[UF][FanFic] Redneck: Wilderness Pt. 3

[Kris Overstreet]

Chapter 6/THEN

Freespacer Home Fleet, orbiting Salusia
May 8, 2300

Through the traffic corridor of the Confederate Freespacer
Alliance Home Fleet flew a rickety old scout ship, sputtering by on
what had once been a sublight ion drive. The hull plates no longer
shone with pride; the cracked, bent, glued-together pieces seemed more
leprous than healthy. Steel plates had replaced transparencies over
two of the portholes in the control cabin. A tiny trail of radioactive
particles trickled from the base of the ship, indicating a minor
reactor leak which prevented the ship from using more than one-tenth
of its full power.
In very faded letters might be read, by someone with an
ultraviolet lamp and psychic abilities, the legend CFA Sunday Driver
CFA-1742. Its pilot glanced around the steel plates, powering his
on-board nav systems by holding the power lead in his hand and
thinking happy thoughts, and sought Hangar Four, CFA New Orleans
CFA-919, in the very heart of the fleet.
Ninety-eight years. For ninety-eight years, he'd explored
worlds far beyond the region of stars which comprised the United
Galactica. Some of it had been entertaining, some dangerous, and three
years of it in particular had been the very worst of his life... but
now, thank God, the end was (literally) in sight, and soon Kris
Overstreet, sometime pilot, sometime general, sometime writer, would
sleep in his own bed- a real bed- for the first time in years.
The misadventures of the past century had made the Redneck a
new man, sure of who he was and what he was. (Who he was was him, and
what he was was sick of bouncing around the stars, patching together a
ship that Jawas would have abandoned as hopeless.) He'd learned
control not only over himself, but over the various surprises his body
had given him since that day back in 1999 when Washuu's experiment
went much farther than she'd intended.
Case in point: with the main coupling fried beyond all
futzing, the only power in the control cabin came from Kris himself.
As he munched the last few stale crackers on the ship, he converted
biochemical energy into enough electrical energy to power the sublight
nav computer and ship's controls, plus some extra power to sustain the
ball of coalescent energy which floated over his head and illuminated
the cabin. After seven straight uninterrupted hours of this (his
hyperdrive had given up the ghost some twenty million miles back), he
was just a bit tired- and hungry.
The gigantic form of the New Orleans crept over the viewports,
and Kris steered the ship towards a hangar in the lower portion of the
behemoth. With as much as fifty meters to either side to spare, the
Sunday Driver slid into Hangar Four, passing through the athmospheric
containment forcefields and into the vast pressurized landing bay.
Once inside, he followed the instructions of the bay personnel and set
the near-derelict ship down near the back corner of the hangar.
Kris released the controls and the two leads to the nav
systems and willed away the ball of light, relaxing at last. For a
moment, he savored the feeling, no longer moving, no longer seeking,
just _home,_ home for the first time in a century.
Home. Gotta love it.
It took a few minutes for the hangar manager to work his way
over to the ship. He arrived just in time to see the landing ramp drop
from the side of the ship, the running lights dim and die. As he tried
to scan the registration of the decrepit ship before him, a figure in
ragged khaki clothes and an old leather jacket strode casually down
the plank. Two large duffel bags hung from his shoulders, and his
pockets bulged with ancient datatapes. An old, old piece of paper
crumpled slightly in his right hand.
"Sir," the landing official said- why does he look so
familiar?- "sir, there's a twenty-five credit -"
"Sold!" the man said, and he took out a pen and scrawled a
signature on the piece of paper, ripping it in two places. "Here ya
go!" he smiled, with a spring in his step he walked up the loading
ramp and into the chaos of the New Orleans' ship-wide Bazaar..
Puzzled, the manager glanced down at the paper, boggled as he
recognized the form. The pilot had just signed over the deed to the
spaceship in front of him, with a note handwritten beneath the
registry;

I, Kristan Overstreet, do hereby sign over to (blank space)
all ownership of this ship in exchange for the sum of whatever
the landing fee is.

Beneath, in all the appropriate spaces, was a scrawl which
might have had a K, an S, an O, and two T's.
The manager thought carefully.
First thought: Now wait just a minute, you can't just sign
over your ship to pay off the landing fees!
Second thought: But since your ship can be impounded and
dispossessed if you -don't- pay... well, I guess he's saving us some
time.
Third thought: This couldn't possibly be -that- Overstreet?
The one in the history books?
After a few moments' consideration, the deck manager tucked
the paper into his pocket and shook his head. Naah. If it was the
Redneck himself, he thought, he'd be laying low. With the bounty
hunters still seeking out anyone remotely related to the Wedge Defense
Force, being an immortal was hazardous to your health- even if you
weren't actually a Wedgie.
Meanwhile, Kris was catching up on current events via the 'hot
sheets,' more specifically a hardcopy edition of the Weekly Midnight
Star from a newsstand among the many booths lining the sides of the
concourse. (The dealer had frowned on Kris' century-old coins, until
he found out the cheapest of them were worth roughly fifteen times
their face value in the collectibles market.)
The usual clutter of misinformation glared from the cover. In
an inset on the upper left corner of the tabloid's cover, a homely
woman wearing next to nothing was superimposed on a picture of
Gryphon. Kris had seen similar images on occasion, in similar
publications, and the headline had always been a variant on I'M
CARRYING GRYPHON'S LOVE CHILD!
This time, headline read, I'M CARRYING THE BUTCHER'S LOVE
MONSTER!
The Butcher? Kris thumbed through the pages, finally seeing
the story in a two-page spread in the center. The lurid pictures of
Gryphon, grinning insanely, gunning down the children on Musashi, of
Gryphon look-alikes posing in various situations, and of an artist's
representation of the Wayward Son's crash shortly thereafter-
CRASH?? Kris re-read the sentence carefully. What the HELL
happened? As he read the paragraph several times over, he noticed a
small wicker chair in the next booth over. Just what he needed:
someplace to sit and absorb the news.
The blaster bolt in his back knocked him to the ground well
before he reached the chair.
Grumbling silently at the burning in his back, Kris held
himself limp and breathed shallowly. He thanked whatever good fortune
that the corridor was, at the moment, quiet and empty. Crowd panic- or
crowd vigilantism- might have made identifying the gunman a problem.
Kris noticed a flicker of movement on the edge of vision; a
second later, a weaselly-looking human eased into sight, greasy black
hair combed back from the temples, trenchcoat partially hiding an
older model blaster rifle. The gunman walked up to Kris cautiously,
carefully, eyes focused on the body laying before him...
...and completely missing the blade of coalescent energy
forming behind his head. The blade defined itself as a length of light
roughly an inch thick and two feet long, humming on the high edge of
human hearing; as the gunman prodded him with the end of his rifle, it
made a couple of practice swings, as if an invisible flying midget
baseball player was eyeing a baseball painted on the back of the
gunman's neck. The humming grew louder, and with a toss of his head
the gunman turned to face the noise.
ZZZZRRRRRRMMMMMM. THUNK.
Home run, Kris thought, willing the blade away and standing
up. A quick search of the would-be assassin's pockets revealed IDs for
three different aliases, with bounty-hunter licenses in virtually
every jurisdiction there was to work in. In the inside breast pocket
of the hunter's jacket he found a small datapad, with a list of about
three hundred names scrolling up and down the readout screen. The
highlighted name, KRISTAN OVERSTREET, sat beside the words LT. JG
1999-2002, CR1000 DEAD, CR5000 ALIVE. Beside the list, also
highlighted, was a -very- old image, from his Rapier days on the
Wayward Son. Jeez, Kris thought, I look like a schmuck in this one.
Scrolling to the top of the file, Kris read the terms of the
bounties, noted the company posting the bounties; GENOM CORPORATE
SECURITY. The names at the top of the list made clear exactly who
GENOM was after in general.
Gryphon. Mug shot taken, Kris guessed, right after the
massacre.
MegaZone. Image from a Card No. 1 poster.
Kei and Yuri. Image from a Christmas card back in the 2100s
when the Angels had had to spend nearly a full year undercover on a
case.
ReRob. No photo available.
Lord Fahrvergnugen. Recruiting poster image.
Hagberd Celine. No photo available.
Mako. News clipping from his first victory, flying
athmospheric fighters against Jalthis and wiping them out.
Hammer. The best of the lot; Martin wore his usual Clay
Pidgeons Gizmonics jumpsuit, only with some sort of stylized lightning
bolt (similar but not like the CFMF emblem) on a badge over his heart.
The names continued, on and on. Not on the list, to Kris'
confusion, were the names of the officers of half a dozen WDF ships
and bases- Bucky O'Hare, Patrick Chester, Robert Shannon, others
conspicuous in their absence. Maybe, Kris thought, they aren't after
people out of reach; then he spotted Queen Asrial's name on the list,
with a particularly outrageous bounty- dead only. So much for that
idea, he grumbled; anyone not on the list must have already been seen
to.
The WDF was gone. GENOM was mopping up the mess. No one, as
far as Kris could tell, stood in their way.
Wonderful.
Kris strode off towards the CFMF recruiting office. Obviously
a lot had gone wrong while he had been gone... and guess who would
just have to put it right?

