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[UF][FanFic] Redneck: Wilderness Pt. 5

0 مرّة مشاهدة

التخطي إلى أول رسالة غير مقروءة

Kris Overstreet‏

غير مقروءة،

31‏/05‏/1999، 3:00:00 ص31‏/5‏/1999

إلى

Ch. 11/THEN

CFA Washington CFA-1028
May 9, 2300

Dress uniform neatly pressed, hair and beard trimmed, Rear
Admiral Kristan Overstreet strode triumphantly into his new office.
Not that he expected to use it much; he would leave within the day to
attempt- no, he thought grimly, no attempt about it, I damn well
better DO- to bring back the mutineers gathered with the Salusian
Navy. First things first, though; he had to organize his staff, which
at the moment consisted of Washuu and Gina.
The office's reception room held two beings. A young lady with
a bow in her shoulder-length purple hair, wearing the duty uniform of
a full lieutenant, filled out paperwork at the receptionist's desk.
Beside the desk sat a battered-looking R5 astromech droid, who
swiveled its red-and-silver head to face Kris. "Boss!" it said in a
cheery voice, only a hint of static from the speaker. "Long time no
see!"
"Nice to see you, too, Sparky," Kris said. "How's life
treating you?"
"Been better, boss," Sparky admitted. "Engineering work's
okay, but I missed the old thrill of combat, you know?"
"Suuuure you did," Kris said. "Listen, you just got attached
to my personal staff, okay? I want you to go down to Quartermaster and
pull a decent fighter for me, top-line stuff. I'll verify it from
here."
"You got it, boss!" Sparky said, and he rolled out of the
room, humming a tune through his speaker.
Kris strolled over to the desk and placed a hand over the
secretary's papers. "Good morning, Lieutenant, how are you this
morning?"
The lieutenant looked up at the intruder. "Admiral
Overstreet!" She stood to attention and saluted. "Lieutenant May
Azland, reporting for duty, sir!"

<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ACTIVE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<FORCE PROTOCOL 'BEFRIEND'>
<REINSTATE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS PASSIVE>

May paused for a moment, and then resumed, "I've downloaded
and assimilated your military record, sir, and I have to say I'm
impressed!"
"Downloaded?" Kris's eyebrows rose. "You have a cyber plug?"
"Not exactly," May admitted. "I'm a GENOM Type 45 experimental
replicant. I ran away from my makers not long before they attacked the
WDF. Ever since, I've served with the CFMF... and enjoyed every minute
of it!"
Kris smiled. "First time I ever approved of anything coming
out of GENOM," he said.

<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ACTIVE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<FORCE PROTOCOL 'INTIMATE'>
<*ERROR!* PROTOCOL CORRUPTED- THROTTLING>
<FORCE PROTOCOL 'SEDUCE'>
<REINSTATE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS PASSIVE>

May's face froze again, then thawed, then went red-hot with
passion. "Admiral," she said, "you don't know the half of it!" She
strutted around the desk, reached up and pulled Kris' head down to her
level, and kissed him passionately.
Kris broke the kiss, gasping. "Lieutenant, you really don't
need to-"
"Don't worry, Admiral," May grinned. "I'm fully functional and
educated in multiple techniques..." Her hand began running up the
inside of Kris' thigh.
Kris broke the embrace, grabbing May's arms and holding them
to her sides. She struggled to lift them, found she couldn't.
"Lieutenant," he said severely, "as you were!"
May stared, stupefied, at the Redneck. Confusion turned to
shame and regret, and the eagerness faded from her eyes. "Yes, sir,"
she said, standing to attention.

<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ACTIVE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<ASSASSINATION PROTOCOL TO STANDBY>

"Now then," Kris continued, "I don't mind my subordinates
having affairs so long as it doesn't interfere with their duties.
However, I am not interested in a relationship at this time. Maybe
when I know you better, but not now."
May watched him blankly as he said, "We'll just forget this
incident happened, for now. Now, then, let's get the office organized,
shall we?"

May's eyes returned to life, and she stared incredulously at
Kris. "You mean you don't want to replace me?" she asked.
"No reason why I should," Kris shrugged. "Just don't do it
again, okay?"

"Understood, sir," May said. "Just don't expect me to give up
completely, eh?"
"The story of my life," Kris mumbled, but he smiled as he said
it. In a louder voice he continued, "First, let's arrange for supply
for my command."
"You certainly are confident," May said. "What makes you think
you'll have a command?"
"Simple," Kris said. "I just won't take no for an answer."

By the time the CFMF Evita (CFF-58) reached the Salusian
Second Fleet, Kris had made up his mind: the Broadway class of
corvette had degenerated from a swift, warp-capable courier and patrol
ship to a flying deathtrap. In two days of nervewracking travel, the
warp core destabilized for seven incredibly tense minutes, a bulkhead
came within an inch of flattening him just outside his stateroom, two
consoles and a Corellian food processor exploded in his face, and all
the toilets had backed up.
Kris was in the command chair composing a long, stern letter
to whoever was in charge at the Evita's last refit as the ship cruised
into the flight formation near the knot of white angular ships at one
end of the mostly grey, naval-cut Salusian-make vessels. According to
reports, the 'renegade' Freespacer forces, two entire carrier task
forces and large numbers of unassigned ships, had cut a lucrative
contract with the Salusians to provide extra muscle and logistical
support for the Second Fleet.
Kris had arrived to cut that contract short.
Of course, he hadn't come in without doing his homework. After
talking with Queen Asrial and personally guaranteeing the entire
Freespacer Tactical Fleet to her disposal within the month (he'd had
to pledge his word as a Knight, something he really didn't like being
reminded of), he'd gotten the Freespacer defectors released from their
contract. He'd followed up by checking his financial situation, and
discovered that, despite a host of stock collapses after 2288, he was
filthy, nay sinfully, rich. If he wanted to, he could hire the
defectors for five years just to sit on a lawn somewhere with the pink
flamingoes and ceramic gnomes.
He only needed three weeks, maximum.
The Evita cut its way into the Freespacer wing of the fleet,
past other Broadways, Plymouth Mk. III destroyers, Emperor cruisers
and Liberator guncruisers, and swarms of patrolling Headhunters and
Myrmidons- more Y-wings, Kris noticed with curiosity, than
Headhunters. At the core of the formation cruised two carriers, the
older and smaller CFMF Camelot and the newer, much larger CFMF
Enterprise- the latter of which served as flagship for the renegade
force.
"Fleet ATC, ATC, this is CFMF Evita, registration Charlie
Foxtrot Foxtrot Five Eight, requesting permission to dock with CFMF
Enterprise, Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Eight Seven, over," the Evita's
comm officer murmured into his headset, just behind Kris' left elbow.
"Welcome to the Condorcet Freelancing Mercenary Fleet, Evita,"
a too-cheerful voice chirped over the headphones, the gain loud enough
for Kris to hear. "Come to course three-one-two mark two-nine-nine and
cut drive and prepare for tractor lock."
"-Condorcet- mercenary fleet?" Kris blinked. "Captain, if you
would, bring main viewer on the Enterprise, mag factor two."
"Do it." The captain, Something Fujisomethingorother - Kris
hadn't yet memorized the gray-haired Japanese woman's name yet- nodded
to the helmsman, who keyed up a close-up view of the upper section of
the Enterprise's alpha hull. There, where the Freespacer flag should
have been, a portrait of a Condorcet smiled back in all its handsome,
mustachioed, arrogant glory.
"Oh, God," he moaned miserably. "May?"
"Yes, Admiral?" Lieutenant Azland stepped over to his side and
looked up at him expectantly.
"Aspirin, please," Kris grumbled. "And water."
"Aye, sir," May walked off the bridge to fetch the
painkillers, leaving Kris and the bridge crew to contemplate the
intricate process of sitting in position while the Enterprise's
tractor beams guided them into the hangar deck- which would have to be
cleared so the Evita could fit inside the carrier. When May returned,
the corvette had finally begun to move towards the giant bay doors to
the aft of the ship.
"Your aspirin, sir," May mumbled, holding up a pair of pills
and a glass of water.
"Thanks," Kris took the pills and bounced them a couple times
in his palm. As he raised the pills to his mouth, the ship bucked and
shuddered in the Enterprise's tractor beam. The pills bounced to the
floor, vanishing into the carpet.
"DAMN!" Kris tried to wipe the spilled water off his sleeve.
"Where'd the pills go?" Kris looked around his feet, muttering, "And
whose bright idea was it to carpet a starship anyway?"
"Sorry, Evita," a nasal voice replied over the radio, "minor
tractor beam malfunction, we should have it fixed now..."
"Whatever," Kris sighed. "May, please fetch me a dry uniform
tunic."
"Aye, sir," May nodded, walking away with slightly more speed
than necessary. Kris raised an eyebrow as she left. What's gotten into
her? he wondered. She seems awfully jumpy lately.

