, switched off the image amp in his battle specs and looked
through the rifle scope, thumbing on the infrared filter. The distant
Knight sprang into sudden thermographic relief, a mottled
red-yellow-orange shape on the deep blue background.
"Think you can hit him from here?" Zoner whispered.
"Don't worry about it... " replied Redneck. He took a breath,
held it, and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the rifle echoed through the woods and rebounded
off the flank of the mountain. The group of men at the catacombs gate
whirled around in all directions, one spraying a group of bushes in
entirely the -wrong- direction with autofire from his rifle. Ilai
Farn whirled with them, and for a split second, as his hand furiously
worked the rifle's bolt, Redneck thought that, as expected, he'd
missed with the first shot. Before he could get off the second,
though, his eye was registering the spray of hot orange something
flying from Farn's head, and the Knight-Defender was dropping
lifelessly to the ground.
"Hot -damn-, I got him!" Redneck exclaimed.
"Didn't you think you would?" asked Zoner, glancing at him
sidelong.
"Hell, no, not with the -first- shot," Redneck replied,
switching off the thermoscope to save the power cell and safeing the
rifle. "I usually have to use the first one to get the range. 'Swhy
I've trained to build up my bolt speed." He toggled his battle specs'
image amp back on, let his eyes adjust for a second, then said, "Well,
that was easy. I'm on point, any objections?"
"Nope," replied Gryphon, unslinging his Stouker.
"Have fun," said Zoner.
"Damn," muttered Redneck as he crept forward through the snow.
"And I was lookin' forward to the argument."
It took the group perhaps ten minutes to creep nearly to the
edge of the clearing, moving painfully slowly, careful not to jostle
branches, stepping slowly into the snow so that it would compress
without rustling. Once, Red paused to look back, and noticed with
surprise that ED-209/A1, who he had expected to be the most obvious of
them, was actually least obtrusive. In the dark, against a mottled
background, Red had to look hard to notice the robot's broken outline.
Hmm, he thought to himself. The outer skin must have a chameleon
capability. Very interesting... and, most surprisingly of all, the
big machine was damn near silent, almost catlike.
Leeanna, on the other hand, stood out like the proverbial
pounded thumb in her unbroken black armor. Holding up a hand, Red
waved her behind the robot. She tilted her head inquisitively, then
nodded as his meaning sank home, and did as instructed. They crept on
through the night.
A couple of times, they froze immobile as one of the remaining
Swordsmen, backed against each other in a semicircle fronting the
catacombs entrance, turned to face one of them, eyes wide with panic.
It wasn't the PWEI commandos the Swordsmen were seeing, though, but
the demons of their own imaginations; and, truth be told, they
couldn't have heard a group of charging rhinos over the pounding of
their hearts in their ears.
Gryphon crept to the very edge of the clearing, his breathing
regular, thankful that WDF fighter pilot training included an
extensive course in commando and guerilla ground actions. You never
knew when you might get shot down and have to be clever, after all.
He elbowed his way forward through the snow, quietly, slowly, his
Stouker balanced over his hands. Through his battle specs'
light-amplification mode, everything gleamed in various shades of red,
an effect Gryphon had amusedly dubbed "TerminatorVision" when he first
wore the test pair provided by the vendor back in '03. He hitched
himself sideways a little, slung the Stouker crosswise on his back and
considered his options for a moment.
"Hold off, team," he whispered into the mic of the earset comm
built into his left smartear. "I've got these guys."
Yeah, this would work. He reached into his field jacket's top
pocket and withdrew the cool rectangle of metal that waited there,
palmed it into his left hand, resting it between his index and middle
fingers, and looked back up at the guards. Staring so hard at them he
was surprised they didn't feel it, he imagined a trajectory, a bright
green line curving across their entire formation. The metal card
quivered between his fingers; very slowly, he drew his left arm
forward across his body, cocking it. Not now... not now...
Now.
His left arm snapped in a sweeping arc to the left, and as it
reached its furthest point, he relaxed his fingers, letting the card
flick out of his hand.
Redneck blinked in confusion as he saw, through his rifle
scope, Gryphon's arm sweeping around, and the guards twitching very
definitely toward the motion. The hell? Way to give away your
position! One of them hit the trigger of his autogun, sending a
brrrup of fire into the snow, but he was off by a mile and Gryphon was
already rolling sideways and back, putting a big rock between himself
and them.
It was about then that Redneck realized what Gryphon was up
to. There was a series of strangled, gurgling cries as Redneck swung
his scope back to the doorway, and all seven guards crumpled to the
ground, surrounded by spraying warmth which, had he bothered to think
about it, Redneck would have been rather glad he couldn't see in true
color. Something warm flickered back to Gryphon, who reached up and
deftly plucked it from the air.
"I do believe that's a clear," Gryphon's voice murmured in
his, and the rest of the team's, ear.
"I do believe it is," came Zoner's soft rejoinder.
"So," Redneck asked after a moment of open channel. "Who
remembered to bring the house key?"
"Ed's got it," replied Gryphon. He beckoned the robot over to
the side of the massive metal door, where the status lights of a small
computerized lock panel gleamed in the night. "Lean over," he said to
the machine; obediently, it leaned down, presenting its faceplate.
Gryphon thumbed open an access port, drew out a cable, took a look at
the card slot on the lock, and selected an appropriate card-shaped
attachment for the end of that cable, snapping it in place. Then he
slotted the card end into the lock, pressed a couple of keys, and let
the processing power of Ed's positronic brain go to work.
Moments later, with a bleep and a soft clunk, the door
unlocked and swung open. Asrial covered it from one side, Zoner the
other, as it swung in; then Zoner crept inside and checked behind it.
"It's clear," he reported, and Gryphon uncabled Ed as the rest
of the team moved in, then covered the rear as they entered and closed
the door behind them.
"Y'know," said Redneck to Gryphon, pushing back his cap, "I
owe you an apology. I gotta say, if you opened a compartment on that
robot an' offered me a Coke, I wouldn't be at all surprised."
"Well," said Gryphon with a grin, "I'm afraid I can't do that,
but... " He reached up to the back of the main body and popped open a
small hatch, which opened with a quiet pfft and a puff of steam.
"Would you care for a root beer instead?" asked Gryphon, pointing to
the clearly visible half-dozen brown glass bottles racked within.
"IBC, mm, it's good."
Redneck blinked.
"Hey, I spent most of 2014 working on this robot," Gryphon
replied to the Freespacer's unspoken statement. "It'd better be
good."
"Maybe later, thanks," said Redneck, slinging his rifle and
drawing his pistols. "Too much to do right now to have a cold drink."
Gryphon shut the compartment and walked around the robot.
"Scanning anything, Ed?"
"No life forms save ourselves and various small rodents within
100 meters," reported Ed.
"Well, Asrial... it's your tunnel maze," said Zoner.
"This way," Asrial nodded, and off they went, senses peeled,
weapons ready.
"By the way, Red, who controls the hold music on the CFMF
PBX?" asked Gryphon offhandedly, as the party proceeded down the
tunnel into the bowels of Mount-Imperial.
"Do wha?" replied Redneck, caught completely off-guard by a
question so irrelevant to his current surroundings.
"Yeah, that stuff is terrible," Zoner commented. "It's like
this awful... techno-line-dancing-house-dub... thing. Brrr."
"I have no idea what you guys are talking about."
"The hold music you get if you call the CFMF offices," Gryphon
said patiently. "It's dreadful. Don't believe me?" Gryphon paced
ED-209, reached up, popped open an access panel, and handed Overstreet
a cordless phone.
Redneck looked at the WDF officer as if the latter had
suddenly sprouted a new head. "... we're infiltrating the very heart
of the Salusian Empire," he said slowly, "... and you want me