A purple-haired young woman in the uniform of CFMF TacFleet,
lieutenant's bars on her collar and Admiralty staff patch on her right
shoulder, sat in a cafe and sipped her coffee.
The third level of the New Orleans' immense Processional
provided an excellent place to watch passing shoppers and fleet
personnel. Despite the usual bustle and commotion, it was also a good
place to introspect, and May felt like introspecting today. Today
marked the twelfth anniversary of her escape from GENOM's Replicant
R&D facility on Niogi. For twelve years, May Azland, Type 45/S
Advanced Infiltration Replicant, had lived free as a Freespacer, and
she treasured every day of those twelve years in her heart.
Those few people who knew May was a replicant were curious as
to why she referred to herself so anthropomorphically. People expected
replicants to refer to their "nutrient pump" or "articulator joint" or
silly things like that. Nobody expected replicants to think they were
real people. Each time someone made a thoughtless crack about how she
was 'functioning,', May felt a little bit smaller inside. She was a
real person, dammit- that's why she ran away from GENOM in the first
place. Why couldn't some people accept that Buma were true life forms,
and not just some soulless mechanoid monstrosities under the thumb of
a madman?
The thought brought a cold shiver to May's body. Even twelve
years after breaking her loyalty programming to GENOM, any thought
against the Master, Maximilian Largo, brought pain and insecurity. A
small part of her still insisted that she served the Master, that she
should return to her Master and accept his justice. Of course, the
rest of her knew that Largo's sense of justice was restricted solely
to what was relevant to his personal goals, and the prospect of slow,
painful disassembly had no appeal whatsoever to her.
Besides, she smiled, I have friends here, I have a life here,
and Largo, for all his power, can't take those twelve years of
happiness away from me.
The raggedy spacer who walked past her table on the concourse
caught May's eye. An average-looking man, sporting a grizzled beard,
ragged flight jacket and threadbare clothes, face and chest streaked
and spattered with blood; he strode towards the CFMF Recruiting
Office, looking neither right nor left, passing through May's line of
sight in a moment. May blinked; do I recognize that man?

<ENABLE CORE OPERATION SYSTEM>
<N7A-M1Y KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ON-LINE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<STACIS 2.1BETA 'MAY' ACI OVERRIDDEN>
<REMOTE-ACCESS CFMF PERSONNEL COMPUTERS>
<***CFMF.MIL PERSONNEL DEPARTMENT ONLINE***>
<PLACE SUBJECT "MAY AZLAND" AS UNASSIGNED AVAILABLE STAFF>
<PLACE RECOMMENDATION EARLIEST OPENING>
<OVERRIDE ALL REQUESTS <> KRISTAN OVERSTREET>
<FLAG ALL ORDERS KRISTAN OVERSTREET>
<DOWNLOAD FILES KRISTAN OVERSTREET... DONE>
<DOWNLOAD SECURITY FILES KRISTAN OVERSTREET... DONE>
<REINSTATE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<STANDBY CORE OPERATION SYSTEM>
<N7A-M1Y KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS PASSIVE>

Shaking her head, May shrugged off the feeling of unreality
which had taken her for a moment. Whoever the person was, she must be
turned on by that type, she chuckled to herself. Perhaps she ought to
consider seeking out a male for a relationship of some sort. No sense
having all the right equipment, she giggled, if you never get a chance
to use it.
Finishing her coffee, May placed a modest tip on the table,
paid her bill, and jogged down the concourses for the next shuttle to
the CFA Washington. Admiral Hemphill would be annoyed if she was late
for her duty shift in the computer pool again.
In the back of her neural net, a tiny impulse flickered,
awaiting its time...

Chapter. 6/NOW

Wilderness Station
August 11, 2388

Terri grinned back at the mirror, at the redheaded figure in
white lace, holding up the wedding dress she had purchased in the
station concourse over her body. The price had been right- better than
right; torn between a desire for profit and a need for liquid cash,
the owner had cut the price down to just over a hundred credits,
easily a tenth of the going market price for such an elegant wedding
dress.
Terri giggled, taking a couple of stately steps towards the
mirror. She'd given the matter some deep thought over the past week or
so, and the "test drives" had been... very revealing. After all her
thinking and trying, all the serious consideration she could give the
subject, she'd made up her mind; she would accept Red's engagement.
She couldn't say, not exactly, what in particular made the
decision right. She felt... well, she felt _safe_ around Redneck. Not
relaxed, not all the time- his responsibilities didn't permit that all
the time, or even very often. When that duty was done with, though,
Terri enjoyed the lack of pressure, the readiness to be a friend and
nothing more if that was all she wanted... he loved her, but he
accepted her, and in his presence she felt as secure as within a
battlestation.
And unlike the Condorcets of this universe, she giggled, Red
not only wasn't angling for the bedroom, he actually dragged his feet
about it. Once you got him into bed, he made love with a slow, tender
touch- but it was a task convincing him that yes, you really did want
him, right then.
I love him, he loves me, Terri thought, and together we'll
make it work out.
"You look beautiful," a soft voice called from the door.
Washuu walked into the stateroom, a smile hiding in the general
vicinity of her lips. "The dress suits you well, Terri. I think with
you in the room, it can't help but be a beautiful ceremony."
"Um, thank you, Washuu," Terri stammered. "We, uh, haven't
seen you around for a while." Understatement; Washuu hadn't left her
lab for about a week or so, and on the two occasions Red had gone in
looking for her, he hadn't been able to find her. "What brings you out
today?"
Washuu smiled and murmured, "I just wanted to wish you good
luck with Kris... and please take good care of him." Terri watched as
the smile vanished, and then Washuu's hand waved in front of her eyes,
flashing in a soft yellow glow...
The yellow faded to black.
Terri never saw Washuu roll her off the bridal dress, never
felt the hands working at the fasteners of her combat flight suit. She
might have understood things, had she seen the tears hanging from the
corner of those eyes, the uncertainty of the hands that pulled the
suit off her body.
Or maybe Washuu's thoughts might have given it away: It's all
falling apart again, she thought, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to
cry again. I'm losing Kris, we're losing the war... I can't live
through this again...
Unfortunately, Terri had none of these hints, and she would
sleep for an hour and more in her underwear, without a clue as to how
or why she ended up that way.

"SCRAMBLE! ALL FIGHTERS SCRAMBLE! ENEMY SHIPS INCOMING ETA
FIFTY MINUTES! ALL PILOTS REPORT FOR BRIEFING! ALL SUPPORT CREW
PREPARE FOR FINAL EVACUATION!" The station's loudspeakers blared
through the nearly deserted corridors, spurring on the roughly 200
fighter pilots from the MASS units gathered on the station to await
the final attack. In Landing Bays One and Two, the tech workers of the
many MASS units performed final preps on the fighters, topping off
fuel cells, yanking the pull tags, doing final check-out on all the
ships. In the back corners of the bays, the tender ships for the MASS
units rumbled to life, engines quietly warming up, cargo bays open to
admit the loads of equipment each unit would load up as soon as the
last fighter launched.
The vast majority of the squadrons flew modern Incom T-65
X-Wings, with the remainder flying rejuvenated Koensayr BTL-A4
Myrmidons, or Y-Wings. These ships came in blue and gold and black and
green and lavender, many with kill markers, many more with battle
scars. The shoulder patches of the pilots, rushing to their unit
briefing centers, flashed a wide range of nicknames; Goldfish
Squadron, Black Cat Squadron, the Buckeyes, the Happy Sehlats, the
Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath.
The eight X-Wings of the MASS-01 Rebel Squadron launched
first, well before the others; they were assigned to protect the core
of the Freespacer Home Fleet from surprise attack. The other
twenty-four Mobile Attack and Support Squadrons would join the
carrier-based fighters of the Tactical Fleet in the main delaying
action against GENOM. Under normal circumstances, the scramble would
have worked to the loud and rowdy cheering of rough, macho men, women
and droids who took pride in being the biggest and the best mercenary
force in space.
Today, every voice muted except for the announcements coming
in over the station PA. Hands worked fast but deliberately; men and
women acknowledged each other with grim, silent nods. Whatever
pounding the fleet got handed to them, the starfighter forces would
feel it first and hardest.
Within the small cluster of X-Wings belonging to the MASS-21
Cosmotigers, seven pilots sat around Lt. Commander Joyful Jubilee
'Stormy' Condorcet, a handsome blonde woman with a firm, statuesque
figure despite her many years of fighter service- and chasing men.
"Okay, people, listen up," she barked to the seven suited pilots
around her, "the mission today is simply to survive. You're expected
to engage the enemy starfighter force in depth, delivering as hard a
blow as you can- but do not under any circumstances leave formation or
enter the firing arc of the enemy capships. You're ordered to pull out
if you sustain a disabling or damaging hit to your ship. Be ready for
the whole squadron to pull out at Redneck's order. That's it, nothing
else."
"What are we looking at here, Stormy?" one of the pilots
asked.
"Heavy shit, according to the top," Joyful groaned. "We're
looking at a force well in excess of five hundred capital ships,
virtually all of which have starfighters. For the most part, we'll be
screening the fleet as it runs along the edge of the enemy deployment,
but if you get into trouble, get clear, hit hyper and don't look back.
Your astromechs all have the jump to Zeta Cygni programmed. Use it if
you need it, people, we need live pilots, not dead heroes." For a
Condorcet, male or female, to say such a thing... several of the
veteran pilots shuddered at the thought.
The group sat silently, waiting for Stormy to add something
else. Finally, Joyful said, "All right then, man your fighters. Oh,
and Crash?"
The figure in the back of the group, helmet already on and
visor down, nodded silently in acknowledgment. A tail of red hair
crept out from beneath the helmet's rear, but nobody commented on the
regs on helmet hair.
"Terri, if you want to, you can haul ass now," Joyful said.
"Say the word, and I'll order you to join Rebel Squadron with the Home
Fleet. We all know how you feel about Redneck..."
The helmeted woman shook her head no, slowly, resolutely.
"All right, then," Joyful said, "your call, Crash. Let's move,
people!" With that, the group dispersed to their fighters. While the
others ran, the helmeted one walked to one X-Wing, one S-foil freshly
repaired, tiger's fangs snarling defiance on the nosecone. The
astromech droid, already mounted in its socket behind the cockpit,
whistled a electronic query to her... a few seconds later, it added a
startled, indignant blatt of electronic noise.
Looking up at the droid, the figure said, "Listen, you, if you
let anyone know I'm not Terri Curtiss, I'll make sure you never
function again."
The droid made another loud blatt, this one a sarcastic razz.
"All right," the figure said, "I'll make sure you function
strictly as a calculator designed to find the square root of negative
one... no matter how long it takes. Get my drift?"
The droid whistled quietly; he got it.
"Right then, warm 'em up," Washuu said, climbing into the open
cockpit.