May released a long, slow breath of relief as she left the
bridge.
She'd had another blackout, right there in the middle of the
errand. Somehow she'd gotten the aspirin to Admiral Overstreet despite
her fugue, but the fact that she had those blackouts at all terrified
her beyond belief. She hadn't been so scared since the day she smashed
the fence at GENOM's testing facility.
The blackouts had begun with the Admiral's tour of
Engineering. One moment, she was walking along behind the Admiral
looking at the well-maintained warp conduits, and the next her
internal timer had advanced twenty-seven minutes with no conscious
thought. It happened again and again, unpredictably, at the strangest
times- while working at the terminal in the Admiral's quarters, while
assisting an engineer with the waste recycling plant, while fetching a
sandwich from the ship's mess.
This fugue had been shorter than most- three and a half
minutes- but for a cybernetic organism that is an age and a half.
Maybe, May thought to herself, I ought to put in a request for
leave time and see a cyberneticist. Or at least report these blackouts
to -someone-, what if I were in a really important situation and-

<N7A-M1 KILLER DOLL SYSTEMS ACTIVE>
<OVERRIDE COSMETIC PERSONALITY IMPLANT>
<DELETE MEMORY BLOCK BA79C1182>
<ERROR! SHARED DATA- THROTTLING>
<ERROR! KILLER DOLL SYSTEM OVERWRITE>
<MEMORY DELETE ABORTED>
<REWRITE MEMORY BLOCK BA79C1182>
<REWRITE SUCCESSFUL>

May stumbled as her neural net returned to life. A quick
internal check- twenty-eight seconds. She'd been out for twenty-eight
seconds.
Yes, she definitely needed to see a-

<***NO.***>

No, she couldn't tell a medic about this. Something would
happen if she did... she didn't know what, but she knew something
would definitely happen.
The Buma's hands shook as she walked down the corridor to get
the Admiral's spare uniform.

Ch. 11/NOW

WDF Wandering Child SDF-23
August 11, 2388

Doubledealer worked his way down the oversized corridors of
the Wandering Child- the only ship in the WDF allied fleet large
enough to allow him to function as a actual crewmember- towards one of
the hundreds of auxiliary ports lining the outer regions of the hull.
Under one enormous metal arm he carried something that resembled a
jetpack- much, much larger than any normal jetpack, and without air
vents or straps.
Nobody even thought about stopping him- you don't stop an
eighty-foot robot in the hallway, especially not one with as grim an
expression on their faceplate as Doubledealer. He was left to himself
and his thoughts, as the crew of the Wandering Child made room for him
and went on to their other duties.
Those thoughts, in general, revolved around this: I'm sick of
being a forklift with legs here. It's time I got into the -real-
action... where I'm supposed to be.