to... oh, fuck it." He took the phone and punched in the CFMF main
switchboard number.
"Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, Lieutenant Thomason
speaking," answered a pleasant female voice.
"Jill, put me on hold."
"Commodore Overstreet? What - "
"Listen, I'm really short on time. Don't talk. Don't ask.
Put me on hold."
"Ooooookay, sir," replied Thomason. With a click, Commodore
Overstreet was listening to the worst hold music he had ever heard in
his life. Gryphon and Zoner were right - it was part country, part
techno, part house dub, combining the worst elements of each into
something so horrible, he couldn't put words to his revulsion. He'd
never heard anything quite like it in his life, and if there were gods
in the heavens, he swore to them that he'd never willingly hear it
again.
Redneck physically recoiled from the phone, his thumb mashing
the on-hook button as if it were a big, scary bug, and he regarded the
handset all the revulsion of a vegetarian visiting the Texas National
Chili Cook-Off. Regaining his composure, he released his death-grip
on the button and handed the phone back to Gryphon, muttering, "When I
get back, somebody is going to die... slowly... painfully... and to
the tune of the theme from 'Mr. Ed'."
"We told you it was bad," said Zoner. Then he stopped, his
brow furrowing, the corners of his mouth turning up very subtly, and
walked back, taking the phone from Gryphon and examining it briefly
before returning it to its place.
"Something?" asked Gryphon.
"Maybe," Zoner replied, his voice carrying that faraway "I'm
still thinking about it" tone. "Maybe." Zoner returned to point,
fiddling pensively with the front strap hanger on his MP5.
They wandered through the catacombs for some time, turning
left, then right, following passages that sloped consistently upward,
wary but finding no resistance, until at last they came to a place
where the stone tunnel ended at an incongruously high-tech metal door,
sealed with a locking mechanism similar to that on the outer door.
"This is it," Asrial said. "The palace sub-basement is
through here."
"Is there a utility room someplace down here?" asked Zoner
suddenly.
"A utility room?"
"Yeah, where the utility lines come in from outside."
"Well, the Palace-Imperial has its own electric power
generators, but there's a room where the telecom lines come in from
Saenar, yes."
MegaZone smiled. "Does the palace have a PBX?"
"Yes, why?"
"You'll see. Gryph, can you get your pet robot to crack this
door?"
"Shouldn't be a problem." Gryphon performed the
card-and-cable operation again, and Ed sat for a minute, then two,
deep in thought.
Suddenly, the lights went out.
"Shit!" Zoner hissed.
"They're on to us," Redneck whispered. Gryphon yanked the
card out of the socket and hastily stowed the apparatus, then knelt
off to one side of the door, readying his Stouker and aiming it at the
dim reddish outline the door formed in his battle specs. Ed
backpedaled to the corner they'd just turned, giving himself the best
possible field of fire, while Zoner mirrored Gryphon on the opposite
side of door, the two angled to avoid crossfiring each other. Leeanna
and Asrial backed off down the corridor to either side, while Redneck
followed Ed's path.
With the sudden bark of pneumatics, the door popped open,
spilling out a flood of light. The flare compensators in the team's
battle specs (and Leeanna's helmet) flicked, then automatically
returned the glasses to normal-vision mode, and as the squad of Sword
troopers poured into the tunnel, they met considerably stiffer
resistance than they had been expecting. The ones who came through
first on the sides ran into a Stouker blast and a stream of 10mm
explosive-tip fire, respectively, while the ones making it through in
the middle found themselves, further down, caught in a crossfire of
Crosstown Express and Lawgiver autofire, and those who survived -that-
gauntlet walked right into Ed's wall of cannon fire.
Redneck dropped prone between Ed's feet and flicked off his
rifle's safety, surveying the action through the scope. A Swordsman,
tumbling unharmed through the fire zone around the door, whirled and
brought his weapon to bear on Gryphon; Redneck dropped him. Another
leaped through prone and leveled at Leeanna; Redneck plucked him out
of the air before he could land. Beyond the open doorway, he could
see one readying a grenade; he shot that one in the arm, making him
drop the live grenade and blow up himself and the tail end of the
squad with it. Redneck winced. Not quite the effect he'd been going
for, but effective, he supposed.
Abruptly, he felt himself being dragged backward, out from
under the robot. Startled, Redneck lost his grip on his rifle, and
before he could figure just what was happening, he'd been hauled
roughly to his feet and slammed against the nearest wall. Blinking,
half-stunned, he looked down a bit into the face of an angry
Swordsman. Shit! Red thought. This jerk must have been down some
side tunnel, we missed him, he missed us... unless he's smarter than
most of his buddies and was following us. His arms were pinned to his
sides by the Salusian's grip on him, so he brought his legs up and
kicked out hard, smashing his feet into the Swordsman's face. The
Swordsman pitched over backward, then rolled smoothly to his feet,
fists balled, feet at a wide stance.
It was about this time that Kris realized he wasn't dealing
with a random guard, but one of the Knights-Defenders - Tobal Zonn, a
well-known master of the deadly Salusian fighting art of Kiliari.
"Ahhh, shit," muttered Redneck.
Further down the tunnel, Gryphon growled with annoyance as the
red "charge exhausted" light on his Stouker began to flash. He set
the weapon aside and reached for his Bryars, but before he could get
them out, one of the Swordsmen still inside the door spotted his pause
and leaped, tackling him to the ground. The man was too close to use
his rifle as a rifle, but holding it sideways and pressing it down
against Gryphon's throat with his considerable Salusian strength was
proving just as effective.
Gryphon tried to draw his Bryars, but though his hands were on
the grips of the pistols, the Swordsman's knees were bearing into his
arms where they crossed his chest, the weight pinning them down. He
couldn't get his legs up enough to do any good, and without his arms
free, he didn't have enough leverage to roll to one side or the other.
This was starting to look extremely poor.
Abruptly, the weight and pressure were gone, and Gryphon
rolled to one side and sat up, coughing, in time to see Asrial hurl
the Swordsman she'd plucked off him by the scruff of the neck against
the opposite wall, where he struck with a most alarming thud and fell
to the floor to lie still.
Behind Ed, Redneck reached into his shin pocket and pulled out
his collapsible staff, thumbing the extender control while aiming it
at Zonn. Zonn was far too cagey an opponent to be hit by that, but
still, with a staff in his hands, Redneck felt better about his
chances. He admitted to few, if any, equals or betters with his
favorite melee weapon. They went back and forth for a few minutes,
trading blows, Red's extended reach about evenly matching Zonn's
greater strength. Redneck was beginning to wonder if it was going to
come down to which of them tired faster -
When suddenly Tobal Zonn's head was replaced by a spray of
crimson mist, and his decapitated body slumped to the floor like a
sack of meal. Startled, Red whirled to see ED-209/A1, his torso
turned completely around on his waist rotator, calmly retracting his
left-arm induction cannon.
"All targets neutralized," said the robot. "This area is
secure."
"-Thank- you," said Redneck, collapsing his staff and
returning it to his pocket as he edged around the robot and into the
charnel house that had been a corridor. "The guy Ed just whacked was
one of the Knights," he reported. "Must've been following us for a
while. We've been made, people."
Zoner walked slowly around the combat zone, turning over dead
Swordsmen, going through their pockets, his brow furrowed in thought.
Then he edged around Ed, checked Zonn's corpse, and returned. "You
notice anything odd about these guards?" he asked the party in
general.
"Um... " Gryphon glanced around as he fitted a new powerpack
to his Stouker. "No, not offhand."
"None of them has a radio. Neither did any of the guys
outside."
"So?" asked Asrial.
""So if they're not using radios to coordinate their actions,
they're using the palace's internal comm systems. Asrial, what's the
quickest way to the telecom closet?"