Kris sat in his ready room, staring at the metal-masked face
in his communication window. "Thanks for the offer," he said to the
ambassador from the Autobot government of Cybertron, "but one fighter
more or less really ain't gonna make a difference against these
odds."
"Hey, if you say so," Powerglide shrugged, obviously not
believing it; Powerglide's ego could give most Condorcets a run for
the money. "Any messages you want relayed to Optimus and the guys?"
Redneck thought for a moment and said, "Yeah. Tell 'em we'll
meet everyone at Zeta Cyg as soon as we can."
"You got it," Powerglide replied. "You people take care of
yourselves, now."
"You, too," Kris nodded. "See ya." The screen died, and Kris
pushed himself away from the table with a groan. Half the ambassadors
to the CFA had made similar offers, and he had had to turn them all
down. If they'd had ten battleships each, he might have taken them up
on it; as it was, the Autobot had the most firepower to offer of all
of them. Anyway, if they needed manpower, Kris thought, they would
need it at the final showdown, not here.
They needed time more than anything else, and time had run
completely out. An hour before, the fleet had lost contact with
MacLeod Station, the Federation's major defensive position in Enigma
Sector. The final messages from MacLeod confirmed the intelligence
Kris had from both the unofficial Freespacer grapevine and the more
official WDF Intelligence spooks. The GENOM fleet was absolutely
enormous- about six hundred large ships and the Dreadnaught, and a
homicidal lunatic replicant of Ben Hutchins in command of it all.
Kris had worked well past second thoughts about his battle
plan; he was into triple digits, if you kept track of such things.
Tactically, pulling out without a fight would be only sensible-
preserve your force and fight another day. And but... but he had to
buy some measure of time, time to give the Home Fleet a head start,
time for stragglers from across the sector to make for safety or go to
ground before the storm hit, time for some miracle to happen and save
the day... what to do, what to do...
Mind rolling with the variables of the battle to come, Kris
stood up, walked from the ready room into the massive main bridge of
the Tinker, looked around the bridge at the various officers on the
twin decks. A voice cried out, "Admiral on the Bridge!" and for once,
all the crew rose to attention; Kris had thought he'd never see the
day.
"Thanks," he smiled, "but we ain't dead yet. As you were," he
waved, jogging down the gangway and striding towards the center seat.
"Fleet status?" he asked as he sat down, lying back in the seat and
strapping his seatbelt into place.
"All ships deployed in pre-combat formation, as planned,
Admiral," the Tinker's chief communications officer said from his
console.
Kris glanced out through the portholes to the left wing of the
fleet, nodded at the carrier task forces, the wings of corvettes, the
squadrons of starfighters lined up in geometric perfection.
"Excellent," Kris said, shifting in his chair, looking for some
comfortable position. "Any solid data on the incoming fleet?"
"We read roughly three hundred major warp signatures at
fifteen minutes from our position. Also a heavy hyperspace wave,
probably up to three hundred more ships, nearby. Also reading a damn
big ship in warp behand all of it, must be the GENOM dreadnought," the
science officer called from the upper deck.
"Get me the Twenty-Eight," Kris said. Before Sonset, variants
of the name "dreadnought" had cropped up in dozens of fleets, and the
CFF-28 Dreadnought- not the first or last- still served after
centuries of service. To avoid confusion, it had been renamed
'Twenty-Eight' after its registry number, reserving "Dreadnought" for
the ship more worthy of the name.
The screen flashed from the view of the Kantaran Nebula to a
view of a smaller, compact bridge, centered on a tall man with long
grey hair, a long, well-groomed beard, and an impressive middle-age
spread beneath his CFMF belt buckle. "CFF-28 here," he smiled, waving
through the screen. "Good hunting, Admiral, hope we all get out of
this one alive."
"Me too, John," Kris mumbled. "How's the kid? Still into
trouble?"
"Hope not," Captain Johnathan Diggers said. "His CO is giving
me grief over how Theo's trying to convert the entire Freespacer
Marine Division to Jedi hoodoo. Hell, I know it exists, Red, but I
can't get the kid to shut up!" Diggers threw up his hands in surrender
at the thought.
"Did he at least quit toting the lightsaber around?" Kris
asked. If he ever found out who gave Theodore Diggers a lightsaber, he
thought, he'd lay them out cold. Lightsabers are damn dangerous to the
untrained, and all Theo's training aside from his Marines basic is
what he digs out of old books. If he hadn't figured out Force
telekinesis on his own...
"I wish," John Diggers groaned. "He's gotten into two fights
over the thing, and if it wasn't for that girlfriend of his, he'd have
been laid up in a hospital by now."
"Girlfriend?" Kris asked. "Who is this, then?"
"Able-Bodied Seawoman Julia Brigand- you know, 'Big Mama's'
girl," he chuckled. "Bright red hair, libido the size of Cybertron...
Theo's got his hands full with that one."
"Heh, karma finally balancin' itself," Kris chuckled, thinking
back to a less happy couple and their all too brief friendship.
"What's that, Red?" John Diggers asked.
"Oh, nothing," Kris said. "Ancient history. Keep your command
clear if you can, John; we ain't got the power to take on that other
Dreadnought by ourselves."
"I hear, Red, will do," John smiled. "Good luck."
"You too. Tinker out," Kris said, and he signaled to cut the
channel. "ETA on those ships?" he shouted up to the science officer.
"Thirteen minutes thirty seconds, Admiral,"

"Twelve minutes."

"Eleven minutes fifteen seconds."

"Eight minutes forty-five seconds."

"Admiral, by Surak and all the Prophets, will you RELAX a
bit?"

"Ahem. Admiral, sixty seconds," the science officer
said, "and thank you for not asking in the last five minutes."
"Right," Kris said, squirming yet again as he failed to find
that elusive comfort zone. Gods forbid a commanding admiral should
relax. "You know, this seat is as uncomfortable as a Klingon bunk?"
"I know some people who'd die to find out, sir," The Vulcan
smiled a minimalistic smile which a non-Charismatic might have
approved of.
"Well, they can have their chance later," Kris sighed.
"Message to all ships, Tactical Fleet, red alert, prepare to receive
maneuver orders." The bridge lights dimmed as red flashing panels and
sirens whooped throughout the ship. At Kris' chopping motion, the
sirens cut out, barely audible from the rest of the ship. "Status of
Home Fleet?"
"Just the New Orleans left, sir," the comm officer said,
"and... there! It's hit hyperspace, Home Fleet and Supply Fleet is
away. Wilderness is evacuated."
The bridge doors whirred open, letting Captain James Joseph
Condorcet XVIII onto the bridge. Kris spun his chair around to face
the newcomer, recognized him and gaped, "JJ! I thought you were
supposed to be on the auxiliary bridge."
"I wanted to watch the bad guys drop with you," JJ said,
trotting down to one of the two observers' chairs mounted beside and
below the command station. "Mind if I stay?"
"I suppose not," Kris said, and the grey-haired Condorcet
dropped into the chair, relaxing into it with a contented sigh. Kris
glared at him.
"Fifteen seconds to drop, Admiral."
"Stand ready," Kris said, on the edge of his seat, watching
the expanse of star-sprinkled blackness, as the communications officer
counted down to zero.
A huge grey-white chunk of armament dropped down hard from
hyperspace; three more followed in quick succession, then a dozen
more, then a squadron of Ikazuchi carriers, scattered Interdictor
cruisers behind them, hourglass-shaped black carriers, and finally, in
the middle of the growing swarm, the immense monstrosity of the GENOM
Dreadnought, sixteen kilometers long, dwarfing every other ship in the
battlezone.
Compared to the mass which was the GENOM main battle fleet,
the CFMF Tactical fleet seemed a pitiful group of pebbles against a
rolling avalanche of giant boulders. It was one thing to know
intellectually that you were outgunned by factors of over two hundred
to one, but quite another to see the reality in its horrible majesty
before you.
Nobody spoke for a long second. The bridge speakers buzzed,
and a voice chuckled, "(Heheheh...) We are GENOM. Resistance is
futile. (*snigger*) We will add your physical and technological
distinctiveness to... well, nothing, really, because WE'RE GONNA KILL
ALL OF YOU A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! OH GOD I LOVE MY JOB!" The
laughing parody of Ben Hutchins' voice set off a wide range of
emotions in the bridge crew, all of which kept them silent... except
for JJ.
"My God," he said, very quietly and calmly, "we are all going
to die."
Kris wanted to dress him down right there and then, but there
simply wasn't time. "Message to Fleet. Formation flank starboard on my
mark, long-range bombardment in thirty seconds, standby on all bomber
squadrons."
"Belay that, Commander," JJ said quietly. "I'm sorry, Red, but
if we're gonna die here, we'll damn well make a fight of it." Kris
spun his chair around to glare at his flag captain, found himself
staring into the emitter of a fleet-issue phaser. The phaser fired,
eating a hole about six inches across and three or four deep into
Kris' chest. With a thin grunt, he fell forward, unconscious, to the
floor.
Three people screamed, and the science officer yelled,
"By the Watcher, you've killed him!!"
"Naw, I didnt'," JJ drawled. He flipped Kris' body over to
reveal a thin layer of skin already grown over the wound, and subtle
shifting of regrowing tissues underneath. "Call the nearest
Broadway-class corvette to us, order them to prepare to receive
wounded for evac. We've had a minor equipment malfunction. Told him he
shoulda replaced that chair. Then order the formation full ahead,
straight at their heart.
"People, we're gonna die here, but I'll be damned if we don't
take that big bastard down with us!"
Nobody spoke on the bridge for a moment; then, the
communications officer began relaying JJ's orders to the rest of the
fleet.

