Story

In the final war on Earth, two sides struggled against each other in a desperate, climactic battle far above the planet. One side, realizing defeat was near, detonated a prototype superweapon planetside.

Earth was consumed entirely by the mysterious weapon, leaving no trace behind.

The weary survivors, victors only in a hollow sense, set forth in their military vessels to the nearest habitable system. On their backs rested the burden to rebuild human civilization from a small colony on a hostile planet named Neo Terra.

550 years later, another major war, the Nova War would besiege humanity. In a disturbing parallel to the Origin War, the superweapon that destroyed Earth would be pieced together from the ashes of history, in a secret project codenamed Eternal Silence.

Prologue A
Diaz sighed. After hours of manning an ion battery aboard the Vice, his arms tensed reluctantly at every movement. His ship had been engaged in combat for the last fourteen hours.

"Attention crewmen: We will be entering a hotzone in ten minutes. Be on the lookout for enemy swarmers."

It was always the same message. At first, the fighting was very heavy and violent. It had slowly tapered off during the past six hours, leading Diaz to believe that the battle was going well. He snapped out of his daze as the comm addressed him.

"Starboard 4 ready" he chimed in, after the seven other gunners.

He could feel his head spinning, but then quickly realized that it was actually the ship making a full turn. Earth came into view, reminding the young soldier of everything that was backing him. After a bit of searching, Diaz stared at his hometown. The small speckle of lights near a gulf on the North American continent seemed indifferent to the battle that had been raging on that day. Diaz knew differently, though, and could feel the pride of his family flowing from his home town. Strength returned to his arms.

"Diaz, you there?" erupted a voice into the silence.

"Yeah, I'm here," replied Diaz, trying not to sound exhausted, into his personal communicator.

"It's me, Roberts," said the voice on the other end.

"I know. You're the only one who ever bothers me on this thing. Should you really be making personal calls when we're about to enter a hotzone?"

"I don't think command will mind. We're their lucky number 7!" replied Roberts, perhaps too loudly.

Diaz reflected for a moment. After fourteen hours of battle, the Vice had not suffered a single blow. Indeed, it had seemed that their call number, 7, had been lucky. He went to reply, but noticed that Roberts had turned off his communicator. He smirked at the thought of his friend yet again being yelled at by a commanding officer.

His seat shuddered underneath him as the Vice rocketed to its rendezvous point. Before he knew it, enemy fighters were swarming past the ship. Letting out reluctant creaks and groans, the turret machinery followed his movements, letting out blasts of energy at every pull of the trigger. The ship lurched as it was hit again and again by enemy fire, a feeling that had been unfamiliar up until now. Had the other ships not arrived? Something was not right.

Diaz started to panic. Gunning down enemy fighters with increased fervor, the ensign felt a surge of victory as an orb of energy smashed into the tail end of one of his adversaries. The ship silently roared through the void to its doom, leaving a short trail of flames as it lost its oxygen supply. Suddenly, Diaz felt the desperate, malicious, final intent of the pilot. Still trailing fire and smoke, the fighter took a sharp right turn, aiming straight for the fourth Starboard battery. Diaz turned his seat around and jumped out. It seemed he could almost feel the heat of the suicidal enemy's ship on his back. He stumbled in the short hallway leading to the rest of the ship, jamming his shoulder into the wall and grimacing in pain. Bursting through the door, he turned around and kicked it shut. A small click was followed by an impact that threw Diaz into the wall behind him. Everything faded away.

"Come on, buddy, wake up," said Roberts, lightly hitting Diaz's cheek with the back of his hand.

"W...Where am I?" asked Diaz.

Before his friend could answer, Diaz sat up and observed his surroundings. He was on the bridge, seemingly along with half of the crew. Frustrated officers pounded their fists on viewscreens. Shouts of obscenities told Diaz that frustrations were running high and something was horribly wrong. The main viewscreen displayed Earth, showing that the Vice's position had been stalled facing its home planet.

"I dragged you up from the lower starboard walkway. It looks like our ship has been hijacked electronically somehow," answered Roberts before his confused friend could ask.

"Electronically hijacked?" asked a confused Diaz, not really expecting an answer. A dark, ominous feeling grew in the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly a large, energy-based, fizzling sound shuddered through the ship as the shields gave the last of their energy.

"They're attacking!" shouted a crewman.

The whole bridge rocked from side to side as the Vice was pelted with fire. In a plight of inaction, the crew could do nothing to help the situation. An explosion rocked the ship, and the view of Earth moved to the right. The two soldiers braced themselves against the wall. A large, slow-flying missile harmlessly past, destined to burn up in Earth's atmosphere. It seemed that the ship had nearly been hit. Recalling enemy tactics, Diaz remembered that those types of missiles were always used in pairs. Before the soldier could realize the implications of this thought, an explosive wave of energy swept through the bridge. The Vice had seen its last battle.

Chapter I: Everett

 * To: 8915::starsend::


 * Sender: JSheldon::UTFhc::


 * Mr. Nadel,
 * Greetings, old friend. It seems you have finally overstretched your resources, allowing the officials of the law to catch up with you. I suppose it was just a matter of time. Sabotaging that research station caught too much attention, did it not? Even though it was considered so heinous a crime that any prison on Earth was too good for you, I have pulled a few favors in order to keep this line of contact open.
 * More to the point, I believe you have some information I want. In fact, I would say that you have two major pieces of intel that I desire. Given our tattered relationship, I do not expect you to simply hand them over. In an effort to maintain some courtesy and formality, I will address only one subject, the less sore of the two.
 * This Atlantis project of yours has struck my interests, especially its tragic end. I only have the barest of details, so I encourage you, former partner, to enlighten me in its purpose. And please, remember, the same contacts who arranged this line of communication can do much to sway the parole hearings.
 * More to the point, I believe you have some information I want. In fact, I would say that you have two major pieces of intel that I desire. Given our tattered relationship, I do not expect you to simply hand them over. In an effort to maintain some courtesy and formality, I will address only one subject, the less sore of the two.
 * This Atlantis project of yours has struck my interests, especially its tragic end. I only have the barest of details, so I encourage you, former partner, to enlighten me in its purpose. And please, remember, the same contacts who arranged this line of communication can do much to sway the parole hearings.
 * This Atlantis project of yours has struck my interests, especially its tragic end. I only have the barest of details, so I encourage you, former partner, to enlighten me in its purpose. And please, remember, the same contacts who arranged this line of communication can do much to sway the parole hearings.
 * This Atlantis project of yours has struck my interests, especially its tragic end. I only have the barest of details, so I encourage you, former partner, to enlighten me in its purpose. And please, remember, the same contacts who arranged this line of communication can do much to sway the parole hearings.