/* Lalo Schifrin/John E. Davis "Mission: Impossible '88" _The Best
of Mission: Impossible Then and Now_ */

The strikeforce crept through the basement to the telecom
room, securing each area as they went. They encountered no more
resistance anywhere in the subbasement. Nobody in the generator
rooms, nobody guarding the PBX... "Bad security," murmured Zoner as
he borrowed Gryphon's paratrooper knife, popped the cover off the PBX
patch panel, and began deftly extracting wires, clipping and stripping
them with a Leatherman tool, and tying them together in interesting
ways. In five minutes he had wired Ed's cellular phone into the
master bus.
Redneck's face split into a shit-eating grin. "Zoner, if
you're thinking of doing what I think you're thinking of doing, I
oughta warn you, I think it's a violation of the Geneva Convention."
"Oh well," replied Zoner. "Good thing they're just
terrorists, not a real government."
"Eyep," said Redneck. "You wanna dial, or should I?"
"No need," Zoner said with a grin, as he punched Redial.
"Isn't technology wonderful?"
"Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, Lieutenant Thomason
speaking."
"Hi, this is Manny with Galactic Bell Field Service calling.
Listen, we've got a DS1 we've got to do some loopthrough testing on
out here. Can you do me a favor, chuck this call on hold and forget
about it? We'll clear the line when we're done."
"Your funeral," replied Lt. Thomason. With a click, Zoner was
on hold. Gently, he nestled the cellphone handset among the wires at
the bottom of the PBX cabinet, checked the connections, and replaced
the cover panel.
"Let's book," said Zoner, folding the paratrooper knife back
up and returning it to its owner. "We've just crippled their internal
communications, and with the lousy security they've got down here, I'd
be willing to bet they were banking on that strike force in the tunnel
to stop us. We could probably just walk right into the elevator in
the Main Hall and ride it way up to the King's Study."
"We're just gonna walk into the Main Hall elevator and ride it
all the way to the top," said Redneck skeptically.
"That's the idea, yeah," replied Zoner. "With the minimal
rearguard they've got watching the place, why take the stairs? If
they weren't covering the utilities room, they probably don't have
much covering the main hall."
"If you say so," Redneck shrugged doubtfully, pausing to
reload his rifle before trotting after the rest of the strike force.
The team worked their way up through the basement to the first
floor (Redneck being briefly amazed that ED-209/A1 could negotiate
regular-scale stairs) and encountered no further resistance. It was
starting to look, as they walked the corridors of the Palace-Imperial
proper, that they might just get away with it.
Just then, a patrol of five Swordsmen wandered around the
corner and found themselves face-to-face with Zoner and company. Both
groups were frozen, startled, for an instant, but Zoner recovered
first, and as he cut one of them down with a burst from his pulse
rifle, the rest of them turned and ran. Cackling with glee, Zoner
broke into a run, charging after them.
"Haven't I seen this movie?" Redneck wondered to himself as he
and the rest of the group gave chase.
Zoner, for his part, was feeling most uncharacteristically
Haywire as he pounded down the corridor after the guards, the smartgun
dot for his pulse rifle bobbing crazily as he ran flat-out after the
slightly swifter Salusians. In the back of his mind, he blamed the
Salusian atmosphere's slightly higher oxygen content.
"Yaaaaa-HOOOO - " he shouted, the whoop trailing as he charged
out of a side corridor into the foyer end of the palace's Main Hall,
coming into the room's left side just inside the sealed and bolted
main entrance, skidding around the corner to face the room.
" - OOOOooooooooohhhhhhh SHIT!!" he finished, finding himself
face to face with rather a large quantity of Sword infantry.
The rest of Team PWEI piled out of the doorway after him, and
then, with a dreadfully final sound, blast doors sealed off both that
side corridor and its mate on the opposite side of the foyer.
MegaZone and the rest of the team stood in a small knot facing into a
massive, high-vaulted room like a cathedral's chapel, studded with
some benches and statues of former Salusian rulers. At the far end of
the long red carpet was the main elevator, large enough to accommodate
the entire party, if they could only reach it.
Unfortunately, between them and it were at least three dozen
armed representatives of the Sword of Salusia Party's private security
force, plus one ExoSalusia Industries Heavy Arms Division MBV-09-C
"Apharmd", a representative of the new class of light, very fast
Destroids ExoSal was marketing under the trademark "Cyber Troopers".
A grizzled Swordsman with gold stripes on his upper sleeves
emerged from the back of the troops and demanded through a loudhailer,
"Attention, attacking force! As you can see, you are outnumbered,
outgunned, and outclassed. Give it up!"
Zoner and Gryphon looked at each other.
"LIKE HELL!" they declared, swinging their weapons to bear.

/* Pop Will Eat Itself "PWEI Is a Four Letter Word" _This Is the
Day... This Is the Hour... This Is THIS!_ */

As Zoner tore into the enemy's right flank with pulse-rifle
fire, Gryphon swung to the left, thumbed the power grudge on his
Stouker to MAX, and squeezed off a shot. The electric buzz-PWHAM of
the Stouker blasted a swath out of their left-flanking troops, killing
at least three and scattering double that number to the rear. Then
each ran in his chosen direction, seeking cover in the
several-feet-deep door frames of the now-sealed side corridors.
Asrial also broke left, seeking cover with Gryphon, while Leeanna tore
off a burst of autofire from her Lawgiver before diving to the right.
That left Ed and Redneck in the middle as the enemy troopers recovered
from their surprise and began to fire.

/* They Might Be Giants "I Should Be Allowed to Think" _John Henry_ */

"FUCK!" shouted Redneck, plunging a hand into his left pocket
and coming up with a grenade. "GRENADE!" he cried for the benefit of
his side, thumbing out the pin and hurling the grenade into the troops
on his left. "GRENADE!" he reiterated, repeating the procedure with
the grenade in his right-hand pocket and the troops on his right. The
double explosion rattled the room and knocked off another ten or so
Swordsmen. Nothing for it, he thought, and yanked the .40s from their
holsters, blazing away to his left and right and yelling like a maniac
as he sprinted for the elevator at a dead run.
"What's that crazy son of a bitch doing?!" Zoner yelled over
the stuttering bark of his pulse rifle, pausing for a moment to use
the underbarrel 40mm launcher to lob a flechette grenade into a
particularly threatening-looking group of Swordsmen.
"Search me!" Gryphon replied, peppering the left flank with
Stouker blasts. His answer was lost in the thundering roar of
Asrial's Crosstown subguns.
ED-209/A1 surveyed the situation with some perplexity for a
second, then decided his current position was as good as he was going
to get. He locked the joints in his legs, becoming essentially a
stationary turret, and opened fire with his primary armament, being
careful not to shoot the friendly in the center of his field of fire.
Redneck had the strange sensation of running through a field
of grain as it was being mowed; his fire was thinning the ranks of the
troopers ahead of him, and on either side, the hail of fire from the
rest of the team was slashing through the Sword troopers, sending them
down in a steady flailing stream just visible in his peripheral
vision.
Not that he had much of that - all his focus was on the
elevator door, visible just beyond the leg of the Apharmd...
... the Apharmd.
"Ahhhh, FUCK!" shouted Redneck in the suddenly quiet room, and
he dropped the slides on his locked-open, empty .40s, shoved them back
in their holsters, jumped up, and punched the machine's midriff with
all the strength he could muster.
Unimpressed, the Apharmd drew a leg back and kicked Redneck
back across the main hall. On his way across, he crashed into and
through a particularly nice piece of statuary, depicting King Alimo
XII ("the Intrepid") vanquishing Orimus of Kumbar at the Battle of
Velni, then smashed into the far wall just short of the foyer, hanging
in a Redneck-shaped crater in the wall for a moment before sliding
slowly out and plopping to the floor.
Asrial's eyes narrowed. Dropping her Crosstowns to the floor,
she pushed Gryphon aside and stalked out into the center of the foyer,
marching deliberately forward into the Main Hall itself, and stood for
a moment surveying the situation.
Dead or dying Swordsmen littered the floor. Ten or so
remained standing, momentarily stunned by what they had just seen.
The Apharmd loomed before the main elevator, swinging its assault
cannon to bear on the doorway. Asrial regarded it with a narrow-eyed,
compressed-lipped glare of scorn that the pilot almost felt as a
physical blow.
"That's it, boy," Asrial growled to the Apharmd, her voice
soft but clearly audible in the suddenly quiet Hall. The statue of
Alimo defeating Orimus had been her favorite piece of art in the
palace since her girlhood. She reached up over her right shoulder,
put a finger through the metal ring protruding from the top flap of
her backpack, and pulled it.
With a sharp PSCHT noise, a spidery metal framework popped out
of the sides of the pack. Two spindly metal rods swung sideways
across her shoulders, down her upper arms, bent at her elbows and
clasped around her wrists, then expanding with the characteristic
flowing action of memory metal into enclosing armor; similar armatures
did the same to her legs, and a ribcage-like structure enfolded her
torso, the slats then springing to meet each other and seal into an
interlocked power-mail system. The pack also released a pair of
angular silver pauldrons, which popped up and locked down over her
shoulders, and a streamlined top-over helmet that sprang up and folded
around her head from the back, forming a holovisor around her eyes.
Emitting a soft capacitor-like whine, the prototype of the
soon-to-be-released ExoSalusia Personal Arms Division MP-1414zA
"Shadow Warrior" compact personal powersuit system, known within the
company by the project nickname "Can o' Whoop-Ass", powered up,
stiffening and expanding slightly to complete its deployment as the
red targeting reticule glowed to life within the visor.
Asrial raised her right hand and crooked a finger at the
Apharmd.
"Come get some."