"Tinker airboss to all fighters," Washuu heard on the allcall,
"new orders repeat new orders. You are ordered to engage all targets
of opportunity. Repeat, engage all targets of opportunity. Let's get
these bastards. Tinker out." The airboss didn't sound enthusiastic...
resigned, perhaps.
That's extremely odd, Washuu thought, Kris would NEVER change
his main tactical plan a few seconds -before- engaging. After, of
course, but -before-... something was wrong, very very wrong.
A few seconds later, Stormy's voice came on, soft and clear.
"Tigers, I just got a message from the West Side Story.... they're
evacing Redneck. He was... severely injured. Captain Condorcet has
assumed temporary command... Admiral Janicek of the Polaris has
challenged his orders and is proceeding with Redneck's plan of action.
People, at this point I'm as confused as all of you, but my orders
stand. Do your damage and get out. Tiger One out."
Washuu opened a channel and said, "Tiger Three to Tiger One.
What condition is Redneck in?"
A few seconds of silence followed. "Crash... I'm sorry, he
wasn't breathing,"
Washuu couldn't speak. Kris... dead? Had it really been that
bad? What had happened on the Tinker? Why hadn't she been there?
Tiger Three broke formation, diving towards the nearest GENOM
ship, lasers already blasting away ineffectively into space. "Tiger
Three, get back into formation!" Stormy shouted over the comm systems.
"Terri, get back here! You can't help him like this! TERRI!"
"I'm not Terri," Washuu husked into the headset, trying not to
cry, as she fired round after round into space, not seeing the enemy
ships, not hearing the voices in her headset.
I wasn't there for him.
I want to DIE.

"New orders from the Tinker!" Claire cried out. "We are
ordered to engage and destroy all targets of opportunity."
"All RIGHT!" Aya Nakajima grinned. "Set alpha wing to attack
position! Charge up all weapons systems!" To Shwarz, she said, "Which
one should we attack first, eh, Irving dear?"
"Um..." Shwarz scanned the enemy formation for a moment, then
pointed out an Interdictor cruiser. "We'll have trouble retreating if
we get bottled up by those things. With our alpha wing open, its
armament isn't much heavier than our own. I think we should be able to
take it out..."
"Right," Aya grinned. "Claire, send to all Liberator-class
ships. Recommend to them that we concentrate firepower on the
Interdictor cruisers on the edge of the GENOM fleet facing our line of
retreat. Homare..." she grinned evilly, "POWER DIVE!"
"Aye, Captain!" Homare smiled, and with a thrust no other ship
its size could match, the Defiant heeled to port and charged the
Interdictor, its forward hull splitting down the middle and opening up
to reveal multiple laser turrets, phasers, and torpedo tubes coating
the ship's new upper surface. A rain of concentrated firepower poured
into the Interdictor's shields, collapsing them in seconds, drilling
through the armored hull. The GENOM ship, faked out completely,
managed a few feeble laser blasts before its reactor blew, punching a
huge hole in its belly and leaving it helplessly adrift.
First blood to the Freespacers.

"MASS Airboss, this is Tiger One," Stormy jinked her fighter
wildly around the blasts of GENOM's anti-starfighter guns, trying to
keep a close tail on the renegade fighter ahead. "MASS Airboss, we
have a Crazy Eddie, repeat Tiger Three is Crazy Eddie, acknowledge."
A triad of TIEs swooped in on Tiger Three's aft quarter,
closing ranks and accelerating to full attack velocity. Stormy locked
a torpedo on the leader and launched, watching it jink and break away;
unfortunately, its companions stayed on course, opened fire on their
prey. Growling through her teeth, Stormy boosted her engines from
shield power, blew away the pair of TIEs from long range, and watched
as Tiger Three's fighter cut a hull-grazing hyperbolic curve over the
bow of a Victory-class destroyer.
"Come ON, dammit, airboss," Stormy growled, nosing beneath the
destroyer to close the gap, "SOMEBODY answer me."
The lock-alert siren went off in Stormy's ears; with a start
she looked forward to see not three but six TIE Interceptors in
perfect hex formation bearing down on her.
"Oh.... HELL," Stormy groaned, gripping the gun trigger tight
and switching her shields to full.
She took out three of them.
The other three flew through her smoking remains.
Washuu, unaware of any of it, sped on.

The Tinker rocked with the impact of GENOM lasers and
torpedoes, diving deeper through massive formation of Star Destroyers.
Flanking it on either side, a ragged formation of twenty ships
followed, the bulk strength of the Freespacer fleet. Out on the
periphery of the GENOM fleet, the remainder of the CFMF attempted to
continue with the original battle plan, but the GENOM fleet ignored
them in favor of the minor but tangible threat plowing towards the
core of the fleet.
"Lock phasers on the GENOM Dreadnought!" JJ shouted, standing
despite the constant enemy fire, the rocking and shuddering of the
ship. "Maximum power, target their bridge!"
"Main phasers locked and ready, Captain," a weapons officer
shouted.
"All right, you fucking goose-stepping android bastards," JJ
grumbled, "eat this! FIRE!!" he shouted.
From the bow of the Tinker, two immense phaser beams lanced
the Dreadnought... and vanished without touching the surface. In
response, almost in contempt, the Dreadnought fired a single
broadside, about half its weapons focused on one point, just above the
Tinker's starboard warp engine.
The engine casing ruptured, releasing a fireball which rocked
the Freespacer ship. Smaller explosions rolled up and down the rear
quarter of the ship, flames and smoke drifting into space in the
Tinker's wake.
On the bridge, sirens wailed and lights flickered. The ship
bucked and rattled as explosion after explosion reverberated through
the hull. Crewmembers fell from chairs, tumbled from the upper deck to
the lower. JJ dragged himself off the floor and into the command
chair. "STATUS!"
"We've lost main power!" the helmsman shouted. "We have
sublight maneuvering at 45%, no more!"
"We've lost contact with Engineering and the auxiliary
bridge!" the communications officer shouted. "Casualty reports rolling
in from all other decks!"
"Our antimatter containment is failing!" the science officer
shouted. "We're attempting a core dump now!"
"Weapons systems totally off-line!" the weapons officer
barked. "No chance of bringing them back on without the mains!"
"Core dump failed!" the science officer shouted, more frantic
now. "Using transporter power to beam out the antimatter..." The
lights dimmed, then rose, and the science officer cursed.
"Transporters failed, Captain. We only got about half of the
antimatter clear."
"QUIET!" JJ shouted. Hitting the intercom switch on his seat,
he said, "This is Captain Condorcet to all crewmemebers. All hands,
prepare to abandon ship. If anyone is still in Engineering..." His
eyes glinted as he growled, "Give me best sublight power. Ramming
speed." Snapping off the comm switch, he said just over the ship's
death throes, "Mr. Saxon, pick us a target."
Ahead of the mortally wounded ship, rolling in the viewports
as the Tinker spun on its forward axis, cruised the GENOM ISD
Vendetta. "Got it." he said. "Engaging collision course."
"Right, that's it," JJ nodded. "All right, folks, this is it."
Triggering the intercom again, he shouted, "All hands, ABANDON SHIP!
ALL HANDS ABANDON SHIP!" To the bridge crew, he shouted, "What are you
all gaping at? Get out of here!"
The crew scrambled for the doors, headed for the escape pods,
leaving JJ alone on the massive bridge. Yet more, smaller explosions
echoed through the ship: power conduits shorting out, life support
dying, consoles shorting out. Ahead, the Star Destroyer grew larger
and larger, shifting only slowly out of the way. JJ took a piece of
rope from his pocket and, with a little effort, lashed his left arm to
the armrest of his chair.
So nobody knows, JJ thought. Big deal. I know.
The bridge's lights flickered and died, leaving JJ in the glow
of the consoles around him. The dim blue-white light caught his teeth
as he smiled a feral grin.
Die, you sumbitch, die.

Two of the immense structural members spanning the ceiling of
the Tinker's hangar lay broken across the hangar deck, blocking the
flightpath for most of the remaining ships inside. One of these
girders lay squarely across the engines of the prototype Starlight
fighter, crippling and trapping it. In its open cockpit, its creator
sat, a kamikaze headband tied around his head and the badge of the
Noriko Takaya Fan Club on his lab jacket.
Crewmen scrambled towards the lifepods lining the hangar,
shouting and shrieking as secondary explosions continued to echo
overhead. Here and there, tongues of flame flickered out from the
walls and vents, smoke clouding up along the buckled ceiling of the
immense room. Above the chaos, the distressed whine of wounded ion
drives echoed through the ship, screaming its death song as it
accelerated towards the Star Destroyer.
One of the few remaining Engineering techs, face reddened from
a light coolant burn, scrambled across the wreckage to the Starlight.
"Dr. Kizuki!" he shouted. "C'mon, we gotta get out of here! The warp
core's gonna go critical, assuming we don't go up from ramming the
enemy first!"
Dr. Kizuki shifted in his seat. "I will not go," he said.
"Doctor!" The tech tried to climb up the side of the crippled
fighter, only to meet the point of a sword. "Doctor, this is crazy!"
the tech gasped, sliding back to the deck.
"I will not go," Dr. Kizuki repeated, staring down his blade
at the young engineer. "This fighter is a testament, a monument to my
life, my skills, and a love which could not be." Maintaining a stoic
visage, despite the tears leaking from his eyes, he continued, "My
daughters will continue my legacy... but I wrought this vehicle with
my own hands, and I will not leave it. We will die together."
"Um.... sure," the tech shrugged. "Bye, Dr. Kizuki." With
that, he scrambled to one of the few remaining escape pods, leaving
Dr. Kizuki alone with his ship.
With a sigh, Kizuki sheathed his blade and dropped into the
pilot's seat. Reaching down beside the seat, he picked up his most
prized possession, a thirty-year-old autographed picture of Noriko in
her Thunder Force gym suit. He hugged the picture tightly to his
chest, struggling to hold back the tears of a love which now could
never be realized.
"Noriko-chan..."