"Commodore, orders coming down from WDF command," the
comm-tech of the CFA Roarke's Dream II called up from his cubbyhole on
the old Corellian corvette's bridge. The lighting system was down, not
for any combat purpose, but due to a shorted power lead the damage
control crew hadn't been able to isolate. In the dim light of the
bridge's still-operable displays, the tech's wild, spiked hair cast
long shadows from his little nook.
"On main display," Commodore Platt O'Keefe barked. The
successful smuggler, author, and Freespacer politician leaned
comfortably back in the center seat, her braid gone from its youthful
silver to snow white now after over a century of serving the Freespace
Mark first, the Federation Credit second, and the Freespacer Alliance
somewhere back in the pack. The lines of her face gave her an air of
dignity instead of age; a lifetime of hard living and close calls had
kept her from putting on much weight anywhere, and even if her skin
wasn't as smooth as it once was, she looked a full thirty years
younger than her actual age of 124.
The main display flickered to life, occasionally losing its
vertical hold as the short, sweet text message gleamed out onto the
bridge: MAINTAIN RED ALERT STATUS. ENGAGEMENT AGAINST GENOM BATTLE
STATION IMMINENT. HOLD STATION AND MAINTAIN ESCORT OF REFUGEE VESSELS.
EOF - BENJAMIN HUTCHINS CPT 2INC WDF ALLIED FLEET/VISION LTCDR COMMAND
STAFF
"In other words," a voice from behind the center seat
grumbled, "we do nothing."
"You're on this bridge as a courtesy, Captain Nakajima,"
O'Keefe said. "That courtesy could be revoked at any time..." A few
lines had taken up residence on the commodore's face since the WDF
dumped the survivors of the Defiant on her.
"I don't like this," Nakajima replied, walking across the
bridge so she could face O'Keefe. "The main GENOM fleet is out of gun
range of the AT&T, but not out of starfighter range. Tactical!" Before
O'Keefe could object, the weapons officer had blipped a tactical map
of the fleets onto the main viewer; the WDF fleet in the lower left
corner, the refugee fleets and their guard in the lower right, the
AT&T just south of center, and the main GENOM fleet near the top of
the screen, twice as far as any other force from the AT&T... but
clearly not all that far off.
"Now, it'd take the GENOM main fleet over half an hour to get
within fire-support range of the AT&T," Aya pointed out, "but TIE
Interceptors can cover the distance in under fifteen minutes. The only
way I can think of to pull off a swift attack on the AT&T is with a
starfighter force, but that force will leave the main fleet badly
exposed -and- risk the starfighters to counterattack."
"That's why we have screening forces to break up those
counterattacks," O'Keefe said. "Drop five Valkyrie, Rapier or X-Wing
squadrons between the station and the enemy fleet-"
"No way they could be spared," Aya shook her head negatively.
"Even after the mauling we gave them, GENOM's starfighter force must
outnumber ours by three to one or better... and the AT&T didn't get to
launch any of its own. No, it's going to be an all or nothing
gamble... "
"And you want the Support Fleet to cover the attack?" O'Keefe
sighed. "Nakajima, this fleet has its orders. We stand escort over the
refugee ships against-"
The forward portholes flooded with light as the Roarke's Dream
II's shields overloaded, lighting the bridge up brighter than a
phosphorus fire. The ship rocked and bucked with impact as two more
shots cut through the shields and struck the ship. Debris fell all over
the bridge, crewmen fell from their standing stations, control
panels shorted out all around.
As Aya's eyesight returned to normal, she looked around the
smoke-filled bridge. Two-thirds of the bridge's stations were knocked
out. Three crewmen lay writhing beside her, limbs broken in the
confusion. Through the darkness and haze, Aya could barely make out
the thick layer of bulkhead which had come away from the ceiling and
fallen over most of the rear half of the bridge.... and lying over the
center seat... and Platt O'Keefe's body.
Oh Gods.
Aya gaped for a moment or two, then shouted, "STATUS!"
"Cloakship... sir...." the weapons officer coughed loudly,
holding his side as he worked his way back to the still functional
panel. "Dropped into the clear and fired torpedoes... direct hit to
bridge and reactor section..."
"Do we still have power?"
The weapons officer shrugged helplessly with his free hand.
Nobody else seemed in any condition to help.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit," Aya grumbled, picking her way over
the debris to a comm panel by the bridge doors. "Bridge to crew of CFMF
Defiant, get up here on the double. Damage control and medstaff to the
bridge." Thumbing off the intercom, she picked her way back across the
debris to the helm console, which for a wonder was still intact. With
a few keystrokes she sent the corvette into a slow dead-fish roll.
There, she thought, hopefully that'll fool the stealthship into
thinking he took us out.
As Aya tried to coax the scanning console back to life, the
bridge doors opened to admit Homare, followed closely by two engineers
and the rest of the Defiant bridge crew. "Maaan... what a mess,"
Homare sighed as he moved over to the helm console. "Dead fish gambit?
Good move, sis," he nodded, leaving the controls alone for the moment.
Shran grabbed a fallen support beam and heaved it away from a
multipurpose console, keying up an Engineering status report. "Good
news, Captain," he said, "Commodore O'Keefe reinforced the hull over
the main reactor. Engineering took a beating, but we still have main
power."
"We do?" Aya scrambled back over the debris, shouting, "Shut
it DOWN! Dammit, shut main power down NOW!!"
"But-" Another impact cut Shran's response short, knocking
everyone off their feet and wringing loud, heartstopping groans from
the thin outer bulkhead above their heads. As the various crewmembers
picked themselves up, Shran typed out an order into the console, and a
few seconds later the subliminal hum of the fusion reactor faded out.
"Is... is everyone all right?" Aya gasped, wincing as she
stood back up. Blood dripped from her right palm from a shallow cut.
"And can I have a bandage here? I cut myself on this crap."
"Just a second, sis," Homare said, helping one of the medics
to her feet. "Looks like they wanted to make sure, huh?"
"Dorsal gun turret and main guns inoperative, ventral gun
turret fully operational, torpedo tubes operational," Shwarz dropped
into the weapons station and began checking out the area about the
ship.
"Microscopic fractures in the outer bulkhead above us,
otherwise no serious damage to the hull," T'Pall's fingers ran over
Shran's console as she called up readout after readout. "Port and aft
shields down but operable, starboard shield projector shorted out,
forward shield projector destroyed."
"But this ship can still fight, right?" Aya asked eagerly.
"Only if we're feeling suicidal," Shran sighed. "One hit to
the front and the bridge loses integrity. I don't know how soon we can
put a temporary bulkhead in, but-"
"You have five minutes," Aya snapped. "Claire, communications
check?"
"All comm systems down, Captain," Lieutenant Lemno sighed,
pulling open an access hatch and crawling underneath the console.
"Give me a few minutes to check out the damage."
"Get them working, Claire, but maintain radio silence," Aya
nodded. "Let 'em think we're dead in the water."
"That's not far from the truth," Claire muttered.
Aya sighed and looked out the porthole at the slowly whirling
stars. "Homare," she said quietly, "I need some ideas..."
"T'Pall, do you detect any ion emissions that might be coming
from a Klingon ship under cloak?" Homare asked.
"Do you think it's an Imperial Klingon ship?"
"It's possible. After on, the Republican Klingons are on our
side with Celine's force."
T'Pall shook her head. "Negative, Commander. The only ion
emissions indicated by passive scanners are consistent with our own
fleet."
"Well, so much for that idea," Aya sighed.
"Hm...." Homare thought carefully... "No ion thrust means
either the ship is working on some sort of reactionless drive..."
"Which would be detectable and highly energy-consumptive..."
"...or the ship is moving entirely on thrusters."
"Which would mean a very small, very very stealthy ship," Aya
nodded. "One which probably doesn't have any weapons other than a
torpedo tube... one with just enough power to cloak or launch weapons,
but not both... "
Aya dashed over to the weapons console and leaned over
Shwarz's shoulder. "Replay forward sensor logs last five minutes."
"On it." The console screen lit up with a false-color image of
the space immediately in front of the Roarke's Dream. The readings
flickered through a fast-forward scan, slight fluctuations in
temperature enhanced the darkness, leaving a psychedelic canvas of
purples and blues shifting across the screen. Then the frame froze as
the nose, and then hull, of a very nasty looking little ship appeared
out of nowhere, lighting up the scan with oranges and reds. As a white
glow appeared from the maw just beneath the little ship's fuselage,
Aya muttered, "Stop. What distance was the stealthship from us when it
fired?"
"Ah... point oh one kilometers," Shwarz said. "Point blank
range, three shots fired.... bridge low, bridge high, Engineering
high." He called up a smaller window inside the sensor log and pointed
out the points of impact on a wire model of the corvette.
"Forward to five seconds before the fourth impact," Aya said.
The screen flickered again, the tiny stealthship fading out
again, leaving the screen frozen on an image of cool space once more.
"Shift point of view around the Y axis," Aya said.
The cool purples shifted slightly as the point of view crept
upward across the spine of the Roarke's Dream. At about forty degrees,
a splotch of red crept onto the lower righthand side of the view; it
hung to the edge of the screen, creeping slowly down the side. When it
reached the halfway mark, Aya said. "Stop. Track across the Z axis and
center on the heat."
The heat was, indeed, the stealthship, plus a clear view of
the missile bearing down on the corvette amidships. "Hm.... GENOM
issue Class 77-K advanced proton torpedo. Top of the line."
Shran peeked over Shwarz's other shoulder. "If that torpedo
tube is the ship's only armament, and it has no propulsion other than
thrusters, I estimate that hull could hold some twenty-four to
thirty-six warheads... depends on the type of cloaking tech used."
"The submergence effect implies a Zardon-style U-boat cloak,"
T'Pall commented. "Very low energy consumption, but that small a ship
couldn't sustain a cloak without draining heat buildup-"
"Will you all please GET OFF ME?" Aya grunted as she was
pressed into the back of Shwarz's chair.
A moment later, everyone except Aya stood at a very discreet
distance from the weapons console. "Anyway, it looks like he was on
his way to score another kill, noticed our main engines still
operable, and paused to finish us off."
"Looks that way to me," Homare nodded.
"Having finished us off, he would be on his way to his next
target... Homare, bring tactical up on main viewer, project a straight
line between the two sighting points and extend it on along the
presumed path of travel. Presume that the stealthship is traveling on
momentum from standard maneuvering thrusters."
"Tracking now," Homare replied, stepping over one of the
groaning bodies to the navigation console and coaxing it to life. The
main viewer flickered on, plotting the triangle of Roarke's Dream and
the two stealthship sightings, then tracking the presumed path of the
stealthship on for about three quarters of a kilometer before lighting
up as a bright red blip. Ahead of it, at less than 200 meters, lay the
CFA Patrol Buster, a heavily armed YT-1500 freighter with a reputation
for running blockades by destroying any blockade ship unfortunate
enough to be near it.
"I have short range communications operational, Captain,"
Claire crawled up onto the comm officer's chair and looked at the
viewscreen. "Should we warn the Patrol Buster?"
"Maintain radio silence, Lieutenant," Aya said. "Homare...
stop our rotation as soon as the ventral gun turret can be brought to
bear on the projected target. Irving...." Aya smiled and giggled a
cheerful laugh. "Blow him up REAL good!"

The Buma's serial number- that is, the Buma piloting the
stealthship Jugular- is fairly unimportant.
Its thoughts or feelings as the first laser bolts began flying
past his canopy are also fairly unimportant.
The important thing is, he had roughly five point three
seconds to think and feel them before those laser bolts found their
target.