 * Formally yours,
 * General James Sheldon

Each finger landed rhythmically after the last, letting out a series of hollow taps. Gunther looked down to his right. A post-middle-aged man sat in a padded chair, overlooking a team of specialists and scientists who had earned officer ranks. His hair was white with a few, faint streaks of black remaining from younger, brighter years. He slumped to the side in his chair just as his career had in recent years. On the contoured arm of the captain char, his hand rhythmically serenaded the plastic molding at a rate which seemed to contradict his composition. Captain Parks did this when he was nervous.

Each tap delved deeper into Gunther's patience, forcing him to slightly shift his stance.

"Sir, we are flying towards a dangerous situation. I assure you that much," said Gunther, moving on from the subtle hints he had been dropping for the past hour.

"Be patient, young man," replied the captain. Young man. Gunther had turned thirty-four last week. His face tightened.

Gunther caught a quick glance from the communications officer, who then looked back at his screen, as though he could help the situation.

An uneasy silence crept over the bridge as Gunther's comment shot through the officers. He noticed that most were not looking at their screens, but rather farther past them. In their heads, they imagined a fleet of militia bombers raining down on the Everett, turning it into a hollowed space furnace. Gunther had the instinct for commanding-- the instinct his officers knew to follow. Captain Parks, however, only had foolishness and empty desires.

Gunther felt the bridge caving in on him. He was trapped. He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to escape- to change his situation. Impatience had finally overcome him; now was his time to act.

The debilitated mining docks remained in sight on the main viewscreen. Fragments of scrap metal lazily drifted in space around them, as if underlings to their equally inactive masters.

A few of the officers would look at the docks for a second or two, but then turn their attention back to their own station. Anxiety filled the air. Gunther inhaled deeply.

Parks must have sensed the uneasiness, as he began to speak, "These docks have been abandoned for decades. They completely mined this area out. The only threat to us would be large enough to be seen. There's nobody out here."

"Sir, it's not their strength I'm worried about. It's our weakness. We're cut off from the main force and any hope of reinforcements, and our fighter squadron is tied up in the repair bays," Gunther strengthened his voice, "Sir, we're vulnerable."

There was more to his request than that, though. He had read the reports of ship boardings throughout the Cerbera Minor system. Militia tactics echoed through his head, informing him of the opportunity they now had. The Everett, after all, would make a grand addition to the militia's growing fleet. He regretted his lack of time to act-- the bureaucracy that his actions required.

Suddenly, an officer quickly stiffened at his station, "Three corvettes!" He stuttered slightly, "Three militia corvettes!"

Damn. While it was a small task for a normal UTF Destroyer, Gunther knew this was different. This particular destroyer had the honor of hosting the venerable Thomas Parks as the commander.

Parks opened his mouth slightly, as if in disbelief. Gunther's eyes narrowed as he used all the energy in his being to keep quiet. Put up the shields.

"Get me a visual," said Parks. Stumbling with the buttons, the officer complied.

A visual would do them no good if they were dead in space without shields. Precious seconds had been wasted. Surely enough, a bone-wrenching vibration shuddered through the ship's bridge. Gunther noted that the attackers had executed the plan well, but were sloppy in the timing of it. If it had been a competent UTF commander, the shields would have been up long ago. Tightening his fists, Gunther readied himself to change the situation.

"We've lost shields!" shouted the weaponry officer.

"Execute escape pattern beta," commanded Parks.

"Belay that order," Gunther said, with an undeniable certainty in his voice.

Running would only get them killed.

As though he had suddenly slammed on the brakes of an auto on a crowded highway, every crewman on the bridge looked at the second-in-command in awe. Any acts of insurrection were treated very harshly according to the laws. This particular act could warrant long-term imprisonment.

"Roll towards port," commanded Gunther.

Confused, the pilot glanced between Gunther and the captain.

"Do it now!" shouted Gunther, forcing the officer to comply quickly.

The mining dock on the viewscreen slowly rotated out of view as the large ship grudgingly followed the maneuver. Gunther felt a small grin form on his face as he imagined the corvette pilot speeding towards the hangar, only to have the target move out of the way with little time to react. After a slight jolt, a damaged corvette followed by a trail of hull debris soared onto the main viewscreen.

"Fire."

Without regret, the rail guns ripped into the smaller ship, followed by a vibrant explosion.

"Reroute shield power to the defense cannons," said Gunther.

"Stop this mockery now!" shouted Parks, whose pale face had now turned a deep red. Gunther could not tell if it was anger or embarrassment that had caused the rosy complexion. The older man's hands were shaking as he tried to regain control of the situation.

"Sir, I-," Gunther was cut off.

"Guards, apprehend this man now," said Parks, looking to the back of the bridge.

Gunther quietly looked behind him. Two men, dressed in full UTF body armor, sans helmets, looked at each other in confusion. After a glare from the commander, they reluctantly stepped forward.

"Sir," said the first, with a degree of uncertainty, "Please come with us."

Silence once again overtook the bridge. The unspoken conflict that had existed so long between the two top commanding officers was finally coming to fruition. Officers were not torn between commander and underling, but rather with the underling and the command system that had dominated their way of life. Indeed, whispers heard frequently in the ship quarters always agreed with the second-in-command, or had at least disagreed with the aging captain.

Fists tightening, Gunther prepared himself to answer. Now was not the time to make a scene. Too much was at stake; his crew's lives depended upon his next action.

"Of course," he calmly muttered, with a false smile and curt nod towards the captain.

He solemnly passed countless shocked faces on his walk out of the bridge. He quietly hoped that their looks were based in admiration; he quietly dreaded they were based in pity.

Once out of the bridge, he dropped his fasade of passiveness. His mind focused only on the path that lay before him. He had to save his ship. He had to save his crew.