/* Pop Will Eat Itself "Wise Up! Sucker" _This Is the Day... This
Is the Hour... This Is THIS!_ */

The Apharmd raised its assault cannon and launched a 200mm
high-explosive shell at Asrial, but she was already moving, jumping up
and over the cannon's line of fire. Every member of Team PWEI who
wasn't already on the floor got there in a hurry as the shell crashed
into the main entrance, blowing the palace doors out from within. The
safety panels on her armor's pauldrons blew off, revealing a
half-dozen small missiles which pitted the Apharmd's frontal armor and
disabled the loading mechanism of its cannon. Discarding the useless
weapon, the Apharmd instead produced its twin beam blades, tonfa-like
constructs which were meant for mech-to-mech infighting. It swung at
her with its right, moving faster than she'd expected such a machine
to move; it almost clipped her before she ducked under the beam and
drove a fist into the right elbow joint.
Below, one of the surviving Swordsmen popped open the portable
anti-armor missile he'd intended to use on Ed and swung it instead
upward, trying his best to get a bead on the quickly flitting target
that was Asrial.
This was a mistake, since Ed noticed what he was doing and
lobbed one of his own mini-missiles in that direction.
Asrial didn't notice that mini-drama, intent as she was on
disabling the Apharmd's close-combat capabilities. She'd already
almost wrecked its right arm; the elbow flexed jerkily and the beam
tonfa sputtered and flickered. It was taking too long, though. Still
experimental, the Shadow Warrior suit had a couple of drawbacks, one
of which was the fact that the power cell didn't last too long. The
pilot of the Apharmd, another of the rogue Knights, was too good for
her to finish quickly hand-to-hand.
Frak! Asrial thought, I don't have time for this! Kicking
away from the Apharmd's chest, she darted back across the room and
hovered at its chest-level near the entrance, reaching up to her pack
to pull down the shotgun that was still faithfully racked there.
Holding the shotgun sideways across her chest, she reached back and
removed from her pack one of the special 12-gauge shells she'd packed
for the trip.
Marketed by Ares Arms under the trademark name "Thunderbolt",
the shell Asrial now thumbed into the tube magazine of her Winchester
was a most remarkable piece of technology. Chambering and firing in
an ordinary modern 12-gauge shotgun, the Thunderbolt shell contains a
1000-gram depleted uranium penetrator, fin-stabilized and fitted with
a discarding sabot and a directed-ion-flow sustainer thruster. In the
penetrator's tip, behind an impact sensor, there is a tiny,
magnetically sealed chamber containing a miniscule amount of
anti-helium.
In effect, this makes it the arms industry's tiniest photon
torpedo. At a quarter-million credits a pop, they're not cheap, but
there is no more powerful man-portable weapon available at the time of
this writing than a shotgun loaded with Thunderbolts.
Asrial racked the pump on the Winchester, aimed it at the
oncoming Apharmd, and searched her soul for something witty to say.
Since all that came back from that were excruciatingly cheesy
Schwarzeneggerisms, she gave it up and just fired.
It happened too fast for anyone's eye to really register it,
but if anyone had seen, the projectile would have streaked from the
barrel of the Winchester, leaving behind it a delightful blue glow and
a remarkably pretty shock-cone effect, before plunging into the
Apharmd's chest and detonating. The resulting shockwave burst outward
in a magnificent fluorescent ring. Those who had the misfortune of
being too close to the Apharmd, such as the remaining Swordsmen, were
reduced to their component atoms. Those further away, such as Team
PWEI, were shielded by the stairwell walls -
Except Ed, who was well-anchored;
Gryphon, who had been standing in the foyer watching the show
without regard for his own safety and was now blown ass over bandwagon
down the stairs, through the shattered doors, and out onto the entry
plaza; and
Asrial, whose hoverjets weren't powerful enough to maintain
her position (especially since she caught the shockwave at its most
powerful, right at the altitude it originated on). She was blown back
through the high windows above the entryway and ended up not too far
from Gryphon.
Before anyone had time to recover from the shock of all that,
the tortured structural members of the foyer began to give way.
Shaking off his shock, Zoner jumped to his feet, scooped up the
still-stunned Leeanna, and charged out into the Main Hall, followed
closely by Ed. He detoured around the corner to pick up Redneck, who
appeared still unable or unwilling to get up and move under his own
power, then sought cover behind the mangled remains of one of the
Apharmd's feet. With a crumbling roar, the foyer collapsed,
effectively sealing off the palace's main entrance. The only exit
from the Main Hall was now the stairwell and elevator in the back, the
latter of which was now just a gaping hole in the back wall.
"Well, fuck," murmured Zoner as he stood up, leaving Redneck
sprawled on the floor. "Gryph, can you hear me? Asrial?"
"I'll have the linguini with clams," came Gryphon's voice in
his headset.
"You OK?"
"I think so. I feel like Super Mario just after he gets
knocked back to the small size, but I have all my limbs, and they all
appear to work... looks like I'm locked out, though."
"Asrial, you there?"
Outside, Asrial groaned and pulled herself to hands and knees.
It was harder than it should have been to do that, a sign which,
combined with her dark, defunct visor, told her either the explosion
or just the passage of time had rendered her powersuit useless. She
reached back to the backpack and pulled the ring again; the suit came
apart into a number of smaller, independent pieces and fell away like
an old skin, and she stood up and left it behind.
"Yes, I'm all right." She surveyed the mess that had been the
front entrance to the palace.
Before Zoner could poll for what-next ideas, the stillness was
broken by a deafening crash which he identified, after a moment's
half-panic, as the elevator counterweight crashing into the basement,
now that the car had been vaporized.
Outside, Asrial heard it too, and her thoughtful frown slowly
turned upward into a grin.
"Can you guys get upstairs from in there?" she asked.
Zoner walked over to the elevator shaft and looked up. The
shaft was still open, and looking up, he could see all the way to the
vanishing point high at the top of the palace's central tower,
seventy-four stories above.
"I think so," he replied. "It's gonna be a slow climb,
though."
"That's OK," said Asrial. "Just get there when you get there.
Ben and I are heading up by a different route, we'll meet you there.
Asrial out." She crossed the plaza and helped Gryphon to his feet,
and then, with her in the lead, the two of them set off around the
palace.
Zoner would have asked what she was planning, but at that
point, the bundle over his shoulder stirred and asked pointedly, "Were
you planning on putting me down anytime soon?"
"Huh? Oh! Sorry," replied Zoner, setting Leeanna on her
feet. "You all right?"
"Fine," she replied. "I've had worse Thursday nights on my
regular beat, although at least -those- creeps are afraid of me."
Redneck pulled himself to a sitting position and groaned.
"Ohhhh, Christ."
"You OK, Red?" asked Zoner.
"Someone's buying me an all-you-can-eat buffet when this is
over with," replied Overstreet, getting gingerly to his feet and
checking himself over. "That could definitely have gone better." He
removed his rifle from its slung position and inspected it, but he
didn't have to do so very closely to see that it was useless. Having
taken the brunt of his impacts with the statue and the wall, it was
bent into a twisted U-shape, its walnut stock splintered and its scope
shattered.
"Ahhhhhh, -shit-!" snarled Redneck. He tossed the useless
weapon aside, along with a mostly-full box of ammunition he retrieved
from a jacket pocket. "So much for that... at least I've still got
these," he added, drawing one of his .40s. Removing the spent
magazine, he inserted a fresh one from his pocket, jacked the slide,
set the safety, and holstered the weapon, then repeated the procedure
with its mate.