Aya's eyes twinkled merrily in the light from the distant
fireball. "Shran, main power! Claire, break radio silence! 'Command
ship to CFMF Support Fleet. Enemy cloaked ship destroyed. All ships to
engage engines and follow our lead. CFA Roarke's Dream fully
operational!' Homare, lay in an elliptical orbit around the AT&T to
swing us around her and place us between it and the main GENOM fleet.
Shwarz, you've got seven minutes to get the dorsal turret operational
again, or forward shields, whichever is less impossible."
As the various ex-Defiant crew members got to work, and the
medics tended to the wounded, Aya shouted, "WHERE THE HELL IS MY
DAMAGE CONTROL?!?"

The motley swarms of starfighters, WDF and GENOM, met and
mixed over the AT&T in a swarm of Brownian motion. A handful of quick
victories went to the leading GENOM formations, even as the forward
WDF ships knocked large holes through the TIE triads across the
battlefield. Each side loosed a handful of missiles, then turned to
avoid enemy fire, and then both sides entangled with each other,
flying in and out of formation in the chaos of battle.
As Kris flew in with the second wave, his mind stuck fast to
the all-important third wave, Eight Ball and its escort. The fighters
had to stay close to the slower transports- the Warpzone might be able
to achieve fighter speeds, but the standard troop transport couldn't
even hope to. Someone on the GENOM side of the battle ought to see
them... now, where would the attackers come from?
-There.-
Kris flagged a group of TIEs breaking loose of the tangle of
starfighters and bearing down on the troop transports. At the lead of
the formation rode that strange prototype TIE, the one with the
shields and long bent panels. Kris nodded with satisfaction as he
keyed on the command channel. "Rebel One to Rebel squadron, break
formation and follow me. Squadrons from WDF Hornet, proceed with
attack run.' With a nudge of his stick, he bowed his X-wing out of the
main flight path for the assault force and curled up beneath to bear
his guns on the attacking TIEs.
Kris checked the speed of his fighter wing, forming up behind,
and then that of the TIEs ahead. At four clicks' distance, there just
wasn't time to wait for a missile, especially since the TIEs with
missiles would already be locking on the transports. "Rebel One to
Rebel squadron, switch to guns, repeat switch to guns. Fire to
disrupt, repeat fire to disrupt."
Kris redirected his shield recharge into the engines, boosting
his X-wing ahead of his formation. At two clicks distance, he opened
single fire, leading across the lead TIE's nose; at 1.5 clicks he
switched to double-fire; at one click the lead TIE weaved and jinked
to keep out of the line of fire; .7 clicks the TIE gave up trying to
lock onto the Warpzone and settled for keeping itself intact.
Kris took the opportunity to restore power to shields and
switch his radio over to the GENOM fighter command channel. "Alpha
One, this is Rebel One. Shall we pick up where we left off?"
Alpha One's brought its nose around and fired a few rounds
into Kris' weakened forward shields.
"WHOA! Guess that answers that," Kris grunted as he squeezed
his X-wing through several tight maneuvers. He growled even louder,
off the radio circuit, as the TIE prototype slipped in behind him and
stuck tight, surrounding his cockpit with green blasts.
He tried a vector-lag drop maneuver, and got four blasts into
the rear shields for his trouble.
He fired up his engines again and tried flipping his fighter
over for a reverse-flight shot, only for his target to slide up and
out of his line of fire and tag his forward shields again.
He threw the throttle to full, braking momentum and surging
back along his flight path, and this actually caught Alpha-One by
surprise. By the time she reacted, Kris was already swinging around
behind her, guns blazing away at her six.
Before Kris could get a bead on the TIE, it curled up and to
starboard, trying to swing around him. The two fighters swung,
unmolested, in a wildly changing mutual orbit, neither able to gain
advantage.
I hate it when this happens, Kris thought as he swung around
for the eighth or ninth time.

Orderlies bore away the body of Commodore Platt O'Keefe, her
skull caved in from the collapse of the bridge ceiling. Around them,
braces kept the ceiling in place above them while three engineers
worked as fast as they could to secure the bulkhead in its former
place.
Underneath the workers, Aya paced impatiently as she glared at
the tactical display. "Can't we get any more weapons operational?"
"Captain, I've got my hands full replacing the forward shield
generators," Shran's voice echoed over the intercom. "Doing it from
the -inside- of the ship doesn't make it any easier. As it is, I may
have the shields fixed in five minutes."
"You've got two minutes," Aya shouted over the welding. "After
that we'll be under fire from more than those stealth boats."
Three more ships from the CFMF Support Fleet had fallen to the
tiny cloakships before the force had moved beyond their reach. The
rest, hundreds strong, cruised around the Roarke's Dream II, spreading
out only slightly to present a thick field of overlapping fire to the
oncoming GENOM fighter support.
And it was definitely oncoming. Wave after wave of fighter,
seemingly every fighter the GENOM fleet had left, swarmed at maximum
speed toward the AT&T and the starfighter battle taking place over its
surface. Without the two main battle fleets mixed up between the TIEs,
the wave seemed twice as large as the force launched at the
start of the battle- when in fact almost the opposite was true.
"Shran, can't we get just one torpedo tube open?" Aya called
through the intercom.
"Captain- hang on just a minute..." The sounds of arching
electricity echoed over the intercom speaker as Shran soldered
something into place. "Okay, power up the forward shields."
Shwarz's fingers snapped closed a handful of switches and
nodded with satisfaction as the indicator lights on his panel showed
the forward shields charging to full strength. "Shields activated,
Captain."
"Great!" Aya shouted. "Now what about the torpedo tubes?"
"No chance," Shran's voice shouted from the other end of the
speaker. "The starboard torpedo tube is blown shut, and the port
tube's rails are out of alignment- we can't get the torpedoes out of
the tube."
"Can we push a torpedo out manually?"
Shran's voice dripped with irony, unusual for an Andorian.
"Yes, I think so, if we cut off gravity to the lower decks and
evacuate the torpedo room, someone with a long broomstick might get
the nose out of the torpedo port."
"Hurry up and do it, then!" Aya said. "You've got fifty
seconds!"
"WHAT?!"
"Captain," Claire called from her position, "I've got fifty
ships requesting permission to open fire..."
"I'm working on it!" Aya snapped. "Tell them hold fire... wait
for us to fire a shot, then unload with everything!"
"Will do, Captain!"
"Sis," Homare turned around to face Aya, "do we really need to
fire the first shot?"
"No," Aya grumbled, "but it'll make sure the first volley is
all at once...Shran, any word?"
"Just a minute!" Shran's voice sounded muffled; a few seconds
later, some of the intercom static cleared as Shran said, "I'm suited
up... torpedo armed and on the launch rail, ready for targeting..."
"Target the lead interceptor, Irving," Aya smiled. "Program
the torpedo for a ten-second engine delay."
"Aye, sir!" Shwarz keyed the targeting computers onto the
closest TIE Interceptor and waited for the lights to go to red. Ten
seconds later, with the quiet buzz of lock-tone ringing through the
bridge, Shwarz said, "Ready to fire."
"Shran, you've got ten seconds to get the torpedo out and
clear," Aya said, "launching -now!-"
Shwarz hit the launch button as, below decks, Shran held the
launch rail in one hand and a long section of conduit in the other,
prodding the weightless torpedo down the launch tube. Eight seconds
later, the torpedo cleared the tube, and as Shran pushed away from the
open tube, the torpedo's engine ignited, sending a short blast of heat
back down the tube as it rocketed away towards the GENOM fighters.
"Roarke's Dream to all ships," Aya grinned, "FIRE!"
A hundred different kinds of shipborne weaponry loosed itself
upon the leading edge of the starfighter force. Proton torpedoes,
photon torpedoes, concussion missiles, AntiChrists, drum bombs.
Lasers, phasers, ion cannon, disrupters, neutron blasters, mass
drivers, machine guns. One ship had even charged up an old Romulan
plasma wave launcher, sending massive waves of raw energy at the
clustered TIEs.
The TIE wave struck the smugglers' lines, but instead of
Hannibal at Cannae, the situation was more like Pickett at Gettysburg.
A couple of minutes later, the GENOM starfighter force brought its
bloody stump back from the encounter, leaving the CFMF Support Fleet
scorched, battered, but victorious.