The bow of the CFMF Tinker plowed into the ISD Vendetta
amidships, punching its way through the heavier ship's armor, then
crumpling under the thrust of its engines.
Two seconds later, the remaining antimatter, some forty grams,
fell through the failing magnetic bottle and touched the sides of the
warp core.
The explosion obliterated the Tinker and tore a jagged, gaping
hole in the side of the Vendetta.
This did not concern the GENOM Dreadnought, which had just
mortally wounded the CFMF U. S. Grant and now brought its arms to bear
on its namesake, the CFMF Dreadnought. It left the reserve TIE
fighters, Buma at the controls of each, to swarm through the debris,
using the scattered lifepods for target practice.
No survivors. GENOM MILARM S. O. P.

His first thought, concurrent with his first breath through
his regrown lungs, was: This is, beyond a doubt, the closest I have
ever come to being killed.
With that, he passed out from lack of oxygen, and slept a few
minutes while his chest completed its reconstruction.
The pain woke him again, and gasping and spluttering Kris
Overstreet returned to full mental awareness. That idiot, he's going
to ruin everything! he thought as he tried to sit up. His chest still
hurt ferociously from the point-blank phaser shot, and he planned to
see JJ hurt just as badly once he finished skinning the mutineer
alive.
He couldn't move. Some idiot had put restraints on his bed.
With a moment's thought, Kris generated a small energy blade
and sliced away the straps across his body. Once freed, he stood up
and stretched, taking in his surroundings as he did. Five other beds
stood close by, arranged in a cramped rectangular formation. Beyond
the other beds (his was nearest the door) through a doorway sat a
likewise cramped surgery, barely enough room for one surgeon, a nurse
and maybe a knife. Kris recognized it at once as the sickbay of a
Broadway-class corvette- no other Freespacer ship had a fleet-issue
sickbay so small.
Beneath his feet, the ship vibrated with the power of twin ion
drives running at 130% of manufacturer's spec maximum thrust. Now and
again the deck would thump with blaster hits against the shields,
bouncing him just enough to disrupt balance. He slipped on his
discarded uniform tunic, hole and all, and strode out of sickbay,
hanging a left and walking to the bridge.
The bridge doors opened to chaos; the bridge had taken a
direct hit, shattering one porthole and injuring a couple of crewmen.
Kris recognized Lieutenant Bel Thorne, a dark-haired hermaphrodite
from Betazed, operating the helm while the rest of the crew
concentrated on repairing the force-fielded window, returning fire and
keeping torpedoes and missiles from reaching the ship. Bel Thorne...
that makes this the West Side Story, Kris thought. "Admiral on the
bridge!" he shouted, and Thorne jumped in its seat.
"Admiral!" Thorne looked over his shoulder for one
shock-filled moment, then returned his attention to the helm controls.
"You're not supposed to be up!"
"Stow it," Kris growled. "Status report."
"Tinker, the Twenty-Eight, US Grant, King Richard, King
Arthur, Enterprise, Explorer's Wind, and Emperor are all destroyed,"
the communications officer, Ensign Elli Quinn, gasped. "Over fifty
ships heavily damaged. One hundred seventeen fighters still in action,
sir. We've managed to destroy the Imperial-class Star Destroyer
Vendetta, twenty-one Interdictor cruisers, five Victory-class Star
Destroyers, and four Ikazuchi carriers."
"How long since engagement?" Kris growled. Wrong, wrong, this
was all wrong...
"Thirty-three minutes, sir," Quinn answered.
"Shit," Kris said. Most of his offensive power was shot to
hell, irreplaceable... "Ensign, broadcast to all CFMF vessels. This is
Admiral Overstreet. I have transferred my flag to the CFMF West Side
Story. All ships that can break off, do so immediately and retreat to
Point Lynchburg. Repeat, all ships break off and retreat. Overstreet
out."
As Quinn transmitted the message, Kris turned his attention to
the viewscreen. "Main viewer aft," he said. The screen showed ships
exploding right and left; as he watched, a Liberator-class guncruiser-
the Defiant, Kris noted- flew, guns blazing, towards a Victory-class
Star Destroyer. Even as the larger ship's shields failed, its guns
lanced out and caught the Defiant's forward wing, buckling the
shields, tearing the portside wing away and disabling the Defiant's
weapons systems. Trailing sparks, the ship limped away, angling for an
escape vector. Behind it, the Victory Star Destroyer began to turn to
pursue- and brewed up in a ball of fire and steel as the CFMF
Bumblebee plowed headlong into her.
"Shit, shit, shit," Kris moaned. "How could JJ have gotten
things so wrong?"
"Admiral?" Quinn looked up from her console. "I've got an
incoming transmission for you from Wilderness Station." Her face lit
with surprise as she said, "Sir, it's Lieutenant Curtiss, from the
Cosmotigers!"
"What?" Kris said. What is she doing still on the station? "On
screen."
The screen lit to show Terri Curtiss huddled in a public comm
booth on Wilderness Station. One hand clutched the top of her loosely
tied bathrobe; Kris couldn't tell how much of her flushed expression
was excitement or embarrassment. "Red, Washuu's in my fighter," she
gasped. "You have to get her out of there now! She doesn't have any
idea what she's doing!"
Kris' questions died on his lips. Instead of asking where
Terri was and how to get her out, he whispered a command: "Viewer to
fighter CFMF-M21-03. Maximum magnification."
The main screen flickered for a moment, focusing and zooming
in onto the cockpit of an X-wing flitting through the heaviest fire in
the fleet, too fast for the GENOM gunners to maintain a lock on
target. The view zoomed in even closer, interrupted by flickers of
laser fire crossing the screen, finally zeroing in on the figure in
the cockpit. The helmet, fully sealed, masked all identity, but Kris
knew... "Patch me in to her command channel," he said at last.
The command channel echoed through the bridge, panicked
screams and shouts predominating as the remaining CFMF pilots found
themselves overwhelmed by numbers. "Washuu!" Kris shouted, echoed by
the channel. "Washuu, get out of there!"
Washuu's voice whispered uncertainly, "You're.... you're
alive?"
"Yes, I'm alive!" Kris shouted. "For God's sake, Washuu, get
out of there!"
"I- I-" For a moment, Washuu's voice seemed filled with
relief, shaking with barely restrained emotion. On the screen, the
wild weaving and firing of the lone X-wing paused... the turbolasers
found her fighter, slammed into it, tore away the weakened defense
shields. "NOOOOO--"
On the screen, two laser bursts punched through the fighter's
shields, through the canopy, venting it to space... and cremating
everything inside. A third blast shredded the engine housing and tore
away one wing. Powerless, pilotless, the dead fighter tumbled,
unheeded, through and away from the kill zone.
Kris stared in shock at the screen, as the few remaining
pilots scrambled to escape the deathtrap of the GENOM fleet, as the
CFMF Polaris and CFMF Liberator, cut off from retreat, surrounded by
TIEs and hammered by three Star Destroyers, both went up in balls of
fire. The cold weight in his stomach threatened to drag him to the
deck.
Quietly, Bel Thorne said, "Admiral, the CFMF Camelot has
successfully disengaged and awaits orders."
In a soft, hoarse voice, Kris said, "Tell them to swing over
to Wilderness Station and beam off all remaining personnel. We'll dock
with her there and I'll transfer my flag. Then you're to head straight
for Zeta Cygni. No stops, no rescues."
"Aye, sir," Bel nodded.
"All other ships are to warp out. If they can't make warp...
well, GENOM doesn't take prisoners," Kris sighed. Trudging up to the
bridge doors, he added, " Captain Kondo of the Camelot has command
until I transfer my flag. You have the bridge, Lieutenant." Slowly,
carefully, he tore his eyes away from the death-throes of the last
remaining Freespacer ships, placed one foot in front of the other,
until the bridge doors closed themselves behind him, shutting away the
sight of his fleet's destruction.
Mechanically he walked down the ship's main corridor, stepping
into the ship's docking tube and waiting in silence as his mind
replayed multiple images. Johnathan Diggers, who'd never get to see if
his Jedi son would live to marry Ms. Brigand. Ralph Janicek, the
Fleet's best saxophone player and task force commander, wasted. No
less than six Condorcet ship commanders and two Condorcet MASS unit
commanders, gone with twenty more somewhere in the insanity they
seemed to court like a family tradition.
So many people. So much history. So many lives, wasted because
Kris Overstreet felt he had to buy a few minutes for everyone else.
And Washuu with them.
Kris stopped thinking after that.
A few minutes later, the tube's car moved upwards, sliding
into the Camelot's lower decks. The doors opened onto the noisy
fighter deck, where stood three scarred X-wings- one from the
Camelot's own contingent, one from the MASS-11 Wildcats, and one from
the MASS-3 Righteous Flying Piggy Wrath. Burn marks covered half the
hangar deck, wreckage from some anonymous pilot's failed landing
attempt strewn higgledy-piggledy across the bay. The ship's engines,
amplified by the huge empty space, howled in Kris' ears with the
distinct unsettling tone of an imbalanced warp core.
Kris barely noticed, trudging to the turbolifts and mumbling,
"Main bridge." A few moments later, he stepped out onto the bridge,
looking around the half-dead consoles and understaffed stations,
hearing Captain Nanami Kondo shout into her intercom, "I need warp
drive now, Bob, now let's get on with it!"
"No promises," Bob's voice called back, "but warp
drive at your own risk. Keep it to Warp Two until we can get this
locked down, though."
"Bless you. Lieutenant, get us out of here!" Captain Kondo
barked.
"Aye, ma'am," the helmsman responded, and his hands moved
across the console. The stars turned to streaks, and the ship
shuddered into an uneven warp.
After a few tense moments, the captain slumped in her seat,
obviously relieved. She leaned her head back, looked up to the
ceiling, and for the first time noticed the man standing above her at
the bridge railing, leaning forward and looking at the stars blur
slowly past on the screen. "Admiral on the bridge!" she gasped.
"As you were," Kris whispered. "Captain... what have we got
left? The fleet, I mean."
Kondo turned her head to her communications officer, a
full-body cyborg half wired into his panel. "Well, Admiral... I'm in
contact with the T'Pau, the Defiant, the West Side Story, and the
Valiant... and there's the Confederacy with the Home Fleet..."
"Five ships," Kris whispered. "We engaged with a hundred
capital ships... and came away with five." The crew stopped and stared
openly, startled by the cold, resigned tone in his voice; it was as if
the man speaking had died in the battle, and only the ghost remained.
"Sir," the communications officer pressed, "we can confirm at
least forty GENOM ships destroyed or disabled, to say nothing of
fighters..."
"How many fighters survived?" Kris interrupted, hands now
crumpling the metal of the banister.
"Three," the communications officer admitted. "Just the ones
that managed to dock with us. We weren't able to disable all those
Interdictors... in time, anyway..."
"Three," Kris whispered. "My God... "
The bridge stood silent, all eyes on the admiral who stood in
quiet shock and despair on the upper deck. Finally, he mumbled, "Order
all remaining ships to proceed at best speed to Point Lynchburg. And
if someone would assign me quarters..." Prying his fingers off the
now-mangled railing, he murmured, "I think I would like to be alone
now."
A yeoman took Kris by the arm and guided him towards the door,
just in time for Terri Curtiss, still in her bathrobe, to burst
through it. "Red!" she shouted, wrapping her arms around him. "Oh,
Red, I'm so glad to see you in one piece! I was so worried! Did Washuu
get out all right?"
Kris looked at Terri, face pale and motionless. His throat
felt full, clogged with words and screams all fighting to escape.
Finally, with one slow shake of his head, he slid out of Terri's arms,
stepped into the turbolift, followed by the yeoman. The doors shut on
a face trying desperately to deal with the deaths, so many people...
and Washuu.
Terri stared at the closed doors and said quietly, "I guess
she didn't."