Outside, Gryphon and Asrial made it around the palace in about
five minutes, encountering no resistance. At the back of the palace,
where the main tower's walls came down almost flush to the edge of the
side of Mount-Imperial, affording the best view of Saenar in the
distance, Asrial surveyed the wall for a moment, her smile widening.
There was a smaller elevator on this side of the main tower,
mounted on the outside of the castle. It was glass-walled, affording
a spectacular, if somewhat vertiginous, view of the Saenar Valley and
the gleaming city in the distance, and stopped one level below the
King's Study. Above the top of the elevator's half-enclosed tracks,
the panoramic window of that study stretched from one side of the
tower to the other, centering on a massive circular pane.
Asrial removed four regular shotgun rounds from her pack and
thumbed them into her gun, then followed them with another special
type (but NOT another Thunderbolt); then she jacked the weapon's
slide, set the safety and put it back in its sling. Her grin widened
as she climbed up the outside of the elevator track, beckoning for
Gryphon to join her, and stepped out onto the top of the elevator car.

"I'd say we're in for a long climb," said Leeanna from inside
the base of the master elevator shaft. Then, as ED-209/A1 stalked
into the enclosure with her, she moved aside, eyeing it curiously.
The robot positioned itself in the very center of the shaft, tilting
its torso back to look upward.
"Please find suitable handholds and prepare for rapid ascent,"
said the robot, as, at the back of its massive torso, striped metal
covers popped off to reveal a pair of rocket thrusters.
"Oh, I know I'm gonna regret this," said Redneck as he climbed
onto one of the robot's legs and grabbed hold of a particularly
sturdy-looking strut. Zoner made as if to give Leeanna a hand up, but
she ignored him and climbed up over the autocannon feeds to perch atop
the carapace, hooking her hands into the crevice at the front of the
cannons' rear-mounted ammo drums. This left Zoner the other leg, so
he climbed on opposite Redneck and looked across the gap between them
with a grin that the Freespacer entirely failed to return.
"This could lead to excellence," remarked Leeanna dubiously,
"or serious injury."
"Only one way to know," replied Zoner with a grin. "Go, GO,
GO!!"
So instructed, ED-209/A1 lit 'em up.

"What are we doing up here?" Gryphon asked, looking with some
trepidation at the ridiculously long drop from the top of
Mount-Imperial to the valley below, invisible in the darkness of
night. (Yeah, I know, a space-fighter pilot who's afraid of heights?)
"Getting to the top," replied Asrial, her ever-widening grin
threatening to tread into shit-eating territory. "Hold on to me
tightly."
"Hey, I'm the one who's scared, Asrial," said Gryphon,
obediently (and not all that reluctantly) hooking an arm around her
waist and locking his hands together. "This is blatant gender
discrimination."
"Tell it to my attorney," she replied cheerfully, retrieving a
mini-torch from her pack and striking a light. "Don't worry, it'll be
OK." With that, she seized the elevator cable firmly in her left
hand, and with her right, put the flame to the that cable.
Gryphon decided he'd best hold -very- tightly.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
Zoner's best guess was that they were all screaming, except
Ed, who was too busy flying.
After a couple of seconds, though, he ceased to scream and
instead found himself marveling at just how far up they were going.
Looking over at Overstreet, he remarked, "Dude! This's a
totally tall building."
"Yep," replied Redneck, nodding. He found himself,
surprisingly, rather less terrified than he had expected to be, and
more in a state of numb disbelief, as if he were watching somebody
else do this astoundingly reckless thing.
Satisfied that his opinion of the palace was shared, Zoner
resumed screaming. Redneck thought about it for a moment and decided
that the WDF captain had the right idea.

With a last tortured SPANG, the cable parted. Relieved of all
that weight that had been the car, which had been replaced by a mere
four hundred or so pounds of people and equipment, the counterweight
shot down in its tracks, causing the tiny burden at the other end to
be catapulted into the air at ridiculous speeds. Gryphon held on as
if his arms had turned to steel bars, any and all thoughts about just
how nice his position might be in other circumstances forced from his
brain by the knowledge that he was in an insane amount of mortal
danger.
That passed after a second or two, though, as it began to dawn
on him that he wasn't in all that much danger, really. If he did lose
his grip, or if Asrial lost hers on the cable, he had only to activate
the matrix chip socketed in his neuroprocessor's chipjack station and
call up his Griffin powersuit. He didn't -want- to do that, since the
suit's easily-recognized profile would ruin the team's deniability if
he were seen, but in an emergency, it remained his ace in the hole.
Having realized that, he relaxed a little and enjoyed the
ride.

A few seconds earlier, as Ed reached the peak of the elevator
shaft, he killed his boosters temporarily and blew the outer doors off
with a mini-missile, then rotated the boosters horizontal and gave
them a short squirt, propelling himself out into the room beyond.
With a crump and a hiss, he touched down lightly on his footpads, his
suspension compressing only an inch or so - not nearly far enough to
endanger the fingers of those who were clinging to his leg struts.
They had emerged in the conference room behind the King's
Study at the peak of the palace - the very room in which Jerka VI had
met his untimely death. In front of them was the long conference
table, and sitting and standing around it, more as if waiting than
conferring, were fourteen of the fifteen remaining traitorous Knights.
Mara Ness was not at the table, nor was Alois Greub himself; they
could be seen through the double doors beyond, in the King's Study
himself, conferring at Jerka's former desk in front of the great round
window.
All of them whirled in shock as the elevator bay exploded and
the big robot crashed through with his human cargo, too stunned to
react with fire at first.