Kris spun his X-wing away from a wild shot from Alpha One's
fighter; he squeezed off a few wide misses of his own as he tried to
get his ship to bear on hers. The dance had gone on, uninterrupted,
for minutes, neither one even landing a shot on the other, while all
around them fighters from both sides ignored the dueling commanders.
Kris had long since allowed his mind to fade into the calm of
Jedi battle mode. For the first time in days, his emotions flowed
calmly through him, his anger and sadness fading into the background
as the Force guided him. Each movement, each nudge of the stick, each
shot fired, brought his ship a hair closer to the firing solution he
wanted, and kept his own ship out of the guns of the TIE.
Kris brought his fighter around again, this time blinking as
one of Rebel squadron's - no, wait, Kris blinked in surprise, the
fighter was painted in Cavalier colors! Terri!- sped across Alpha
One's line of fight, pursued by a rain of blaster fire from two TIE
Interceptors. As the X-wing jinked and turned, it presented its full
top profile to the prototype TIE, giving Alpha One an irresistible
shot.
Green bolts flew from the TIE's chin-mounted guns, just a
moment late. Between the TIE and Terri's starfighter flew one of Rebel
Squadron's ships, disintegrating at the first touch of Alpha One's
blasts. Behind it, three TIEs veered away for new targets, while Terri
doubled back and blasted wildly away at her former pursuers.
Kris' peace was gone at the first sight of Terri's fighter.
"Crash, what are you DOING here?"
"What do you THINK?!"
"We'll discuss this later." Redneck pulled back around and
bracketed the TIE commander's ship. He stared at Alpha One for several
seconds, numb with shock.
The shock quickly gave way to pure rage.
"Why you... we had an AGREEMENT..." Kris squeezed the trigger
and held it down, firing his blasters wildly after the enemy fighter.
"You goddamn well BROKE THE RULES! You SHOT DOWN one of MY MEN!!"
"The fortunes of war, Rebel One," the Cajun woman's voice
grated out over the radio.
"Fortunes, hell!" Kris ripped the gloves away from his flight
suit, sealed up his helmet, and said, "Sparky, open the canopy."
WHAT?!? scrolled over the X-wing's display.
"Do. It. Now."
I HOPE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING.
The click of the latches was lost in the rush of escaping air.
Kris gritted his teeth at the cold of space working on his bare hands,
grunted with discomfort as his suit automatically sealed itself and
pressurized to its minimum-survival pressure.
Switching on the electromagnets in the soles of his boots,
Kris climbed out onto the nose of his fighter. Shifting his balance as
Sparky guided the X-wing through the firefight, he searched the
swirling, weaving, fire-blazing mass of starfighters. Picking out the
prototype, he cracked his knuckles soundlessly and whispered, "Call
-this- the fortunes of war...."

Rayna Tangril brought her TIE Advanced Prototype around to
port just in time to see the pilot of Rebel One standing on his
fighter's nose- in mid-flight- staring directly at her. Incredible,
she thought to herself, has he gone mad?
No, she thought, I've fought madmen and none of them ever
decided to take a promenade in the middle of a dogfight. He has
something in mind.
And I suspect, she thought as Rebel One's hands glowed a
brilliant red, I suspect I'm not going to like it very much.
A heart-stopping noise ran through the TIE, the sound of metal
being sheared away. A few seconds later, every panel, display,
lightbulb, EVERYTHING went completely dead. The life support system in
her flight suit switched to its internal power system, leaving Rayna
to jiggle her yoke helplessly, slam her control panel in frustration,
and finally sit back and watch the scenery as her fighter tumbled
helplessly, its panels blasted neatly away, out of the firing zone.
Around her danced dozens, hundreds of red bolts of light,
square-shaped waves of energy traveling in pairs, zipping to and
through TIE after TIE. For every flash of light, another TIE spun or
drifted helplessly, its solar panels- the primary power source for the
magnetic ion engines and all systems onboard- either ripped off or
totally disintegrated.
On second thought, Rayna thought, maybe Rebel One -is- mad,
after all...

Standing in zero gravity, surfing the nose of a starfighter
traveling at high velocity, constantly regenerating the skin on your
hands as exposure freezes it and rips it away, while throwing around
terawatts of energy in destructive bolts, wears a guy out pretty fast.
The shouts of anger grew quieter, then silent, the waves of
energy dimmer and then nonexistent; finally, squeezing one last shaft
of ruby light towards the tail of a passing GENOM Assault Gunboat,
Kris passed out cold on his feet, swaying limply as the X-wing flew
through the zone of destruction.
Sparky watched with anxiety as Kris' limp body swayed
backwards and side to side, locked by the heels to the nose of the
ship. He couldn't take the ship into any extreme maneuvers; instead,
he gingerly eased the X-wing into a direct heading for the CFMF
Camelot. Hopefully, the droid thought, nobody will notice us leaving.
A few seconds later, blaster fire from above skipped around
the X-wing, ricocheting off the outer shields and jolting the fighter
back and forth. Sparky scanned upward and saw a lone TIE bomber,
untouched by Kris' rage, bearing down with guns blazing on the X-wing.
The bomber flew past the helpless fighter, leading out beyond
it so it could make another pass. With casual ease it came around,
lining its guns up on the weakened shields and underbelly of the
Dragonfly. The pilot laid his finger across the trigger-
The TIE bomber lurched up and off its course, its wing struts
creaking alarmingly as something hauled it away from the X-wing. A
metallic voice rumbled through the fighter: "I DON'T THINK SO!" With a
long grinding and groaning, one wing panel, and then the other, was
peeled off the wing struts like the wings off a fly.
As the TIE Bomber's internal power dimmed and died, the pilot
looked up to see, of all things, a giant blue and purple falcon,
wearing a jetpack on its back, soaring off to escort the X-wing home.
As the pilot watched the bird fly off, he noticed something unusual...
painted on the metallic wings were two black flags, each emblazoned
with a bright gold lightning bolt.

Kris remained sound asleep as the Camelot's deck crew pried
his feet off his fighter.
He slept through the hasty bandaging of his exposed hands, the
insertion of an IV drip, and the removal of the drip an hour later.
He missed Terri Curtiss walking in, gripping his hand tightly,
then leaving as the nurses shooed her away.
He totally missed Iczer-Two's arrival and the dramatic
confrontation between Iczer-One and Iczer-Two- although several of his
friends taped it for future viewing.
In fact, he didn't wake up until a couple of hours later, when
an orderly shook his shoulder and whispered in his ear that GENOM had
surrendered.
Kris squinted his eyes at the orderly, grunted noncommittally,
buried his head in the pillow and went back to sleep.
He didn't feel up to peace yet.