Chapter 7/THEN

Iacon, Cybertron
January 5, 2117

Kris slouched his way down the broad, oversized Iacon avenue,
mind wandering from the day's work. For the past four hours he'd sat
across (on) a table talking with Ultra Magnus and finalizing the
repair and refit agreements between the Autobot government of
Cybertron and the CFMF. After the long and incredibly bloody
assistance the CFMF had given in the recently ended Sixth Great
Kilrathi War, they -needed- it.
The Freespacers had earned every bit of the payment they
recieved, and more- their stands at the Third and Fifth Battles of
McAuliffe, the raid on Gerah Soar, and their participation in the
larger battles alongside the RSN, the WDF, and the Autobot forces
against the joint Kilrathi and Decepticon invaders bore testimony to
that. So did their casualty lists, in men and ships alike; although
technically the Freespacers hadn't lost a single capital ship in the
war, over half of the Tactical Fleet sat in drydock somewhere; in the
Home Fleet overhead, at Utopia Planitia, the Kuat Drive Yards in
Corellia, the ExoSalusia yards, or here in the Cybertron factory
facilities. A significant number of these, mostly the corvettes and a
couple of light cruisers, would have to be rebuilt almost from the
keel up... but they had seen their crews home, and to Kris' mind they
deserved better than to be totally scrapped.
The bit of news he'd received that morning from Osaka, Japan,
Earth distracted him from the business of putting the Fleet back in
fighting trim. Miyuki Haneda Isarugi had died, at last, at the age of
139. She wasn't the last of the original Freespacer pilots- not even
the last of the Earther pilots- but her death struck home for some
reason. Ever since he'd viewed that message, he'd thought about how
old he was, how old he was likely to get...
They'd asked him to give a eulogy at the funeral. 'Say a few
polite and fitting words,' they'd said. Lord, O Lord, he thought, how
many goddamn times will I say "a few polite words" for someone else
I've outlived?
It was a morose train of thought, made all the more depressing
by the encyclopaedia of "polite words" he'd said for people a lot
younger than Miyuki over the past fourteen years. He hated the idea of
sitting around and watching all the people around him grow old and
die, while if anything he looked younger than he had a century ago.
He'd led people to their deaths, he'd killed people himself, in and
out of a fighter- those deaths hurt enough, but the feeling of total
helplessness he felt when people he cared for died of age, or under
someone else's command... that feeling ate at him like a termite with
dragon's fangs.
The loud noises of heavy industry snapped Kris out of his
funk. For the first time since leaving Ultra Magnus' office, he saw
and noticed his surroundings. He stood in an enormous metal processing
plant, not far from a giant blast furnace where imported ores were
molded into Cybertronean alloys. As with most Cybertronian factories,
it was tough to tell where the landscape left off and the factory
began; it seemed to be all of a piece. Here and there, Autobot workers
poured the ores into the smelter, skimmed away the slag, poured
ingots, mixed alloys, and turned out huge plates of metal to be taken
to the various factories nearby.
Kris realized, with a humorless half-smile, why he'd come
here; his morbid thoughts had led him almost subconsciously to a place
where, should he so desire, he could end it all. Kris knelt down on
the factory floor and contemplated the flames of the furnace, feeling
no real desire to throw himself in aside from the usual morbid
curiosity. That depressed he wasn't.
The slow metal thrumming of a Transformer's footsteps echoed
closer behind Kris, and with a grunt he stood to move out of the way.
The Transformer in question stood eighty feet tall, possibly taller-
considerably taller, Kris estimated, than Ultra Magnus. Grays, olive
greens, and purples dominated the humanoid robot's plate colors, and a
missile launcher sat on his right shoulder. Red optics gleamed out
from a weary-looking flexalloy face.
With a shock Kris noticed the Decepticon badge on the robot's
left shoulder; the shock turned to confusion when he noted the Autobot
badge on his right. The Autobots in the factory gave the newcomer only
a quick glance before returning to their work.
The immense robot glanced down and noticed the human standing
beside him. "Pardon me," he rumbled, and with a slow, careful movement
he sat down beside Kris, leaning back on the wall, elbow resting on
his knees. "What brings a human to such a boring place as this, I
wonder?" he said, almost good-naturedly.
Kris forced himself to relax- non-aggressive Decepticons were
rare, but not unheard of- and said, "Just contemplating mortality."
Extending a hand, he said, "My friends call me Redneck. What's your
name?"
The robot reached down and allowed Kris to grasp a finger; as
close as two creatures so disparate in size could come to a human
handshake. "I go by Doubledealer these days," he said. "Don't have
many friends to call me anything else. Few people lend their trust to
a mercenary."
Kris nodded understanding. "You worked for both sides, then?"
he asked.
"For quite some time," Doubledealer rumbled. "Originally I was
an Autobot, ages and ages ago... but I've been on both sides many
times since then. When Unicron came, I was working with the
Decepticons... I would've cashed out right afterwards if they'd had
anything to pay with.
"After 2026, I went totally free-lance, picking up work where
I could among you carbonlife. I had a partner for a while, a human
like you... and then, I got caught in the crossfire when Dor-Lomin
fell to the Decepticons."
Kris nodded. Dor-Lomin had been one of the opening battles of
the war, and one of the most one-sided Decepticon victories. The
Autobots had barely managed to rescue their command from capture and
dismantling.
"Anyway, I don't know why, but Warpath- he was the Autobot
in command during the retreat- he decided to pull me out with his
wounded... and when I woke up, I found my partner and me
binary-bonded. They told me about this Powermaster conversion or
somesuch- I didn't care, so long as I was alive. I signed up as an
Autobot for the war, and Reg and I saw combat virtually everywhere. We
were with the strike force on Ghorah Khar, closing in on Galvatron's
command HQ, when Reg took a bolt..."
The Transformer shifted slightly, and after a moment of
hesitation he said, "I hate losing a partner."
"Is that why you're here?" Kris asked quietly.
"In a way," Doubledealer rumbled. "The docs are still trying
to finish converting me back to normal- seems Reg getting blasted
screwed up the normal scheme of things. I go in for the final
re-conversion tomorrow... and then I'm free, to go wherever I want."
Leaning forward and resting his head on one hand, he said, "Problem
is, I have nowhere to go."
"How's that?" Kris asked. "I thought you were still on the
Autobot side."
"Well, yes, but the Autobots really aren't on my side,"
Doubledealer said. "I mean, a few of them trust me- Prime especially,
and Kup, and Warpath, a couple of others- but when most of them look
at me, they see a turncoat, someone who goes to the highest bidder.
They'll never trust me. And the Decepticons... Galvatron put a bounty
on my head, not long before the end, and I have no doubt Shockwave
would be more than glad to pay the bounty, so long as I was
terminated. The Decepticons don't take well to freelancers anymore.
"But those are my worries," Doubledealer leaned back, smiling.
"I didn't mean to lay my burden on you like that. So," he said, trying
to be hospitable, "how are you doing today?"`
"Depressed," Kris said. "An old friend died recently, and it's
got me thinking about my life. People growing up,
growing old, and dying around me... I'm just getting sick and tired of
death, really. And I don't see any sign of it stopping anytime soon."
Doubledealer chuckled. "No, not much chance of that. I can
understand the feeling, though. Seems like my entire life has been
death, one way or the other."
"Can I ask you something?" Kris said. "Seems to me most
Decepticons, not to mention a few Autobots, don't care much for 'dirty
rotten stinking little fleshlings.' And here you are, making
conversation with one."
"Well, not everyone is the same," Doubledealer said. "For the
most part, those Transformers who act superior to organics are just
stupid, I think; they don't actually know any of you, so it's easy to
make you inferior, at least in their minds. Me, I spent thirty years
working with a human, and before that... well, before that someone
else had taught me to look beyond structure, look and see the true
person inside." Shaking his head, he said, "Don't know if she did me a
favor or not."
"So you wouldn't mind working around humans a lot, then?" Kris
asked.
"I shouldn't think so," Doubledealer said. "Why, are you
thinking of something?"
"Well, I do have a proposition for you, if you're
interested..."