"Your gun, private," he said calmly to the closest guard, as though it were not an outrageous request.

With a baffled look, the guard handed it to his commanding officer without question. He began to speak, but Gunther cut him off.

"I know. We'll save the rest of my arrest for later." He thought he saw a small smirk of relief appear on the guard's face. "Right now, we have to take care of the boarding crew."

"Boarding crew?" asked the two guards, nearly in unison.

Gunther knew, without needing any viewscreens, what the two remaining corvettes were planning. He knew that one would have only a pilot, serving as a distraction for the corvette full of NGM soldiers. As the Everett fruitlessly fired at the empty corvette, the boarding party would slip in unnoticed. They were trained not to set off alarms in the process. A tremor crawled up Gunther's spine as he imagined militia boots landing on his ship.

"There's no time to explain," said Gunther, as he turned and walked briskly down the hall. The two guards deftly followed.

"You," Gunther motioned at the unarmed guard without breaking pace, "Go tell Fire Team Alpha to deploy to engineering, and then move towards the docking point."

He regretted the fact that officers depended upon the equipment on the bridge for intraship communications. Their response time would be cut in half because he had no short-range comms device.

Well-lit hallways and corridors flew by the second-in-command as he rushed to the portside barracks. He could hear the guard keeping an even pace behind him. What was he thinking about as he rushed through the ship with his insubordinate superior? Surely, he felt torn between his two commanders. Did he stay because he genuinely felt that Gunther could save the ship? Gunther wondered if the guard would have followed him if he had been given the order in front of Commander Parks.

Hastily rounding a corner, Gunther was surprised to see a corridor filled with soldiers. For a fraction of a second, the most doubtful parts of his mind filled with alarm. Militia soldiers here? No- Friendly UTF soldiers. Moreover, it seemed they had been waiting for him. The answer clicked. Starboard barracks had been warned by the guard that he had dispatched. Portside was just a comm signal away at that point. Gunther would have to learn the name of that guard and commend him on his performance. He had understood what Gunther had intended to do and carried it out well past his given orders. Of course, commendations would come only after Gunther survived- not just this battle, but Parks' inevitable legal retaliation. Trying not to outwardly show distress at these thoughts, Gunther addressed the Fire Team Beta leader.

"Sir."

"Your comm, please," requested Gunther.

"Yes, sir," replied the soldier, handing over a communicator.

Tied to the communicator was a large amount of relief; and Gunther took possession of both. Communication's importance at a time like this was not to be understated.

"Fire Team Alpha," said Gunther, not bothering to identify himself to the man on the other end of the comm, "sweep back towards Engineering and attempt to secure the docking entrance from the rear of the ship."

Surely, the infiltrators were already past the docking point. Which way they had planned to go, however, was always a mystery. Trapping them in the smallest area possible would be best, although with the current delays Gunther expected the enemy to capture Engineering.

Answering Gunther's unstated concern, the soldier replied through the comm, "Engineering is secured, sir, we're making way to the docking entrance."

Their responsiveness was utterly surprising. After standing on the bridge for so many years, the reluctant responses and long travel times of spacecraft had become the norm. Had he lost touch of what inner ship battles were like? Regardless, it was certainly a shame that Parks was going to let this disciplined defense force go to waste.

"Let's head out," said Gunther, pressing his rifle against his shoulder.

Leading a team in a command uniform was completely unorthodox, but it would be a small offense in the eyes of a judge. UTF command never seemed to worry about enforcing personal safety.

Every corner presented a new, possible danger. It was like Russian Roulette, thought Gunther. Eventually, the bullet would find its way to the firing chamber.

It did. At a T-shaped intersection, Gunther caught something out of the corner of his eye. Steadying his weapon, he turned and prepared to fire. Gunther paused. Before he could count, he knew there were seven of them. Before he could time it, he knew that he had less than a breath to avoid fire. Before he commanded his muscles to move, he had ducked and rolled to the opposite corner, separated from his team by a stream of hot, airborne lead.

His body was tense and strong, but still allowed for a calm hand. His breathing was as steady as his concentration, which calculated the path for his body to follow. He could hear his slow, strong heart pumping strength and warmth to the rest of his body in powerful, controlled bursts.

In the face of an insurmountable danger, his battle instincts had come back to him. Or had they always been there, and he had simply gone back to them? He could not tell.

Against the deafening sound of the opposing squad's oppressive fire, he focused. Looking to his left, he saw expressions of confusion and surprise among his squad. He held his hand up, motioning for them to wait. The front soldier's expression narrowed into one of understanding.

All at once, the melodic roar of the guns died down. The battle dove suddenly dove into an eerie silence. Both teams waited in an uneasy anxiety of the next stage of the battle.

A few dozen wasted bullets lay on the ground between Gunther and his squad. Above the bullets existed a space which no sane man would dare enter while wearing UTF colors. There had to be a way to get some men across, turning Gunther from a useless single soldier into a tactically viable half-squad.

He listened for it. No untrained ear could have possibly heard it. In fact, he was sure that none of his squad heard it. But there it was, in the distance, almost infinitely faint. A militia soldier, perhaps poorly trained, perhaps just careless, let out a barely audible click when switching out his magazine. Now was the time. Gunther quickly motioned for three men to cross the gap upon his action.

Without wasting a moment, he dove into the corridor intersection, facing the enemy squad in a prone position. He ignored the pain from his shoulder, which had beared the weight of his roll earlier, and his abdomen, which was being bluntly bruised by the warm lumps of lead which lay underneath him. He immediately opened fire, taking aim at nothing in particular. After he felt three distinct motions in the air above him, he rolled back into his safe spot. Relief, thankfully not pain, shot through him.

To his right stood the three soldiers that had previously been on the other side of the contested point. To his left, the other part of the squad, larger but less organized, waited for orders.

As he contemplated his next move, he heard the familiar explosions of UTF grenades rock the enemy's position. The other squad had come through.

"Fall back!" he shouted to the disjointed portion of his squad.

"Follow me." he said to the three wary soldiers who had crossed the gap, as he ran to the next hallway over.