Ch. 12/THEN

Mega City One, Zardon
July 1, 2005

The foyer of the Mega City One Hall of Justice echoed with the
mumbles of hundreds of dignitaries, Salusian, Zardon, human and
otherwise. The colorful formal garb of the assembled notables wrung
the eye, every imaginable color represented in at least one person's
array. This kaleidoscope of formal wear assembled itself in rows and
columns before a stage, atop which sat a podium, flanked by tables
with four places set for the chief dignitaries of the day. The Galaxy
had turned out in force to witness the final act in possibly the
longest continuous war since the legendary wars between the Yoma and
Santovasku, ten millenia before.
Three heavy thumps rang from the massive doors of the hall.
The ceremonial guard of Judge cadets stood away from the doors,
allowing a steward, wearing the livery of the Imperial House of
Zardon, to open them. Through the doors strode another steward, who
shouted, "All rise for Leeanna Zard'al, Princess Elect of Zardon! ALL
HAIL THE IMPERIAL ZARDON!"
"HAIL!" cried a large minority of the assembled dignitaries,
mostly Zardon, as a youngish woman, wearing the dress uniform of a
street Judge of the Zardon Justice Department, strode confidently down
the center aisle towards the dais. Behind her walked her superior
officer, Chief Justice Wilheim Fargo. The acting President of the
Zardon Republic Provisional Government, Khorin Dran'aal, followed,
looking less like a guerilla leader and more like a schoolteacher
compared to the other two. His nattily cut black business suit only
partly made up for the difference in attitude.
Next in line was the representative for the Confederate
Freespacers Mercenary Fleet, a military unit which had, by hook or
crook, gained recognition as an independent nation by the principals
in today's ceremony. Commodore Kristan Overstreet, the current de
facto chief of state of the Freespacers, looked absolutely drab in his
grey overtunic, cavalry sword, and slacks. He resisted the urge to
scratch his beard, and totally ignored the urge to yank the damn
overtunic off, even if he could barely move in it. This ceremony
marked the official end of two wars, and the final act of a galactic
government which had been in existence for over fifteen hundred years.
Damned if he was going to show up his force by breaking protocol.
Behind him, equally uncomfortable in his own fancy uniform,
strode the First Consort of Princess Asrial, Ambassador Extraordinary
of Earth, Jeremy Feeple. The young human hated these fancy ceremonies
and had made this clear during the planning, but the others in the
group had persuaded him that the people of the galaxy needed the huge
show so they could really believe what was happening- namely, the end
of the Zardon Empire.
Two months before, after three years of sporadic fighting
among the other worlds of the Empire, the people of Zardon itself had
risen in revolt against Emperor Garth Zard'al, Leeanna's father.
Leeanna had killed Garth herself (the standard sentence for attempted
murder of a Judge), and even though her mother the Empress Dowager and
her two younger sisters were still at large, the Empire effectively
died with Garth. Leeanna could, of course, have revived it, but she
refused both the Imperial crown and the Presidential nomination for
the Zardon Republic.
Today, she would officially sign away the existence of the
monarchy to which she was the rightful heir, and return to the cause
she'd dedicated her life to: protecting the citizens of Zardon, one
block at a time.
The ceremony, as the planning group had outlined it, would be
fairly short, with the most time devoted to assembling all the lords,
ladies, generals, and governors of the Zardon Republic, the Zardon
Empire, and the Salusian Interstellar Conglomerate, as well as all the
ambassadors to those governments, or at least as many as possible.
Justice Fargo and Ambassador Feeple would each give a short speech,
outlining the basics of the joint treaty, and then the five parties to
the treaty would sign: the Zardon Republic first, followed by the
Freespacers, then the Salusians, then the Zardon Justice Department,
and finally the Zardon Empire. As soon as the last signature was
written, the Zardon Empire would officially pass from existence, the
Zardon Civil War would be completed, and the last in a series of
Zardon-Salusian wars would be ended once and for all.
Kris drowsed through the speeches, having read both in the
planning sessions, and then perked up as Khorin rose and signed his
name both in standard and in the crabbed script of Old Zardon. Kris
quickly scrawled his own signature on the treaty parchment and handed
Jeremy the quill. Jeremy signed his name broadly and clearly, and in
turn handed the quill to Fargo, who printed his last name clearly
before handing the quill to Leeanna.
Leeanna gracefully signed her name on the document, then
quietly replaced the quill in its inkwell. Coming to attention, she
saluted the newly inaugurated President of Zardon, Khorin Dran'aal.
The assembled dignitaries applauded politely. The ceremony was
over.
The Zardon Empire was dead.
Yay, Kris thought, wishing he could stretch without ripping
his tunic apart.

The reception after the ceremony was, like any reception with
roughly two hundred guests, deafening. Royalty, politicians, and VIPs
from all sides mingled among the several buffet tables, sounding each
other out on the new order. Already deals were being cut, promises
made, debts incurred. Diplomacy, politics, trade: they didn't freeze
during war, Kris thought, and war doesn't stop during peace: they just
changed their forms.
After some idle munching of snacks and small talk with various
minor lords and ladies from Salusia, Kris drifted over towards
Leeanna. As he got closer, he noticed she was talking nervously in a
corner with Princess Asrial Arconian, Jeremy's wife and the heir to
the throne of Salusia. Kris couldn't hear through the low roar of
conversation what the two were saying, but he smiled when Asrial took
Leeanna's hands in hers and squeezed. Leeanna smiled, then hugged
Asrial hard, surprising her. Then, she whispered something in Asrial's
ear, something which made Asrial blush. Kris grinned: it took
something pretty radical to embarrass a Salusian, and he could guess
what Leeanna had said.
Go get 'em, girl, he thought.
Asrial pushed herself away from Leeanna, obviously demurring
from whatever suggestion she had whispered. Leeanna was obviously
disappointed, and as Asrial drifted off with Jeremy in one arm and
their "bodyguard" Ichikun Ichinohei following close behind, Leeanna
slumped in place, somewhat depressed.
Kris walked over to Leeanna and said, "Need some comfort?"
Leeanna shook her head. "No thanks, Redneck, I'm not in the
mood." Kris could almost hear the word _anymore_ on the end.
"Leeanna..." Kris wanted to help somehow, anyhow, however he
could. A few weeks before, against his better judgment, he'd
professed his love to her, only to be rejected. Kris knew who she
really loved- both of them- and he wished them all the best of luck.
That didn't stop him from hoping, though.
Squeezing her shoulders gently, he said, "Well, Leeanna, if
you need me, you know where to find me."
As he turned to leave, Leeanna said, "Kris? Promise me I can
always turn to you... when I need someone."
Amazing, Kris thought, how someone so deadly can be so
vulnerable... "I promise," he said softly. "My door is always open to
you, Leeanna."
Suddenly, the air rushed out of his lungs as Leeanna hugged
him tightly, and before he could recover she kissed him passionately
on the lips. When she released him, she whispered, "Remember, I'm
going to hold you to that!" As Kris gasped for breath, she walked
away, the spring back in her step.
Kris watched as the green-haired Judge sashayed off through
the crowd. Maybe, one of these centuries, he thought, I'll understand
women.
Right after I figure out the Secret of Life, whatever that is.