The form on the operating table leaned up, feeling at the spot
which once had held his partner, when they worked together in combat.
The Powermaster socket had been removed, replaced by a conventional
power source and primary transformation manifold. Above him, Wheeljack
said, "All right, try transforming now."
The humanoid form shifted, folding inward somewhat, coming to
rest as a wheeled mobile missile platform. Then, the figure shifted
again, and a few seconds later, a giant metallic falcon stood where
the missile launcher had been. Another shift, and the falcon returned
to humanoid robot form. "Everything seems to work," Doubledealer said
quietly.
"Congratulations, then," Wheeljack said, "you've got a clean
bill of health. Just stop by if you can for a 100,000 mile check-up,
okay?"
"I'll try," Doubledealer said. "By the way, what do you think
of the new look?" he asked, pointing to the twin flags on his
shoulders.
"Well, to be honest, I'd say black and gold clashes with your
paint job," Wheeljack said. "As for what it means... well, your life,
your choice. You're hardly the first to go your own way, y'know."
"Maybe," the Freespacer Doubledealer said, "but I won't be
going it alone." Maybe this'll work out, maybe it won't, he thought to
himself, but it was worth the try... and who knows? Maybe he would fit
in, even among organics.
And just maybe, just maybe, he'd find something to fight for
besides a quick credit...

Chapter 7/NOW

Approaching Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere
August 13, 2388

Not very many constructions designed by humanoid organic
lifeforms (not counting the Zentraedi) are large enough to accommodate
a Transformer. Many of those spacious enough to allow an average-
sized Transformer elbow room are still too small for a few of the
larger ones. Even on Cybertron itself, there are places where
practical needs outweighed the desire for universal accommodation, and
thus the larger Transformers, like Doubledealer, spent more of their
lives outdoors than indoors, anyplace they went.
For once, Doubledealer had a chance to stretch his legs,
standing in the enormous main corridor which connected the various
drydocks of the Utopia Planitia docks. According to reports, the
retreating Freespacer Tactical Fleet had dropped to sublight a few
hours before, and Doubledealer wanted to watch the ships dock.... if
for no other reason than to have the excuse to move around.
Through a huge pane window, Doubledealer could see the massive
Hangar Number Twenty-Two, its exterior doors open to the interior
space of the immense Dyson sphere. Inside, spacesuited workers were
already maneuvering mooring ties into place for multiple ships. Yellow
warning lights flashed inside the bay, reminding the few occupants of
the airless environment they worked in. The oblique angle of the
docking bay shaded everything from the unfiltered glare of Zeta Cygni,
making the flashing hazard lights and the overhead fluorescents all
the brighter.
"Your attention, please," a feminine voice spoke over the PA
system, "CFMF Camelot, docking Hangar 22. CFMF Valiant, docking Hangar
22. CFMF Defiant, docking Hangar 22. CFMF T'Pau, docking Hangar 22.
CFMF West Side Story, docking Hangar 22." Once it became apparent to
all that no other docking announcements were forthcoming, the junior
officers and civilians waiting in the corridor mumbled to each other
in confusion. Where was such-and-so ship? What had happened to XYZ
person? Where were the starfighters coming in at?
Doubledealer caught several ship names in the mumbling, and he
shook his head sadly. As a unit commander, he'd seen the post-battle
initial report, but like the other commanders present at Utopia
Planitia, he'd been ordered to secrecy until the official announcement
came down from the top. Obviously, none of the others present to watch
the arriving fleet knew just how little fleet there was arriving...
A white shape nosed its way into the blackness beyond the
hangar doors; it slid into the lights of the hangar, revealing the
giant windows of the forward bridge of the Camelot, then further on,
showing carbonized streaks on the hull, a patch here and there to
close up hull breaches... and on the delta hull, directly atop the
bulge of Main Engineering, a large gaping hole where the warp core had
been jettisoned on the edge of Zeta Cygni space.
The next ship to slide into view, behind the Camelot, was the
Defiant. A few gasped aloud as the guncruiser's crippled bow appeared
in the hangar doors, missing one of its twin folding weapons wings.
Behind it, the Valiant and West Side Story cruised serenely, sporting
only a handful of blast marks, while the T'Pau, bringing up the rear,
bore almost no marks of battle at all.
As the Camelot slowly cruised up into the berth closest to the
main entrance, a new voice echoed through the corridor. "Attention,
all those awaiting the CFMF Tactical Fleet. The CFMF fleet commander
will issue a brief statement to you once the Camelot finishes docking.
Please be patient and allow our workers to perform their tasks
unmolested. Thank you for your patience."
The whispers, if anything, grew louder, as the crowd swelled
with curious onlookers and a few members of the galactic press who
happened to be nearby. The pressurized gangplank extended itself to
the carrier's main docking port, latching itself onto the Camelot's
hull with a low thump. As soon as the docking was completed, dozens of
Utopia Planitian technicians strode down the plank, tools and crates
in hand. Then, for several long minutes, nothing happened.
When footsteps echoed again from the gangplank, the whispers
fell silent, and every face turned to see Kris Overstreet walk out of
the gangway, alone, dressed in an impeccably clean grey dress uniform,
complete with cavalry sword, pommel gleaming, handguard glinting with
each stride. He wore the uniform like a burlap sack, moving stiffly
into the middle of the crowd. The Freespacers gave him a measure of
space; the reporters used that space to close in and surround him,
sticking cameras and mikes as close as they could to him. When one
camera in particular came too close, he glared at its owner with
murder in his eyes.
"Get that motherfucking camera out of my face before I make
you eat it," he growled. The cameraman backed away nervously, allowing
Kris to move into the center of the group. When he looked around the
people assembled there, his face drew up into a taut, neutral
expression. Doubledealer felt for the man; he obviously did not want
to be here.
After a long moment of silence, he said quietly, "The Tactical
Fleet of the Confederate Freespacers Mercenary Fleet engaged the main
body of the GENOM MILARM starfleet at Wilderness Station. The GENOM
force is reported to have lost over forty ships, including one
Imperial-class Star Destroyer, although we do not have confirmed
reports at this time." He paused, licking his lips before continuing,
"The CFMF force lost all but five of its capital ships engaged, and
all but three of its active fighters."
He paused to allow this to sink in before adding, "The final
count of casualties is not complete as yet, but we have confirmed over
18,000 men as being dead or missing in action. Since GENOM does not
take prisoners, we presume all those missing in action are dead as
well." There were a couple of loud gasps from the assembled group, and
Doubledealer watched Kris' face as the latter struggled to maintain
composure.
Once the mumbling had died down a bit, he said, "I have sent a
letter resigning my commission in the CFMF to Fleet Commander Sleik.
Pending his acceptance of my resignation, and the full investigation
of the events at Wilderness Station, I will continue as overall
commander of Freespacer armed forces. Until such time as a complete
reorganization of our ranks is possible, all officers of pay grade O7
and above will hold titular rank of Commodore." He pointed to his
lapel, where instead of the wreathed five-point stars of the
Admiralty, he wore the eight-pointed star of a commodore.
"At this moment, intelligence has informed us that the main
GENOM fleet has fanned out through Enigma Sector, clearing out
organized resistance. We expect their fleet to regroup within two to
four days and move, as a unit, to assault their final objective, the
Zeta Cygni Dyson Sphere, by no later than a week from now. I am
calling up all retired CFMF officers and crew to active status at this
time. All ship-rated individuals who have attained majority are to
report to the CFMF Reserve Activation office and await orders.
"I am going straight from here to the command offices of the
Wedge Defense Force, where I shall offer contract to the allied fleet.
After that, I will personally supervise the organization of as much of
a starfighter force as we can put into the air. When GENOM does come,
the CFMF will play a part in their final defeat."
Then Kris looked around the room, and when he looked up for a
moment into Doubledealer's optics, his eyes seemed to glow with a
wrath Doubledealer had seen only rarely, in Transformer or
carbonlife... on the faces of the insane, or at least those riding
the ragged edge. "Ladies and gentlemen," the Freespacer commander
growled, "we will have blood." He stepped forward into the crowd, not
slowing, not noticing the way the Freespacers parted again to let him
pass.
A reporter decided to ignore Kris's mood and stepped in front
of him. "Admiral, can you tell us what factor played the greatest-uk!"
Kris grabbed the reporter, picked him up, and set him down
hard on the deck behind him. "Get in my face again, asshole, and you
can fucking well learn to fly." He left the reporter to stare after
him as he walked off down the corridor, alone.