A militia soldier dragged a comrade who had been injured as he ran away from the shouts and explosions of the UTF force chasing him. He was followed by an array of disheartened soldiers, aiming to defend their backs. After a suspicious lull in pace, they looked backward to see Gunther, a uniformed officer, aiming at their leader.

"Halt."

A rash of heroism flared in the leader's expression, but was flooded out as he remembered the situation. He looked down at his comrade's freely bleeding wound with regret. After he threw down his gun, his squad followed suit. A mass of UTF colors, weapons drawn, filled the other side of the hallway.

The Everett would be okay.

Ten men stiffly entered into the room from a hidden back area, filing into the positions in which they had sat for the past four days. None of them made eye contact with Gunther. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his head on his hand, waiting for his fate.

"We, the jury, in the case of Parks vs. Gunther, find the defendant, William Gunther," the lead juror paused to swallow, "guilty, in all counts."

The word came quietly, but nonetheless as heavy as a shout. Gunther straightened his posture and awaited his sentence of punishment from the judge. Saving a destroyer, capturing an enemy corvette, and avoiding UTF loss of life? Surely, there'd be no punishment for that. The real crime here was the undeniable aggravated assault in the first degree of a UTF-brand ego. Or perhaps, even murder, since it was done in front of so many spectators.

Glancing to his right, he saw Captain Thomas Parks smiling smugly and shaking the hands of his team of lawyers.

No, it wasn't murder.

Gunther waded through the crowd outside the Neo Terran courtroom. He had chosen to waive his right to a lawyer, so now he was without a protector from the swarm of carrion reporters.

"Please, I would like some privacy in the lift," he announced to the crowd of interrogators as he reached the end of the corridor, summoning the turbolift.

He turned around as the door opened, to see a tall, stout figure waiting for him. Privacy was not to be granted on this ride.

Stepping in with a curt nod, he addressed the man, "Evening, Father. I see you decided to make an appearance after all."

"Well," Father paused slightly, "I didn't think my presence would be needed in the courtroom. After all, you didn't need a lawyer, did you?"

"Would he have been able to intercept all of the bribes that those jurors had received?" asked Gunther, wavering slightly when the turbolift jumped into motion.

The gentle hum of the lift continued while their conversation lulled.

With a hefty sigh, Father started, "Son, I'll admit that it's not a level playing field. You could have at least tried."

"Tried? For what?" exasperation entered Gunther's voice, "To serve with that fool for another decade, before he finally lost the battle against senility?"

Father looked at his boots.

"The corruption that's tying up our whole chain of command is losing this war." Gunther swallowed, "I can't make a difference in that chain of command. They want to demote me? Just fine. I'll make a difference as a flight squadron leader."

"Son, you--" Father hesitated, "You're right. Not about losing the war, but about everything else."

"What?" Gunther turned his head, "You agree?"

"I've been doing this longer than you, you know. By your age, I had your mother. I had stability. I couldn't possibly step outside the system of command. It was just as corrupt in my time as it is now. Every day I thought of leaving, of refusing orders. If doing that makes you happy, then it makes me happy." Father attempted a genuine smile, but was perhaps held back by the mention of his deceased wife.

The lift jarred slightly as it reached the top of the courtroom building. Gunther pressed a button to keep the door closed.

"Thanks, I'm just happy to be removed from that situation," he said. "Anyway, I've got to get back to the Everett. They've finished up the repairs."

"They stationed you back on the Everett?" asked Father, not trying to hide his surprise.

"Judge Shancy decided that my crew's loyalty was better used that way. I guess it was his way of somewhat acknowledging the outstanding heroism in my acts."

Father chuckled, then replied, "Son, don't let it go to your head too much."

Gunther smiled, then added "Maybe it will help counter the G-force, now that I'm a pilot."

He hit the button to open the door, causing a rush of chilled, fresh air to flow into the lift.

Stepping out, he asked, "Going down?"

"Of course," replied Father, with a stern look of admiration in his eyes.

The two men struck a salute and the door closed between them.

Gunther sat uneasily between the two broad side windows in the small shuttle. To his right, the metropolis-ridden Neo Terra filled the view. To his left, a blanket of stars served as a backdrop to the UTF's fleet of warships. Trying to escape a sudden feeling of vertigo, he moved to the leftmost seat to get a better view of the space around him.

As if his move had caused it, the ships jumped to life in unison. After silently moving into formation, they hung in the dead vacuum of space for just a moment. A bright expenditure of light signaled the firing of their engines, and they disappeared towards a single star, a small constituent of a constellation he remembered from his younger years. Gunther's diaphragm tightened as he calculated which system it could be.

"Aethra," he said quietly to himself.

He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and waited for the shuttle to dock.

Chapter II: Aethra

 * To: JSheldon::UTFhc::


 * Sender: 8915::starshare::


 * Mr. General,


 * The information to which you refer is mine and mine alone. Parole is an impossibility, even with a man of your influence backing it.


 * StarShare is the property of no single nation of Earth. It is outside your realm of control. Do not, for one second, believe I would fall for such a silly pretense.


 * Aside from that point, I believe helping you would not be in my best interest. Or, for that matter-- the best interest of humanity.


 * Candidly yours,
 * Lionus Nadel

A lunch tray met the table with a commotion of sharp, metallic annoyance. Jeffrey Russell looked to his right, just as his friend sat down. Erik gave a slight glance as he settled into his seat, then another as the irritation on Russell's face registered.

"What?" asked Erik, in inflated, faked, surprise.

Russell was sometimes amazed at the genuine stupidity of his friends. No, not so much that-but rather their carefree acceptance of it.

"Is it really necessary to make so much noise?" asked Russell.

Immediately after his comment, Sal and Brian, sitting across the table, looked at each other with an assured glare. As if they had rehearsed, the trio, Erik included, broke out into a melodic clamor which shot through the cafeteria. Of course, they had rehearsed, since outbursts such as this one were not beyond the scope of their normal activities.

Here they were -- Three new graduates of Darnelli Medical School, rhythmically slamming their trays against the table like children. Their song, of course, was the school's alma mater. Russell's embarrassment faded a bit as he realized the real victim here was Darnelli.

"Okay, you've made your point."

The song quickly turned to hysterical laughter and the noise from the trays died down.

Russell let out a long sigh, trying his best to ignore the harsh stares from others in the cafeteria.