Ch. 12/NOW

CFA Washington, orbiting Zeta Cygni
August 21, 2388

Sunday morning brought Kris a throbbing headache, a pile of
paperwork, and depression.
Getting drunk after GENOM's official surrender ceremony with
General Rayna Tangril- the mysterious 'Alpha-one'- had solved nothing.
At best, it had only delayed the point at which he'd have to start
coping with a world without a GENOM which he could fight against with
a clear conscience. A world without a lot of his friends.
A world without Washuu.
The office on the CFA Washington seemed strangely quiet
without her presence. Of course, there was a receptionist- a new
officer now that Little Joe was flying a starfighter- but that wasn't
the same. The sense that someone was watching over the office, ready
to help at any time... the welcome distractions now and again from the
reams and reams and reams of paperwork which, now more than ever,
stared him in the face... ... Christ, Kris shuddered, I'm missing her
practical jokes. Why is this affecting me so much? She was a friend,
yeah, but I never knew how close.... and now I'll never know.
"Excuse me, Commodore," his new secretary paged him- the nasal
voice reminded him uncomfortably of an obnoxious telephone operator-
"but Colonel Ricky of the Fourth Regiment of Marines is here to see
you... along with most of the regiment..."
Kris sighed. When Daleks had something important to talk
about, they always showed up at his office in groups. "Send them in."
The door opened to admit a general-purpose Dalek, then another
and another, each filing in in orderly ranks of two. In moments the
office had been filled with a very neat, very orderly, very lethal
group of telekinetic dustbins, headed by one fellow in a battered
survival unit marked with the Freespacer flag and a small golden
eight-pointed star. Just beneath, a colorful little badge read, HI! MY
NAME IS >RICKY<! "We- have- come- to- make- a- request," Colonel Ricky
droned.
"Make it, then," Kris snapped.
"We- have- lost- very- many- Dalek- brothers- in- the-
battles- against- GENOM," Colonel Ricky's monotone synthesized voice
razzed. "The- MASS- Six-teen- Pepper-pots- the- en-gin-eers- of- many-
Free-spacer- ships- not- a- few- of- our- regiment- all- lost- in-
the- struggle."
"I know this," Kris nodded. "We all lost a bunch of people."
"We- wish- leave- to- organize- and- attend- a- special-
ceremony- at- Wil-der-ness- Station," Colonel Ricky continued. "We-
wish- to- commemorate-"
One of the other Daleks, Lieutenant Oswald according to his
rank and name tag, echoed the word, "COM-MEM-OR-ATE!!"
Three other Daleks took up the chant. "COM-MEM-OR-ATE!"
In instants the office echoed with the sound of twenty or so
vocorders razzing, "COM-MEM-OR-ATE!" in their distorted tenor buzz.
Kris grit his teeth for a few minutes, hoping the mania would pass of
its own accord; when it didn't, he leaned over his desk and fetched
Colonel Ricky's survival unit a strong rap to the lid.
The chanting ceased, and a few of the Daleks lowered their
emitters and trundled in place, looking sheepish. "Thanks," Colonel
Ricky buzzed, "we- needed- that."
"Look," Kris sighed, "file a form with Commodore Vorkosigan,
set a date, we'll work around it, and you can comm... -remember- your
comrades as loudly as you want. Right now...." He leaned forward and
gave the colonel a stern look. "I. Have. A. Hangover. Go. Away."
"Our- apologies- Com-mo-dore," Colonel Ricky buzzed. "Thank-
you- for- your- time." With that, just as orderly as before, with a
handful playing the theme march to 'Hogan's Heroes' on their vocoders,
the Dalek platoon trundled out, leaving Kris to slump back in his
chair and wonder what would happen if he just went back to bed again.
Shaking his head, he began thumbing through the huge pile of
paperwork, dividing them up into the usual stacks: Sign and Forget,
Too Late to Sign, and Actual Work. The Too-Late pile took up a huge
chunk of the paperwork, which consisted of automated approvals for
supplies, salaries, etc. for ships which had been destroyed over a
week ago. The Sign and Forget, consisting mostly of pensions for the
bereaved, passed quickly enough as well.
This left him with five pieces of text to answer personally,
or which were not documents of the signing type. The first he'd known
was coming.

W E D G E D E F E N S E F O R C E

WDF NAVY STRATEGIC FLEET
[WDF NAVY LOGO HERE] OFFICE OF THE C IN C
WDF CONCORDIA, CVS-65
ADM. B.D. HUTCHINS, CMDG.

COMMODORE KRISTAN O. OVERSTREET, CMDG.
CONFEDERATE FREESPACERS MERCENARY FLEET

AUGUST 21, 2388 SC

Commodore Overstreet:

I wish to apologize for the ill-considered comments I made during our
strategy meeting on August 15. In an attempt to inject what I felt
was a much-needed element of levity into a difficult situation, I made
comments which were insensitive and uncalled-for. An incomplete
understanding of the circumstances is no excuse, as I had complete
reports of the events at Wilderness Station at my disposal, but had
failed to read them thoroughly.

I hope that this incident can be forgiven and forgotten, and that it
will not damage the long and amicable relationship between ourselves,
our offices, and our respective forces in the future.

Yours,

[scribble]

Adm. B.D. Hutchins

Handwritten underneath was the postscript:

PS - I'm really sorry, Kris. I fucked up. Sometimes I'm just an
asshole.

Kris wrote out a quick reply:

CFMF OFFICE OF THE CINC
CFA WASHINGTON CFA-1028 O-10 KRISTAN O. OVERSTREET cmdg

Adml. Benjamin Hutchins
CINC WDF STRATFLEET
WDF CONCORDIA CVS-65

Ben,

Thanks for the apology. Allow me to apologize as well for
placing you in a situation in which you could not have helped
but be made uncomfortable. Before the events at Wilderness
Station, the concept of 'unnecessary risk' was one which I
could at least smile at. Now, with my command destroyed- and
despite the apparent facts I cannot help but feel somewhat
responsible for those events- I find it very difficult to
smile at anything, especially the concept of a Freespacer
tradition of needless risk. If there is such a tradition, then
we paid for centuries of good fortune at Wilderness Station.

I apologize for the disjointed nature of this note, I'm
feeling vaguely Zonerish and find myself wondering what the
hell I plan on doing now. The formal investigation- if Sleik
will give in and let it happen- should clear me, but I'm no
longer certain that I want this job anymore. I do know I'm not
fit for combat duty. Not until I get my head back on straight.

Aw, hell, I'm laying stuff on you I shouldn't.

Thanks for the note.

Kris signed the letter and dropped it into the Send box, then
turned to the next item. This one was a bit more straightforward, in
reply to a question he'd asked in passing during the surrender
ceremony; yes, he was more than welcome to recommend people in his
command for Eternal Knighthood, although it would be up to the WDF to
accept or refuse his recommendations.
Taking a blank piece of paper, he nibbled at the end of his
pen before setting names to paper.

Cpt. Aya Nakajima, late cmdg CFMF Defiant (CFF-45)
Cmdr. Homare Nakajima, late 1st officer CFMF Defiant
Lt. Cmdr. Shran, late Chief Engineering CFMF Defiant
Lt. Cmdr. Irving Shwarz, late Chief Weapons CFMF Defiant
Lt. T'Pall, late Chief Science CFMF Defiant
Lt. Claire Lemno , late Chief Comm CFMF Defiant

The Right Honorable Powerglide, Cybertronean Ambassador to
CFA, Captain 1st Autobot Air Cav, cmdr pro tem MASS-02
Cavalier
Lt. Cmdr. James Joseph Condorcet XIX, MASS-01 Rebel
Commodore Tark Greyelf (retired), pro tem MASS-01 Rebel
Captain Mesha Greyelf (retired), pro tem MASS-01 Rebel
Ens. James Joseph Condorcet XX, pro tem MASS-02 Cavalier
Lt. Theresa Curtiss, pro tem MASS-02 Cavalier
Lt. Kevin Cass, MASS-01 Rebel
Ens. ......

Kris pushed the paper aside, unfinished. For each name he put
on the list, there were a hundred who -belonged- on the list, except
for the little fact that they were dead. The little niggling fact.
His hand involuntarily crumpled the paper on which the handful
of names were written. Carefully he smoothed it back open, laying it
farther aside, out of his easy reach. On a separate piece of paper, he
noted a recommendation to the Legate to approve several awards-
campaign ribbons for Wilderness and Zeta Cygni, and a combined ribbon
for those who fought both (for the living), a special medal for
courage (for the deceased) and a separate ribbon for the Support
Fleet's action during the AT&T assault.
Next item. Request for information on how soon the reserve
elements currently staffing WDF ships could be allowed to stand down.
Response; when the WDF could afford to stand them down. With the
starfleets of virtually every power within the Federation wiped out,
the WDF could not afford to lose that many ships from its emergency
strength. For now, everyone had to do their duty, please be patient,
signed the commander.
Next document. Sleik refused to call an investigation or
court-martial, regarding the reports of the commanding officers
surviving Wilderness as the final word on what happened there. Kris
penned in a reply; dammit, I need to know, call the damn court
martial.
Finally, the last item- a piece of paper torn from a yellow
legal pad.