/* David Arnold "Kasuf Returns" _Stargate_ */

"ALOIS GREUB!" Leeanna barked, jumping down from atop Ed, her
Lawgiver drawn. "Come out and prepare to be judged!"
"KILL THEM!" Greub screamed, slamming the Study doors shut,
and the Knights jerked out of their shock, readying and raising
weapons.
"Time to make the DONUTS!!" Redneck remarked, dropping away
from Ed's leg and chopping down the nearest Knight with a volley of
fire from his sidearms.
"Fuckin' A, bubba," replied Zoner, jumping clear of the big
robot and lobbing a fletcher grenade into the far corner. He came up
to a half-crouch and moved forward, chopping at the Knights with
bursts of fire, as Redneck rampaged up the other side of the table and
Leeanna took the middle. Ed, his field of cannon fire blocked,
deployed his induction cannon and waited for supporting fire to be
required.
Velto Niel, a wiry Vindari Knight, darted forward and knocked
Zoner's pulse rifle out of his hands with his short war-pike, then
thrust forward, driving the weapon into the taller man's thigh.
Grunting slightly with pain, Zoner drew his Predator, straight-armed
it and blew Niel's head off, then yanked the spear out and tossed it
aside before continuing on his way.
Redneck jumped back from a sword slash, backpedaling to the
wall, before rapping out two rounds into that Knight's chest and
dropping him cold; then he turned and blasted the one who thought he
could flank the Freespacer and put a dagger in his ribs. That pistol
locked open, so he dropped it and continued with one; after taking a
blaster burn to the shoulder from the next and dropping him,
Overstreet found himself with that weapon dry as well. Unconcerned,
he dove to the floor, dropping the pistol and scooping up the dead
Knight's blaster, rolled up to one knee and pumped two bolts into the
chest of the Cheltari woman who was just a little slower on the draw
with her shotgun. The power light began blinking immediately, so he
tossed the blaster away and grabbed the shotgun instead. Turning away
from the axe-wielding maniac who proved to be the last on his side, he
took a shallow slice to his cheek, then turned inside the man's reach,
brought up the shotgun, and cut him down.
Zoner, meanwhile, had more or less dealt with everybody on his
side. He moved in closer to the middle, to provide covering fire for
Leeanna, who was approaching the door to the King's Study.
"Hi-X," she said to her Lawgiver.
"Selected," replied the Lawgiver, and, with a cold smile
hinting at the corners of her mouth, she blew the doors off.
"Standard slug, three-round burst."
"Selected."
"Greub!" she barked. "You've lost. Give yourself up!"
Behind the King's desk, with Mara Ness at his side, Alois
Greub slammed down the useless telephone and glowered. "Never!" He
held up a small control unit. "I'll super-crit the palace's fusion
plant before I give myself up to Zardon justice."
"Oh, fuck, I think he means it," Zoner muttered.
Behind Greub, in the big circular window, there suddenly
appeared a most unusual sight. Asrial, sans her late powersuit,
appeared to be flying anyway; she swept up into view from below the
window with no visible means of propulsion, her left hand hanging onto
the back of Gryphon's body-armor harness. In her right was the
Winchester shotgun.
She bared her teeth in an expression more snarl than smile and
fired at the window. For a split-second, Leeanna expected to be blown
back to the elevator by the holocaust of another Thunderbolt, but
instead, the round hit the window and stuck with a deep THUNK, panels
springing away from its sides to lie against the window in an asterisk
shape.
With a flash and a deafening bang, the baton round detonated,
blowing the window inside in a shower of shards. Greub pitched
forward over the desk, the control unit flying from his hand and
skittering across the floor toward Leeanna, who firmly planted her
Justice Department-issue size-7 boot on it. Mara Ness was spun around
by the concussion wave; mastering her shock quickly, she raised her
slugger as Asrial and Gryphon arced gracefully through the shattered
window to land firmly on the floor behind the desk.
And suddenly, with a loud THUCK and a spray of crimson, she no
longer had a right arm. With a piercing scream, she dropped to the
floor, then lay there moaning in shock as her lifeblood pumped out of
the three or four inches of upper arm that remained attached to her
shoulder.
Asrial's smile hardened as Alois Greub picked himself up off
the floor, groaning and shaking his head, then turned around to see
the princess he'd exiled pointing a shotgun at him.
"Well, Asrial, it looks like you've won," Greub spat. "You
and your Earther friends here can go on destroying Salusia's
heritage... for now. But don't think I'm the last, little princess,
don't think it will end with me. There are many like me, outraged at
the erosion your family's policies are causing, and it's only a matter
of time before another takes my place."
"Leeanna, Zoner, do me a favor and clear this room out, would
you?" asked Asrial, ignoring Greub's diatribe altogether.
"What?" Leeanna replied, taken aback.
"Do it!" Asrial barked.
"OK, all right," said the Judge, and she and Zoner moved the
desk into the corner, followed by the rather grisly remains of Mara
Ness, who seemed to have expired unnoticed in all the excitement.
Satisfied that Greub was covered and the room sufficiently cleared,
Asrial handed her shotgun to Leeanna.
Greub looked quizzical. "What are you up to, little
princess?"
"I could shoot you, or have you shot, Greub," Asrial replied,
"but then, in the eyes of the people you've deceived, I would be no
better than you, a usurper who believes that power comes out of the
barrel of a gun. I must have satisfaction for the murder of my
father, for whatever you may tell me, I know he was murdered. Tell
me, did you shoot him yourself, or was it one of the Knights you
turned?"
"Mara, actually," Greub replied lightly. "The old fool killed
Lincon and was going to kill me next."
"You will speak of my father with respect," said Asrial
tightly.
"I will speak of the old bastard however I want! You've
already said you won't kill me. What, then? A trial? Who will the
people of Salusia believe? The man they know as their rightful
monarch, named successor by their dead King Jerka himself? Or a
deranged and banished princess and her alien confederates, who proved
their degeneracy by storming the Palace-Imperial by force? Your
Earther pets won't even let their real names get out for fear of the
repercussions it would cause in the United Galactica Assembly, and a
Zardon Judge has no credibility here. It seems to me, little
princess, that you'll have to kill me, or forfeit the game after
coming so far."
Asrial's eyes hardened. "I said I wouldn't shoot you. I
never said I'd let you live."
She turned to Gryphon and held out a hand, translating the
ancient words into Standard because she knew his Salusian was poor.
"Knight-Commander, arm your Queen and second her strength with
yours."
For a moment, Gryphon was thunderstruck. He understood the
significance of her words, knew that by them she was most deeply
honoring him, and the knowledge briefly dizzied him.
Then, recovering himself, he bowed his head and replied, "My
blade is my Queen's, my strength is my Queen's. My arm strikes each
blow with hers." He drew his Ka-Bar and placed its hilt in Asrial's
outstretched hand; then he drew back to stand next to the doorway.
The others filed in slowly and took up positions along the walls, and
Ed walked up so that he was filling the doorway. This left an open
area in the center of the room about thirty feet square. Plenty of
room...
"Draw steel and defend yourself, Greub. This is kanly.
Surely a traditionalist such as yourself knows its laws."
ED-209/A1 resolved a targeting solution on Greub as the latter
drew a long dirk from his belt, but Gryphon held up a hand,
forestalling his fire.
"This is kanly," he murmured, knowing the robot's pickups
would catch his softest words. "The ancient Salusian rite of
vendetta, trial by combat. The disputing parties fight with short
blades and no armor, to the death; the survivor is held to have been
proven right by the spirit of victory. If one blade should be
destroyed or lost, the other warrior is bound to abandon his as well,
and the combat continues with bare fists... until someone dies. This
is of great cultural and personal importance to Asrial. Unless Greub
violates the laws, you are -not- to interfere."
The target designator on the induction cannon flicked off.
Greub and Asrial circled each other warily, blades out, sizing
up each other's strengths and weaknesses. Greub had the longer blade,
was both taller, with commensurately greater reach, and heavier than
his opponent. He also had the weight of experience, having spent most
of his life as as street brawler and general maker of trouble.
Asrial, on the other hand, had more formal training, and was both
faster and much stronger than her opponent. Even for a Salusian of
the Imperial line, Asrial's strength was remarkable.
Greub darted forward, his blade sweeping in a long arc; Asrial
danced backward, and the cut missed her by a mile. Then she stepped
in low, under Greub's outstretched hand, and backhanded for his gut;
he brought his elbow down, deflecting the thrust, and kicked her away.
Back and forth they went like this, for some time, neither gaining
ground on the other, and before long, both were soaked with sweat.
Then Greub made an error, extending himself too much on a lunge, and
Asrial took advantage of it, dashing in for a throat cut. Greub threw
himself back in time to avoid taking the lethal wound, but Asrial's
thrust tore open the tunic of his Sword uniform and opened a bloody
wound in his chest, the blood staining his white fur pink.
"Bitch!" he cried, backhanding her away. She raised a hand to
her face and wiped away the trickle of blood gathering at the corner
of her mouth, then smiled.
"Starting to get on your nerves, how weak and slow you are,
Alois?" she asked.
"You should have been drowned at birth," Greub spat. "You and
that bitch sister of yours. Do you know what she did? I sent a party
into town to find and arrest her, only to find out that somehow she'd
gotten wind of what happened and hired some pinheaded Corellian
smuggler to get her offworld!"
Bless you, Helmar, thought Asrial, and the smuggler too,
whoever he is.
Greub's tirade had its desired effect, and distracted her into
thoughts like that long enough for him to step in and slash, a wide
sweep intended as a disemboweling move; Asrial backpedaled and
suffered only a minor stomach cut, but the exchange reminded her to
keep her guard fully up. She would have time later to reward Helmar
for his vigilance and bravery, find her little sister Leia and the
Corellian who probably saved her life.
Now, she had to avenge her father and reclaim her throne.
She took a half-step, pivoted and kicked Greub in the pit of
the stomach; as the air rushed out of him in a great whoosh, she took
another half-step and pinned the wrist of his knife arm between the
butt of her knife below and her left elbow above. As he grunted
hoarsely with pain, Greub's knife hand flew open, involuntarily
hurling his blade out the window. Stifling an urge to bury her
now-illegal blade up to its hilt in his guts, Asrial tossed it aside
and punched him instead. The blow spun him around and sent him
crashing into the opposite wall, but he recovered and charged,
catching her in a backbreaker.
For a moment, she gasped with pain and pushed ineffectually at
his shoulders; then she remembered that there were more efficient ways
to use her strength advantage, arched her back, and brought both
elbows crashing down on the back of Greub's head. He let out a sharp
bark of pain, reared back, and flung her heavily to the floor. She
landed flat on her back, and the impact drove the wind out of her; for
a moment, she flopped helplessly, trying to remember how to breathe.
Capitalizing on this opening, Greub threw himself down upon
her, his knees pinning her wrists, and smiled.
"You thought you'd won, didn't you, little princess?" He
reached over and picked up the Ka-Bar.
Gryphon felt his muscles stiffen. No, no, not with my own
blade! he thought, his hands flying for his Bryars.
"Well, you were wrong," continued Greub cheerfully. "Time to
die." With that, he raised the blade high, preparing to drive it into
Asrial's heart. She would be dead before any of the slow fleshy
creatures in the room could react and kill him. He knew he would die,
but if he could take her with him, it would almost be worth it...
Wha-CHUNK.
The sound of the safety interlocks in ED-209/A1's autocannons
snapping out of battery instantly commanded everyone's attention.
"Thank you," said Ed, and he opened fire.
The first few impacts, from the inboard cannons, jerked Greub
back away from Asrial's sprawled form and up to his feet; then Ed
opened up with the outboard cannons too, and Alois Greub ceased to
have any meaningful existence, his mortal shell pulverized by 20mm
cannon fire and what remained flung out of the shattered window to
fall entirely too far into the rocky Saenar Valley below.
Unsatisfied, ED-209/A1 continued to fire until all four
cannons ran dry, then stood there emptily clicking for a few seconds.
Thick clouds of smoke rose from his arms as the hot metal of his
cannon barrels pinged softly in the abrupt silence, and the room was
choked with the smell of cannon smoke.
Finally, Ed stopped clicking and cycling the empty ammo belts,
and settled back down into a neutral position, standing down from
combat mode.
"Target neutralized," boomed ED-209/A1.
Gryphon helped Asrial shakily to her feet, asked her how she
was. For a moment, she had no answer; then, as the adrenaline rush
that had been the past twelve hours burned off, she trembled, seized
him in a careful hug, and cried.
"It's all right," said Gryphon softly, patting the back of her
head with his free hand. "It's over."
Behind Asrial, crumpled against the wall, Mara Ness took a
firmer hold to that last thread of life she was clinging to and
decided it was time to put the lie to that. Redneck and Zoner noticed
her reaching for her slugger (still held in the grip of her severed
right hand) at the same time, and both tried to bring weapons to bear
in time -
- but it was Leeanna who beat them to it, spying the motion in
the mirror-like glass of a nearby shard of window. "Ricochet!" she
barked, and fired the Lawgiver at the nearest wall even as the weapon
acknowledged her selection.
Pwang, pwang, pwang, THOK.
Mara Ness decided it was high time she gave up on that whole
life thing after all, and quit reaching for the gun.
Neither Gryphon nor Asrial even noticed, but Zoner was clearly
impressed.
"That was incredible!" he cried, and, overwhelmed by his
exuberance, he drew the Judge into his arms and kissed her firmly.
Leeanna flicked a glance at Asrial, still clinging to Gryphon
and crying, and thought to herself, Well, if you can't be with the one
you love...
She reached up, removed her helmet, and glared at Zoner.
"Unauthorized physical contact with a Judge," she intoned.
"Seventy-two hours community service. Let's get started."
As the Judge led an inanely grinning MegaZone toward the
nearest stairwell, Redneck followed them with a gaze that somehow
managed to combine wistfulness and dread. Then, shaking his head, he
popped open the compartment on Ed which Gryphon had shown him before,
removed a bottle of root beer, closed the compartment, seated himself
against the wall looking out the broken window, popped the top and took
a long, cool swallow.