"Jeff, you can lighten up now. We're out," said Brian, who leaned back and interlocked his hands, cupping the back of his head.

Russell had been more uptight than usual lately. Perhaps the thought of finding his place in society, away from the safe shelter that school provided, terrified him.

"Actually, after that display, I'm sure there will be a public outcry on the quality of doctors coming from Darnelli. Our degrees are probably quite meaningless now," replied Russell, who loosened a bit as the rest of the cafeteria went back to business.

Sal was quick to reply.

"You know," he said matter-of-factly, "That's fine with me. If this doesn't work out, I've still got contacts in trade. You know, my grandfather was..."

"...one of the original Traders," finished Erik, in an exaggerated monotone.

"We've heard you a million times, Sal. And no, we still don't believe you," Brian added, before Sal could reply.

"Isn't anything honorable about being a Trader, anyway," said Erik.

"Nothing honorable?" asked Sal, stupefied.

Sal stood up, nearly knocking his chair over, with his six-foot-two figure looming over Erik's spot at the table. His hands moved with amazing dexterity as he grabbed the tray, leaving Erik's fork stabbing at a bare table.

Russell thought this to be strange. Had Sal been planning this? Certainly, this argument had occurred before between these two.

Determined to stick to inaction, Erik nonchalantly replied, "Well, are you going to give it back or what?"

"Give it back? How appropriate that you use that phrase," Sal shot back, a flame of pride backing his words.

"This," he said as he picked up a small plastic bowl of diced potatoes off the tray, "is not Origin."

He threw it into a trash receptacle with impressive accuracy.

"Ham? Everybody knows ham isn't Origin."

A slice of meat landed next to the trash can, sliding about a meter before it settled next to a startled woman's foot. Perhaps the potatoes were just luck.

Erik broke his plan of inaction by grabbing for the tray; a method he found particularly ineffective from a seated position. After disposing of Erik's dessert, Sal gently set the tray back in its original place.

"What? You need my spoon to throw the apple sauce?" asked Erik, looking up from his near-empty tray.

Sal sat down and wiped his hands with a napkin.

"Why would I toss that? Apples are Origin. It was the one food on your tray that you would've still been able to eat, had it not been for men like my grandfather."

"And this is the point you wasted my meal on?" asked Erik.

"My point is that you would've been living as people did 500 years ago without the Traders. Show a little respect when you speak of them."

Erik inhaled deeply, readying himself to let his anger out.

"Once again," Russell interceded, "we've attracted the attention of the whole room. Could we just eat like normal people now?"

The conversation died for several minutes, and the four men sat in silence. Russell received a few knowing glances from Brian, who shifted uncomfortably under the hostility that still hung in the air.

After satisfying his hunger, Russell surrendered his fork and checked his surroundings. The four graduates were seated in a large, dimly-lit cafeteria. To them, it was just past the middle of the day. To the transit center, however, it was a much younger version of the next day. Russell shuddered to think of how he would eventually have to settle into a different planetary day cycle. He looked down at his near-empty tray, disappointed that the cafeteria was only serving breakfast, thereby forcing him to skip a lunch and a dinner. He wondered if Vehera, his destination, held a third breakfast for him upon arrival.

Had he sat in the next cafeteria section, he would have had an excellent view of the dark side of Aethra. Russell wondered just how beautiful it looked every time he lifted his gaze to meet the six inches of impenetrable alloy which blocked his view. He thought of questioning Erik on his table choice, but then realized his friend had probably been bothered enough already.

Before their meal, they had all planned to watch the Aethran Sun peak past the shadowed, elegant curve of the planet, illuminating its subtle oceans and vast continents. It was to be their last experience together, before they said their farewells and shipped off to their respective ventures.

Remembering their agreement, Russell turned and looked towards the expansive window which overlooked the adjacent section of the cafeteria. Earlier, they had walked past it, but not with time enough to appreciate the view. A few men, women and children were now starting to gather near it.

"It's time. Let's grab a good spot," said Russell.

"Already? Dawn isn't for another 40 minutes or so," said Brian, shifting his glasses and checking his wristwatch.

Russell stood and disposed of his tray. Despite Brian's objection, the others would follow.

No light shone on the small crowd through the window, yet they all seemed dumbfounded by the sight outside. Russell's curiosity strengthened as he walked forward, through the cafeteria's central partition. Could he be missing out on some stellar phenomenon?

A woman ran towards the group to answer a shout from her husband. Russell, anxious to see the exciting sight, focused on the woman's initial reaction, as though he were getting a preview of his own. As he closed in, he noticed her face relaxed into a look of confusion. What could it possibly be? Just a few more steps and he would have his answer.

Finally, he reached a position where he could see out the window. Nothing out of the ordinary. Clusters of tiny lights dotted the planet, as though attempting to continue the star field which it blocked. It was an impressive sight, to be sure, but not the awe-inspiring sight he expected. What drove the odd cloud of emotion that surrounded the group?

Before Russell could register his next thought, the image through the window brightened in intensity and contrast. For just a moment, he registered it as the Aethran Sun peaking past the planet, triggering the natural instinct that caused his eyes to narrow harshly.

He found himself completely in darkness, staring at a planet surrounded by stars that were all too bright. Among them, he saw something new, something curious. A select few stars burned with the slightest hint of cerulean. In that dreadful moment, Russell felt his emotions fall in line with the apprehension and fear of the crowd around him.

They were not stars, but ships, their ominous formation standing opposite the planet.

A surge of murmurs pulsed through the crowd, followed by statements of fright and questions of confusion. An impossible force, composed of emotion more than bodies, propelled Russell to his left. Panic had taken only seconds to sink in, and now gripped the entire group, who were instinctually driven through the darkness, away from the danger that the window foretold.

Just as he felt himself succumbing to the wall of flailing arms and muffled shouts, the auxiliary lights switched on, bathing the room in a dull red.

Senses restored, the inhabitants of the cafeteria seemed to freeze. Whether this action was from relief of their danger or shame of their panic, Russell could not tell.

A prerecorded voice echoed the emergency procedures on the intercom overhead, but the message fell on indifferent ears.