August 11, 2388

Kris- go to the Lab NOW.
THIS CANNOT WAIT.

Washuu

Kris read the page three times slowly, hands trembling as he
did so. He hadn't even thought about it, but the Lab door still stood
in the same spot as usual, directly across from his office. Why hadn't
it vanished along with its mistress?
"Ensign, I'm stepping out for a while," Kris said to the
receptionist. "Hold all calls."

The lab seemed to echo with Washuu gone. Kris felt the door
close and vanish behind him, crab chime clattering loudly in the
silence. The normal background hum of unidentifiable heavy machinery
and engines seemed muted, and the bright light and light colors of the
lab's immense foyer emphasized the absence of the cheerful, perky
little woman who had been its master.
Kris noted, with mild surprise, that Washuu's favorite
workstation, the levitating plush cushion by the front door, had been
left active. At twenty meters, he could see the screen on the
holographic terminal easily; of all the icons and windows and what-all
normally displayed, only two icons remained. Seating himself carefully
on the cushion, he read the icon names: CONFESS.TXT and PLAYME.VRC.
Leaving the text file for the moment, he typed in a couple of
commands, and the videofile began playing.
A hologram of Washuu from the trunk up appeared in front of
Kris. Her eyes were slightly red from crying, and her face spoke of
incredible pain, held back only with an effort. "Hello, Kris," the
hologram said very quietly. "If you're viewing this, I didn't return
from the battle. That's probably for the best. I couldn't bear to go
on knowing I'd never be able to tell you how I really loved you... and
know you really loved me back." The last came out as a strangled
croak, and for the first time in his life, Kris saw Washuu crying.
Washuu crying seemed to Kris roughly as normal as a foot of
snow in a live volcano caldera. Kris watched anyway as the fit ran its
course, not doubting the truth for a moment... and hating himself more
with every moment. Then, the recording flickered, and Washuu
reappeared calmer, more composed, and capable of speech again.
"Sorry about that," she smiled wanly. Her smile vanished as
she continued, "Anyway, I have a lot you ought to know, that I never
told you. The most important thing is, I've loved you almost since I
met you." Kris watched numbly, still absorbing that one fact, as she
said, "I waited for you to realize you loved me back, sometimes it
looked like we were getting close... but some things aren't meant to
be, are they?" she finished, covering another incipient crying fit
with a smile.
"Anyway..." she choked, then coughed. Taking two deep breaths,
she said, "Ahem. I've prepared a text file of most of the rest of the
things I wanted to tell you, you can access them from this terminal.
For the next two weeks from the activation of this message, the lab is
yours. Settle my affairs as you see fit..." Washuu paused to allow the
statement to sink in, and Kris struggled to catch up as she resumed,
"...but I have set the lab to begin dismantling itself after two
weeks, unless I return. You have that long to grab whatever you think
the galaxy is ready for and get out.
"Don't worry about the kingyoichi," she said reassuringly, "or
any of the other critters. They'll be transported to Gina's lab
automatically for her to settle someplace safe." Her face lit up with
a sudden thought, and she said, "Oh, and find someplace for Zathras...
he's been cleaning out the menageries since Hoover was President of
the United States, he doesn't have anyplace to go."
Zathras? Kris asked. Only once or twice had Washuu ever
mentioned her lab assistant, and he'd never even seen him. the
recording didn't stop for him to consider the point. "My official
will, for the stuff the galaxy knows I own, is on file, with Gina as
executor. Basically, everything's been left to you and Terri,
jointly." The tears began trickling down her face again as she
whispered, "Please be happy together... and remember... I- I-" For a
moment, Washuu opened and closed her mouth, incapable of sound, but
Kris could read lips well enough: _I love you._ Finally, Washuu
managed to restore her composure enough to say, "Question everything."
Then, the hologram faded, replaced by the crab-emblem
WASHUU.COM EOF message.
Kris stared at the message for a long, long moment. Then,
hands shaking, he reactivated the recording and brought up the
fast-forward and rewind scan functions, and he listened as Washuu spoke
again.
"I waited for you to realize you loved me back, sometimes it
looked like we were getting close... but some things aren't meant to
be, are they?"
Rewind. Play.
"...but some things aren't meant to be, are they?"
Rewind. Play.
"...but some things aren't meant to be, are they?"
Kris deactivated the playback. Shaking, he stood up and turned
away from the terminal, still hearing the voice echoing in his ears.
But some things aren't meant to be, are they?
Roaring with rage, Kris brought up his hands and fed all his
anger, regret, guilt and grief into one titanic burst of energy. The
beam glowed brighter and hotter than a star, cutting through the walls
of the lab's rooms before vanishing into the indefinite edges of the
lab's pocket universe.
Finally, energy totally spent, Kris sagged back onto the
cushion. For a moment, exhaustion flowed through him; then, all the
negative emotions he'd been feeling a moment before dropped right back
into place, if anything stronger than ever for having destroyed a part
of the lab.
I think, Kris thought, I'm going to cry.
In fact, I think I am crying.
I think I am a fool.

Yes, that seems most likely.
I am a fool.

"Excuse, please..."
Kris's mind opened just enough to admit the scratchy sound of
someone's voice. "What the hell do you want?" he sobbed.
"Zathras is sorry to disturb you..." The voice rattled around
the room like dried beans in a gourd, tickling Kris' ear with a
mixture of deep resonances and rasping edges. "...but there is a great
hole through much of the Lab, and Zathras would like to know why this
is."
Kris looked up to see a half-furred humanoid face. Mongrel was
the first word that came to mind, with scruffy being a close second;
the creature's hair bristled wildly around his face, running down to
long shaggy brown sideburns. A thick ring of brown fur surrounded his
neck as well; Kris couldn't quite tell if it was the collar of some
heavy coat or actually part of his body. He moved with a shambling
gait, somewhere between a duck-waddle and a hunchback's foot-dragging
lurch. The loud threadbare waistcoat and ratty trousers finished off
an ensemble Kris hadn't seen the like of since the last time he'd
visited the bad parts of Funkotron.
"Y-You're Zathras?" he said, trying to clear his eyes of the
tears gathered up inside.
"Of course Zathras is Zathras," the creature said , perplexed.
"Why would Zathras refer to Zathras as Zathras if Zathras were not
Zathras? Maybe in next life Zathras will be reborn as Quevas Emperor
of Santovasku, but Zathras does not think it very likely."
Kris blinked his eyes again; somehow, it didn't seem like the
view he had was getting any better. "You're Washuu's lab assistant?"
Zathras nodded and smiled. "Yes. Yes. Zathras is lab
assistant. Zathras had promising career as, hm," the strange man
clicked and tsk'd loudly as he searched for a word, "as college
student... then Great Professor Washuu says to Zathras, she says,
Zathras, I need a lab assistant, would you like the job? Zathras does
not turn down an easy job, so Zathras says yes. Then Zathras learn job
is not so easy. But with Zathras things have never been easy."
The creature looked around, half-sniffling, half-squinting.
"Have you seen Great Professor Washuu?" he added. "Zathras has
finished cleaning the menagerie and is ready for a new assignment..."
Kris broke down again, dropping his head into his hands and
bawling.
Zathras looked down at Kris and laid a gentle hand on his
shoulder. "Zathras knows Zathras is not handsome, but
did not think Zathras was capable of driving grown man to tears."

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