Captain Benjamin 'Gryphon' Hutchins had never been busier
before in his life. Not even when building New Avalon. Not even
during his nineteen months as Salusian Minister of Defense. Never.
He silently thanked Skuld that the main GENOM force had dispersed to
completely secure Enigma Sector rather than pressing on to attack the
still-vulnerable WDF Allied Fleet. He had several ships still in
drydock- dozens, actually, some berthed for lack of qualified crew,
and all too many, like the immense SDF-23 Wandering Child, still under
last-minute construction. Every day - hell, every minute - gave him
more time to get ships operational.
"Vision," he sighed, tossing one of the innumerable hardcopy
status reports he hadn't asked for but which overeager officers from
hundreds of ships seemed determined that he read.
"What can I do for you, lover?" the AI's face appeared on his
desktop monitor.
"Could you get me the most current intel on GENOM's mop-up in
Enigma?"
"Sooner done than said, hon," Vision replied. "Let's see if
the holoproj wants to work today." Next to the monitor, a small
device resembling a wok ring with no wok on it glowed, then projected
a freestanding holographic representation of the sector, with GENOM
forces highlighted here and there. Two items showed minor victories- a
clash near the Manticore Star Kingdom, where the Manticoran force had
managed to give GENOM a bloody nose and escape- and Hyeruul, where the
small GENOM task force had been utterly wiped out by 'a mysterious
defense force.' Most of the rest, however, showed either quick GENOM
victories or more prolonged blockades of trouble points- none of which
would do more than draw maybe a tithe off the main fleet's striking
force when it finally came for the final confrontation. Gryphon
turned to his regular monitor, pulled up a spreadsheet of the WDF's
projected strength, and lost himself in thought.
Even as Gryphon began mentally calculating a final strength
for GENOM, Vision's face appeared again, this time unnaturally
concerned-looking. "Ben," she said, "Overstreet just showed up."
Gryphon sighed for about the three hundredth time that day.
More complications, more work, more worries. Under one of the small
stacks of paper, pizza boxes, dirty plates, and other debris lay a
disk which contained the detailed results of the Wilderness
engagement; from what little he'd read from it, Gryph figured Redneck
had earned his say, whatever it was. "Great, send him in," he said,
raising some vestige of enthusiasm for the effort.
"He really looks like hell, Ben," Vision warned. "Be gentle
with him, okay?" Her face vanished, and a second later the office door
opened to reveal a worn-out, used-up looking Redneck, who strode
mechanically into the office, snapped to attention before Gryphon's
cluttered desk, and saluted.
"Captain Hutchins, sir," he muttered, without a trace of irony
or humor in his voice.
Gryphon stood, saluting. "Afternoon, Red... sorry about the
mess. Sit down before you fall down."
Overstreet sighed and sank gratefully into the one clear chair
that faced Gryphon's desk. "Thanks. It's been a shitty last couple
of days."
"So I've heard," replied Gryphon, having a seat. "Unless I
miss my guess, though, the week as a whole is going to get worse."
"Well... that's why I'm here. I'm here to offer... what's
-left- of my forces to your command."
"I see," Gryphon replied, then added with a tired grin, "Well,
what's a little more complication to the TO&E this week?" Sobering,
he continued, "What -is- left of your forces? I have the report, but
to be honest I only had time to skim it and get the impression you'd
been hit hard."
Redneck's seemingly permanent frown deepened as he thought for
a moment. "One carrier, heavily damaged; one guncruiser, heavily
damaged; one light cruiser, slightly damaged; three corvettes,
undamaged; maybe fifteen X-Wings. Oh, and ten thousand Marines, if
you can find some use for them."
"This looks likely to be a strictly naval operation, but we
can house them, anyway, and keep them out of harm's way. As for your
other assets... " Gryphon lapsed into silence as his face took on
that far-away thinking look.
"I would recommend that the carrier - the Camelot - be
restricted to a launching capacity only," Kris said, "and that it and
the CFMF Defiant - the guncruiser - be held in reserve... should a
retreat be needed. The Valiant could join the main line, and the
T'Pau, Confederacy and West Side Story could be deployed as heavy
gunboats."
Gryphon thought it over, then leaned forward, elbows on his
desk, fingers steepled. "Kris, it seems to me that if the carrier is
as badly damaged as all that, I've got an alternate suggestion."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"Well, we've got several fully operational capital starships
still in their construction bays here, all ready to go but for a
shortage of one vital component: crew. Now, if your people don't mind
being virtual prisoners for three days taking a crash course in
new-ship acclimation, they can go into action fully operational,
assuming the enemy gives us that much time. Indications right now are
that they will."
"Well... " replied Overstreet thoughtfully, "the Camelot's
only got 1,000 crewmen, and I intend to have them working nonstop to
rebuild the warp core... but there is an alternative... with the Home
Fleet here as well, I can essentially call out the reserves - starting
with about 3/4 of those Marines I told you about - and crew every ship
you have to the gills."
"All right, if that's the way you want it - I wasn't aware so
many of your marines were crew-certified. Ordinarily I would keep
recommending that we move the Camelot's fighters to another carrier
and make her non-operational, but I understand how eager your people
must be for a piece of the enemy... and I'd hate to stand in the way
of the ancient Freespacer tradition of avoidable risk," he added,
trying to draw out a hint of a smile.
Instead, he got a long stare, coming from the face of a man
who looked momentarily as old as his calendar years and as tired as
Time, a stare mixing grief and hopelessness, but surprisingly little
anger.
"... Gryph, I just suffered a mutiny, the result of which was
the near annihilation of my fleet. Right now the only thing that gets
me out of bed in the mornings is the thought of giving a little back
to GENOM. I can assure you every Freespacer feels similarly, if not so
intense.
"Now, you're the operations planner. You can deploy my ships
however you feel most suits your battle plan. I don't intend for
Camelot to engage the enemy, just provide an auxiliary launch and
retrieval platform on the sidelines. But if you think she's better off
non-operational, that's your call. But please, don't ever kid me
about avoidable risk again. I don't think I'll ever be in the mood."
Despite his age and position, Gryphon felt the same melange of
self-recrimination and annoyance that he had always felt whenever he
put a foot wrong in a situation like this. He gathered his thoughts,
pressed them into a useful format, and let out a long, drawn-out
sigh.
"All righty, then," he said. "Vision, new vessel assignments
for the Freespacer contingent."
"Go."
"Carrier CFMF Camelot to group 3, second element. Assign
cruisers Firedrake and Temujin to cover.
"Guncruiser CFMF Defiant to sphere reserve element. Assign
cruiser Hawking to cover. Advise Captain Harris not to be surprised
if that one goes barreling into combat despite her assignment and
condition, and advise him to cover accordingly.
"Cruiser CFMF Valiant to group 2, first element, to cover port
low, battleship WDF Bismarck.
"Corvettes CFMF T'Pau, CFMF Confederacy, CFMF West Side Story,
to special group 4, first element. Assignment: enemy carrier
harassment.
"Also, I'll need a listing of every operational ship currently
in need of crew elements, and all the completed ships without any
crew. And a team from P&R to put their heads together with the CFMF
equivalent and figure out how to make crews out of their reserves.
"And don't let me forget: at the first available opportunity,
I'm to write Commodore Overstreet a formal apology for my inopportune
comments today. That's all for now."
"Got it. Processing the lists now."
"Right now," said Redneck, "as far as Personnel goes, I'm the
guy. And as far as available ship-rated people... I should be able
to offer, oh... one hundred thousand crewmen with no great
difficulty."
Gryphon nodded, eyebrows up. "That should certainly take care
of our personnel difficulties, if we can make coherent crews out of
'em. For that, though, you need to talk to Commander Velspp in
Personnel & Resources; contrary to popular belief, I can't handle
every detail personally." He took a look at the status readings in
the corner of his screen. "The manifests and such should be ready in
half an hour or so... in the meantime, you might consider investing in
some food. The commissary here is good, if you like Salusian food.
Or we've got a food court over in Shipyard Three."
"Thanks." Redneck rose slowly to his feet, moving like a man
three times his apparent age, and turned for the door; then he paused
and turned back to Gryphon. "Oh, and one other thing... assuming we
both get out of this alive... you're more than welcome to attend
Washuu's funeral."
Gryphon had been expecting something, anything, but that
statement, so his farewell smile collapsed into a smoking shambles as
he replied merely, "... oh." (A syllable meaning, approximately,
"Well, that'd be what's happened to your sense of humor, then.")
"Thank you," he managed after a few moments' thought.
"I... I'll be there."
"Thanks. I appreciate that. Also, if you could ask Vision to
pass the word to the appropriate people, when there's a chance..."
"I'll take care of it," said Vision in a subdued tone.
"Who's in charge of the starfighter forces? Daver?" asked
Redneck.
"Yes... he's holding a nominal TacDiv grade of Major, and
running Fighter Command from the Lexington right now. Our
organization is so screwed up right now that almost nobody's got the
rank they ought to have or HQ where it belongs... we're sort of
running on the honor system until this crisis is over and we have time
to sort it out."
"Thanks. He'll be my next stop, after this, then." Remembering
his military decorum, Overstreet came to attention and saluted. "Force
be with ya, Gryph."
Gryphon returned the salute (an unprecedented two salutes in
one hour) and replied, "Until all are one, Kris."
Overstreet left, and as soon as he was gone, Gryphon flopped
into his chair, putting his elbows on his desk and dropping his
forehead into his cupped hands with a gusty sigh.
"Well, that was smooth," Vision remarked.
"Yeah. I know," Gryphon replied. "I think I'll get started
on that apology now."