Looking back towards the table, Jeffrey found that, of his friends, only Brian was now in his section of the cafeteria, with the other section slowly being closed off by a blast door. Sal and Erik ran forward, but chose not to chance the diminishing gap between the heavy partition and the floor. They vanished from sight as the new wall joined with the floor, emitting a low hiss as it vented pressure.

Questions raced through Russell's mind. Had there been a breach in the station's structure? Certainly, there had been no impact in the cafeteria. He wondered if the station's systems were advanced enough to cushion such a blow.

Brian slowly approached, taking in the environment in his usual, curious manner.

"What's happened?" he asked, not expecting much of an answer from his friend.

Russell provided one anyway. "There's a formation of capital ships out there. I think they're UTF."

The last word caught in his throat, as though fear willed him not to say it. Brian's pale skin softened under the odd lighting, while his short, dark hair seemed to fade into the environment behind him. This lent an odd feeling to his facial expressions, amplifying his apprehensiveness. Russell wondered if the lighting had the same effect on his dark, brown skin. Most likely, he thought, it made his expressions harder to read.

"UTF? Here? Aethra is neutral in all this," said Brian, with the last statement directed inward, drifting off into another thoughtful silence.

Russell noticed their conversation was not unique among the crowd. Hushed tones shot theories back and forth, concerns passing from group to group, amplifying in measure every time they were overheard. Russell hoped something, or someone, would intervene.

Someone did. A short man with a slightly round body cleared his throat loudly in an effort to draw attention. He removed his hat, exposing a predominantly bald head. His beady brown eyes glared in the lighting, giving him a grave look. He spoke loudly and simply.

"Please, everybody, just relax. The transit center has shifted to an emergency mode. We're perfectly safe for the moment. We just need to sit and wait for the officials."

Authority was in his words, but not in his stance. Small squeaks escaped his shoes as he shifted his weight from leg to leg. A man shouted, above nothing more than the barely audible shoes, from the corner of the room opposite the speaker.

"Who are you?"

The speaker responded, "My name is Jan. I've lived half my life in space. I know these things."

"Are we safe here?" a woman asked, again with more volume than necessary.

Struggling to find her face in the crowd, Jan replied, "It looks like the ships are making a blockade. We would've seen something more had it been an attack."

He was wrong. Russell could see that the specks of light, now brighter and sharper, were shifting position. They were a pack of wolves, seeking out the best formation before leaping to attack their prey.

None of it made sense. Aethra, the least populated system, had no standing military. Neo-Galactic Militia ships rarely patrolled the system, although it was generally understood that Aethra was their domain. A meager line of defensive platforms surrounded the planet, the only NGM outposts in the system. One Terran ship alone would be a match for them, nothing to be said of the approaching fleet.

Snapping from his reverie, Russell caught the end of another question from the crowd.

Jan answered, "I was in the UTF, up until about five years ago. Their tactics, strategies-I'm fairly familiar with them. In this case, it would only make sense to blockade Aethra. It's what they did with Phoenis not too many years ago."

Silence hung over the room for a second, as Jan's status changed from informant to infiltrator. The worst of discrimination on Aethra had been reserved for immigrants from the core worlds.

Hateful comments germinated throughout the crowd. Hush whispers grew into bold comments, fueled by the hatred and confusion of the crowd.

In a long minute, the room turned from tension to anger, directed at the innocent man. Russell noticed Jan's beady eyes dancing around the room, alerting the man to his plight. As he opened his mouth to address the situation, the smallest flicker of light poured through the window.

A paralysis set upon the crowd. Identical thoughts ran through different minds, all with the same reluctant conclusion.

"They're attacking," stated a young voice in the crowd, in a simplicity which trampled the severity of the situation.

A light show filled only a meager portion of the large window. Through the softened, red glow of the room, the group saw the intricate dance carried out hundreds of kilometers away. The small, glittering orbs had no specific pattern about them, only a random chaos. Blinking in and out of existence, they danced between shadow and light. Eyes widened as fiery flashes of light punctuated the show, briefly outshining their companions before fading into nothingness.

Russell surveyed his surroundings. It seemed that, among the group, he was the only one who not transfixed on the window. Jan, he noticed, had moved towards the opposite wall, sacrificing his viewing position for a position of relative safety. Russell became conscious of Brian's presence, sitting on a bench behind him. Joining his friend, he sat with hands clasped and head low.

Defeat permeated the room.

A half hour passed before another word was said, aside from the hushed comforts given to the sobbing women of the crowd.

"What the hell is happening now?" cried a man, his voice tinged with a desperate madness.

Russell looked up, towards the window. Over the past half hour, the lights gained in size and clairty. Now, the larger ones of the group held the intimidating, unmistakable shape of Neo Terran capital ships. A peculiarity surrounded this particular moment in time, however; the vibrant show had become a somber procession of dull outlines.

They had lost. Aethra's space-based resistance no longer remained.

"It looks like the battle is done," said Russell, infecting his audience with a grim mood.

"What happens now?" asked a woman, her cheeks covered with trails of ruined eye makeup.

A man, who had been examining the locked doors for the better part of twenty minutes, spoke up.

"He knows," said the man, indicating a corner of the room.

Russell's eyes drifted lazily along the path indicated by the man's index finger. Jan, once again the target of the group's attention, fidgeted in apprehension.

"I was-look, I mean-I was wrong. I can't possibly predict what they'll do at this point," said Jan. "I honestly hope they leave."

To Jan's great relief, the crowd's attention once again directed itself at the window, jarred by a new happening in the space-based drama.

"That-" said a man, failing to form his thoughts into words.

Again, Russell looked toward the window. His jaw lowered in amazement as he saw the first nuclear detonation in Aethran history.

A vibrant blast on the surface of the dark continent beneath them echoed through their hearts. Moments later, a formation of small objects ejected from the ships, as though following a martyr, destined for annihilation. Flashes of destruction followed after one another, each meeting the planet with the same surge of light, each compounding the feeling of dread within Russell.

The utter power of the presentation drowned in the complete lack of sound, both within the room and without. Russell could hear nothing but the sound of his own breath, finally remembering to exhale.

All at once, the room exploded with emotion. Letting out a soft moan, an elderly woman collapsed to the floor. Dull thuds came across through the blast door, delivering a message of desperation. A young man, forehead against the wall, whimpered and slipped down to his knees.