/* The Mavericks "Blue Moon" _Apollo 13_ */

Through the windows, he saw the distant lights of Saenar, and
above, the stars, glittering in the moonless night. Shame it's still -
what? not even midnight yet, Red thought as he sipped his drink. A
sunrise would be so.... symbolic right about now.

By eight the next morning, it was all over but the shouting.
Deprived of their leader, the conspirators among the Royal Navy's
Admiralty had folded like a cheap gambler with a pair of twos, and the
Navy had backed down from the Earth Defense Forces and returned to
base. In orbit, Jodan Rel's rebellion aboard the Arconian's Pride had
caused a ripple of similar dissent among the younger officers of the
defense fleet, immobilizing it. The Army, which had considered
Greub's claim suspect to begin with, remained uninvolved as the
Imperial Guards emerged from their mountain fortress and easily mopped
up the remaining Sword of Salusia troops in and around the
Palace-Imperial and Saenar.
Now the Wedge Defense Force and CFMF were engaged in enforcing
a systematic stand-down of the Royal Navy, pending a full
investigation and a complete shaking-down of the Admiralty. Until the
Navy was considered trustworthy again, the CFMF and WDF, along with
elements borrowed from the United Galactica Navy, Zardon Justice
Department Bureau of Extra-Orbital Affairs, Earth's United States
Navy, the Centauri Republican Space Navy and sundry other allied
forces were working together in an ad-hoc patchwork to defend the
realm.
Sprawled on Asrial's enormous bed, divested of all but
trousers and t-shirt, Gryphon slept the sleep of a man who's carried
off a strenuous commando raid, supervised the securing of a lot of
territory, and organized a ridiculously complicated ad-hockery of a
space-defense network as an interim cabinet member without even the
benefit of some good takeout Chinese. He was, no doubt because of his
current location, having the most delightful dream, the particulars of
which it would be impolitic to reveal in this context. It was by far
the best time he'd had in the last twenty-four hours.
Sadly, that was all about to be ruined. But at least it was
about to be ruined by the arrival of some good takeout Chinese.
"Commander Hutchins... sir, please wake up... "
Gryphon blinked wearily at the striped pattern of the
pillowcase his face was mostly buried in and wondered where the hell
he was. Then the smell of fresh Hunan chicken reached his nose, and
he decided that knowing his exact location couldn't be too important
if that location had Hunan chicken. Turning over (and wincing as
almost every joint in his body protested), he rubbed at his eyes and
focused on the entirely-too-well-rested face of an
entirely-too-neatly-uniformed Ensign Ellis.
"Here, Commander," she said, holding out a white paper bag
with a pair of chop sticks protruding from the top. "I brought you
some lunch and a fresh dress uniform. The reception's at nine and you
wouldn't want to be late."
Gryphon took the bag and looked inside; the aroma of Hunan
chicken merged with the clean smell of steamed rice and the warm scent
of freshly fried wontons, and he suddenly felt as if his body were
entirely hollow, a vast empty stomach in search of food.
"Christine," he asked as he delved into the bag, "where did
you get Hunan chicken at this hour?"
Ellis smiled. "I can't give away my secrets, sir."
Gryphon patted his trouser pockets, then looked around in
dismay. "I don't suppose you brought my - "
"Toothbrush, sir?" replied Ellis, handing over the
aforementioned instrument along with a small tube of Aqua-Fresh. "The
rest of the bathroom stuff you ought to need is in the garment bag
with your uniform."
"You're irreplaceable, Ellis," said Gryphon, taking the items,
setting them down next to him, and commencing to eat.
"Sorry about the toothpaste, I couldn't get your brand and
with Consultant Morgan away I couldn't get into your quarters."
"I didn't give you access?" asked Gryphon, although with a
mouthful of rice and chicken it came out more like, "Uh din gv yu
affesch?" Ellis shook her head; Gryphon swallowed. "Remind me to do
that when I get back to the ship."
"Yessir," Ellis nodded, making a mental note. "Well, sir, you
shouldn't need my help with the rest of this morning's chores, so I'll
be on my way. If you need me, I'll be in the city, at the Ministry
offices, herding cats."
"OK. Thanks a lot... I might have slept through the whole
thing."
Ellis smiled. "Oh, no, sir, I couldn't let you do that. It
would reflect badly on my performance as your yeoman. See you this
afternoon."
Gryphon smiled to himself as he ate the rest of his lunch,
then padded into the bathroom with the garment bag over his arm,
tossed the dinner bag in the trash, and got to work making himself
presentable. Before showering, he had to take a moment to be
impressed by the size of the bathroom; it was bigger than the suite of
rooms he and Kei shared back on the SDF-17. Come to that, the tub
alone was bigger than their living room.
"It's good to be the King," he muttered to himself as he
lathered his jowls and dubiously eyed the straight razor Ellis had
brought him.