Russell's perception of time faded away in a torrent of emotion. Seconds, minutes, and hours drifted by-- flooded by-- all the same.

An argument erupted. Russell tuned it out, staring at Aethra. A crescent of light ate away the darkened brim of the planet, illuminating the rich, blue atmosphere and smothering the luminosity of the orbital bombardment. He compared the situation to his prior plan, longing for the simpler scenario.

A chilling discord snapped him out of his remiss drift through space. Across the room, Jan's arms were restrained by two men, his face disfigured in an expression of pain. A second punch echoed through the room, followed by a suppressed shout from the assaulted man.

Gathering his thoughts, Russell looked towards Brian, who had remained wordless until now.

"He needs help," said Brian, his eyes seeking confirmation from Russell.

Russell looked back towards Jan.

"Let's go."

Russell and Brian simultaneously jumped to their feet, running towards the attackers. Russell's sheer mass and velocity took down the man on the left, freeing Jan's right arm. He roughly grabbed at the man's collar, readying a punch.

A sharp blow landed at the base of Russell's skull. As he turned to address the other attacker, stars poured into his field of vision. He tried to say something, but it only came out as a low groan, trailing into nothing.

Russell awoke to an extremely bright room. His eyes tried to defy the bright ceiling, but retreated behind their lids.

"This one's awake," said a feminine voice.

Blinking his eyes, Russell saw a shape move towards him, joining the other.

"You okay?" asked the shape, revealing itself to be a man with a surly voice.

Russell's eyes found focus, quickly closing again under the dazzling ceiling lights.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I-"

Before he could finish his external thought, the man and woman rose and walked away. After all, they were probably busy.

It was this thought that brought the unending magnitude of the situation back on the shoulders of Jeffrey Russell. Images of his friends, Aethra, that ex-soldier-what was his name? Details flooded into his head as though he were remembering a bad dream. Could it be just that? The momentary hope faded as the murmurs and general noise of the room flooded his ears.

Russell sat up, not quite finding a comfortable distribution of weight against the hard flooring. He had been placed near the wall in a different section of the facility. None of the spectators from earlier occupied this new room. Aching, Russell got to his feet. A dull pressure pulsed against the back of his head. He felt genuinely terrible, and not because of his physical ailments.

A familiar face distinguished itself among the crowd. Jan. The name returned to him with the face, or perhaps with the lack of disorientation. Regardless, he walked forward, wanting to meet the man he had rushed to help.

Before Russell could cross the room, Jan entered what appeared to be an airlock, accompanied by a diversified group of men. The twin doors slid together abruptly, contrasting greatly with the arduously slow blast door which had sealed off his section of the cafeteria. How different the transit center was now.

A desk manned by two tall men-one, Russell noticed, missing an arm-stood in front of the door that Jan had passed through. Dashes of paper lined the desk, which, upon closer examination, appeared to be only a table draped in black cloth. The two men hastily tried to sort the mess, never seeming to make progress. Looking up, the lankier man noticed Russell's inquisitive stare.

"Here to sign up?" he asked.

Russell felt a surge of realization as he noticed the embroidered red logo on the man's shirt. Before he could muster an answer, the militia soldier had pushed the packet of paper into Russell's hands.

Curiously, he searched through the last few pages. He found the names he searched for-Erik, Brian, Sal. Russell noted the signing times as well as the current time. They had apparently waited several hours, probably for him to wake up, before they boarded a shuttle. He wondered if he would ever see them again.

"Buddy," said the soldier, "you there?"

Russell's mind roused from its deep thought. The soldier noticed the attention.

"Look," he said, "We got a shuttle heading out right now. You better hurry, unless you're in a mood to wait a couple hours."

Russell flashed a courteous smile, laid the paper on the table, and signed his name on the next available line.

Chapter III: Mouser

 * To: 8915::starshare::


 * Sender: JSheldon::UTFhc::


 * Lionus,


 * I know more than you think I know, Lionus. My research has shown that you found something out there, something worth pouring fortunes into, something worth throwing away your reputation and possibly your life over.


 * My curiosity has gotten the best of me, I'm afraid. I just want to know what this project of yours is. I desire no specific location, just a simple answer to the question that everyone has been asking: What would drive one of the greatest minds of our generation to madness?


 * You were the richest man on Earth. Now you're considered one of the most dangerous. What drives a man like you to kill so many?


 * Earnestly,
 * James

Gunther stepped out of the shower into the cramped washroom. After wrapping a towel around his waist, he stopped to examine himself in the mirror. He felt whole now that the bruises from the Everett incursion had healed. Stretching, he waited for the dull pain that had riddled his shoulder for the past few weeks. Gone. Perhaps the bridge had added fewer years than he thought.

He pushed the door open, adding to the deep dent in the washroom counter. A wry grin crossed his face as he stepped through the doorway -- gently closing the door behind him.

A small blue bottle of anti-nausea pills, prescribed by the ship's doctor, stood on his stub of a bedside table. Today, he would not take them. He was well-adjusted to space flight, ready for his first mission command. Feeling his stomach churn at the thought, he glanced at the pills a second time.

He wondered how he would perform compared to his former subordinate, Nathan Stale, the man who had served on board the NTSS Everett as flight captain nearly to retirement. Gunther had worked with him on many missions, from the trivial to the vital, separated only by a wall of vacuum. Stale was a tough, stubborn old man, but fiercely loyal and dedicated. He never showed the slightest resentment that his commanding officer was three decades his junior.

Stale had died a month earlier, under Parks' command, not too long before Gunther's career met the same fate.

The Everett, now fully repaired, had spent two grueling weeks readying itself for an attack on a small installation near the planet York. In less than twelve hours, Gunther would again be engaged in combat.

After laying out his uniform, he ran the towel through his hair a few more times, sponging up the last bits of moisture. A quiet, electronic beep filled the room in three short intervals. Puzzled, Gunther looked for the source. A blue speck of a light beckoned from its place next to the door's control panel.

"One moment," he called toward the door.

As he reached for his flight uniform, the door slid open. He scrambled to cover himself with a towel.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Mari after turning around, not quite holding back a chuckle. Why did women always feel the need for nervous laughter in situations like this? Surely, they did not realize the implications it could have on a man's self-esteem.