Construction barricades discreetly hid the ruins of the foyer
from the crowd assembled on the Palace-Imperial's grand entrance
plaza. The Imperial Guards were out in very prominent uniformed
force, but the crowd seemed docile enough; the general feeling in the
press was that the Salusian populace was more confused than anything
else over the events of the last couple of days.
The sun shone brightly on the hastily-constructed (and
unobtrusively force-shielded) reviewing stand where a crowd of tens of
thousands, along with live cameras from over a hundred video networks
across the UG, stood and cheered as Asrial Arconian, the eldest
legitimate heir of Jerka VI (her uncle Vlad having bowed out of the
succession and moved to the Outer Rim Territories years ago), was
officially crowned and recognized by the united royal families of the
Salusian Empire as Queen Asrial the First, Empress of Salusia,
Protector of the Realm and so on and so forth.
Standing in the front row of the assembled on the reviewing
stand were Redneck, garbed in the most elaborate CFMF dress uniform
Washuu could conjure up in twenty-four hours, complete with a shining
new cavalry sabre strapped to his right hip, and Gryphon, even more
resplendent in his impeccable WDF dress uniform, right down to the
rowelless spurs that marked him as a Valkyrie pilot. Around them stood
dignitaries from several major worlds, including Vulcan, Zardon, and
Centauri Prime. Behind them, in two rows, stood the highest ranking
nobles of the Empire, each present to show support to their new
ruler. Behind them all stood ED-209/A1, a fresh coat of polish on his
armor and fresh ammo in his chain guns, alert for the least sign of
trouble.
Once the formal ceremony of coronation had been completed,
Asrial, neat and regal in the uniform of the Grand Marshal of the
Royal Salusian Armed Forces (covered over by the ceremonial cape and
crown handed down since before the unification of Salusia) calmly and
clearly explained to the crowd, and through the news cameras present
to the rest of the populace of Salusia and the United Galactica, the
events of the last forty-eight hours, from Jerka's betrayal and
assassination right up through Greub's defenestration.
After her, Jeremy, still nondescript but for once the center
of everybody's attention, still shadowed by Ichi-Kun, gave a moving
speech about the resolvability of the differences between Earth and
Salusia. He acknowledged the legitimacy of Greub's concerns while
deploring the methods the late terrorist leader had used in attempting
to resolve them; he recounted all the things the two cultures had to
offer one another; he cautioned the listener that the time for
isolationism was long past in the increasingly-interconnected galaxy;
he reminded all who heard his ringing voice of the lofty ideals for
which Salusia had been a major force in the founding of the United
Galactica.
By the end of Jeremy's appeal, the Salusian populace and most
of that of the United Galactica were again on their feet and
cheering.
There was, Gryphon remarked to himself, still a hell of a lot
to do. He could look forward to at least a year, more possibly two,
as Minister of Defense For Duration Of Crisis before the military was
in shape again and a suitable native replacement could be found. One
or two extremely busy years. On the other hand, living in Saenar
would be a nice change from shipboard life, if only for a while, and
the rest of the Force would be just overhead.
Yes, there was much to do, and those involved had miles to go
before they could sleep... but it was almost as if he could feel
public opinion swinging Asrial's way again, and when it was all said
and done, who could say but that it was Jeremy's speech that really
turned the moment around?
Gryphon smiled to himself as the applause died down, the
Imperial Guards' marching band struck up a tune, and the massed Guards
units began a ceremonial pass-in-review.

/* PDQ Bach "Rondo Mucho Grando" _Grand Serenade for an Awful Lot
of Winds and Percussion, S.1000_ */

Minutes later, as the Guards still passed, Redneck half-turned
to Gryphon and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Damn new
uniform itches... "
"You didn't have to come, you know. Asrial did offer you an
out."
"Well... yeah, but I have enough money," murmured the
Freespacer. "And besides, Asrial loves to give people titles. It's
one of the few joys of being royalty." He shrugged. "I'll just have
to keep the part about being her loyal vassal a secret."
Gryphon didn't see how Overstreet planned to do that with the
TV cameras here to record his investiture, but he refrained from
commenting about it.
After the review, Gryphon moved to the right side of Asrial's
improvised throne. This, since she had named him Knight-Commander
earlier, was the cue that it was time for the investitures. Only two
were being made today, and the second would cause no little bit of
controversy: it would mark the first time in Salusia's long history
that an automaton was sworn in as a Knight-Defender. In comparison,
Redneck's investiture, which would itself be the first time a
non-subject was sworn in as a Knight-Defender, would be a political
cakewalk.
Thankfully, Leeanna's position with the Zardon Justice
Department forbade her from accepting any such title, and anyway, she
was nowhere to be found. (Also, technically speaking, the existing
Knights should have reiterated their oaths to the new monarch, but
since one of them was missing as well, and another still confined to
the SDF-17's sick bay, it had been decided that this detail would be
taken care of quietly, later.)
"Commodore Kristan Oren, of the house Overstreet, step
forward," Asrial said, and Red stepped forward towards the improvised
throne. Glancing to his left, he saw Gryphon smile and give him a
thumbs-up sign. Faint reassurance, but anything was a help...
...and then he looked straight ahead to Asrial, truly regal in
her uniform and regalia. True, she had a lot of trials and
controversies ahead - her relationship with Jeremy Feeple, her
decision to be crowned in her humanized form, her stance on
Salusian-Earth relations, on policial and military reforms, and beyond
that the normal responsibilities which went with being the head of
state and chief executive of possibly the largest nation in the
Galaxy. Today, in the bright sun and clear sky, amid thousands of
admiring subjects, she looked more than capable of handling it all.
And beyond that, beyond the mummery of the position, there
stood the same person he'd played Doom with on the Wayward Son, who
had backed him in his earliest days with the CFMF, who had, for one
reason or another, become one of his few close friends.
It was this person, Asrial Arconian, not the Queen of Imperial
Salusia, who, when he knelt before her, bent down and whispered in his
ear, "Nervous? Don't worry, I'll keep this as painless as possible."
Kris, in direct violation of ritual, looked up in frank
admiration and said two words he'd never thought he'd say - at least,
not seriously;
"My Queen."

/* James Horner "End Titles" _Apollo 13_ */

EOF
--
"I have proven the difference between us. You just suck." - Ken, SPF2T
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