Gunther sighed, slipping on his uniform pants and undershirt.

"It's fine, really," he said. "You can look now."

She turned to face him, averting her eyes to the ground in embarrassment. A hint of red subsided from her face as she adjusted the clip which held back her long, dark hair.

"After the co-ed showers back at the academy, there shouldn't be any surprises, anyway," said Gunther with a flash of a smile.

"Of course, that was years ago," she said. "I guess time flies,"

"Speaking of time, I haven't seen you in -- two weeks? I almost thought you were transferred," said Gunther.

"Well, we've been busy. I mean, the ship. We've all been going through a lot," she said.

"Of course I know what you mean. Getting our flight crew back on its feet has been a chore. Especially for me, since this is the first time I've had the privilege to serve as a flight captain."

Mari glanced around the room, fidgeting as she did so.

"New quarters, huh?" she asked, moving a strand of hair that had fallen before her eyes.

"It's not much, but enough to entertain a guest," said Gunther. "Please, sit."

She sat at the small, round table against the wall.

"So this is it for you now?" she asked, leveling her focus on him.

Gunther fastened the last of the buttons on his flight jacket.

"Demotions are never pretty," he said.

"What happened to your library?"

"I had it shipped back to Hespera," he said.

"All of those books? I hope whatever shuttle they're aboard survives re-entry with such a load," she said.

Gunther grinned. "I just hope they're cared for in storage."

"I'm sure you could link to the New Terran Library and get copies. There must be digital versions."

"And of what worth is a library that can be destroyed with the press of a key?" he asked.

"Books can be burned, too, you know."

"Oh, I know," he said. "But it takes more than a mere vandal to burn a book."

She stood up, stretching. "At least you're used to this amount of space. Just now instead of bookshelves, you have walls."

"Like I said, demotions are never pretty," he said.

She frowned. "Sure they are. When they're fair."

"Maybe mine was fair," he said.

"It strikes me as strange that they demote you, when you clearly showed more skill than Parks. Isn't that their definition of grounds for promotion?"

Gunther was slightly taken aback by her blunt dive into the conversation. She had given the statement thought. Of course he agreed, but the situation was delicate, thus requiring a delicate response.

"The court made its decision. I'm a soldier. I do as I'm told," said Gunther.

The inaccuracy of his statement only occurred to him as he said it. But a bureaucracy is served by statements, not actions.

"Will," she said, "You can't mean that."

"The UTF no longer follow those principles," he said, flustered. "We're a tangle of politics, favors and egos."

Her voice rose, "You're a fighter. Why don't you fight for what's rightfully yours? Fight to change the system."

"I did fight," he shot back. "This is where fighting got me."

Mari retreated to silence, turning her head away. The words rightfully yours rang through Gunther's mind.

Softening his posture, he sat down at the table opposite Mari.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. It's just -- it's a tough question to answer," he said.

Still not facing him, she replied, "I've never heard that."

"What?"

Turning and looking at him with a face of stone, she repeated: "I've never heard that."

"Heard what?" he demanded.

"That tone in your voice. It's so different from the Will Gunther that graduated at the top of our class. The man who would one day shoot through the ranks of the UTF like a knife through warm butter -- and we all knew it. He never would have settled for this. He would have easily defused Parks, beating the old bastard at his own game. But you -- you just caved under the slightest pressure. And now, here you are, a mess of excuses and apologies."

Gunther's shock dammed his rage for only a second.

"Caved! I've never caved. And who are you to question my rank? You've been on this same damn ship as long as I have -- with a lesser rank!"

Mari stood up in cold indignation.

"I'm leaving," she said.

His chair falling hard against the floor, Gunther stood, meeting her stare.

"I was just about to ask you to do so," he said.

"I meant," she continued, glaring, "that I was leaving the service. My third term is up; I won't be renewing. My shuttle leaves in a half hour."

Gunther studied her, leaning against the table. Neither of the officers said a word, each waiting for the other to break the cold silence.

Briefly, Gunther considered the time -- already, he was in danger of being late for his assigned post. He broke the silence.

"Are you going back home?" he asked. Mari, like Gunther, grew up on Hespera, the twilight core world. Her skin preserved the soft paleness for which Hesperans were known, but now it seemed unusually flushed, as though her body's energies pointed inward, filling a deep void.

"There's nothing for me there," she replied. "Nor a reason to go back. I don't think I'll ever step foot on Hespera again -- or, for that matter, any core world."

A wave of anguish flooded through Gunther, washing away his anger. He struggled against the emotion, keeping a calm demeanor. Mari, his friend, his rival, his -- no, she had to stay.

"I just can't take it anymore," she continued. "This side of the war, it's gruesome. Cerbera was bad, but Aethra-"

She stopped, smearing a tear across her cheek; a dandelion growing through the concrete, Gunther thought, revealing the living earth underneath.

"Aethra was inexcusable. I can't support this," she said, swallowing against the tears. "I have to leave."

"Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?" asked Gunther.

"Is there anything I can do to convince you to come with me?" she echoed, making her point clear.

He glanced at the clock on the small bedside table, and then turned to look back at Mari. His action registered, her face softening in resignation.

"Goodbye, William," she said, turning towards the door. For just a second, she hesitated. Gunther tried to muster a response, but found the words impossible to form.

The door silently slid shut.

This side of the war. Gunther realized just what Mari had intended to do.

"We have three hours until the attack. Every single one of you knows your part in the plan," said Gunther.

He walked down the single file line, making eye contact with each man and woman that made up the Everett's flight team -- his flight team.

"Use this time to prepare accordingly. Inspect your craft, eat, pray -- whatever you need to do to be ready. I expect all of you back here in two hours," he said. "Dismissed."

Gunther snapped out the motions of a salute. A line of arms followed suit in synchronized motion.

Their day had already been filled with plenty of drills. Some flight captains would use this time to squeeze in a few more exercises. Gunther figured they could use a break.

He adjusted the screen on his adaptive flight computer. A series of images representing his squadron's ships replayed all the maneuvers he had programmed. As he inserted the computer into the armrest of his ship, a young pilot approached.

"Sir," he said, waiting for Gunther to step back down to the hangar floor.

"At ease, pilot," said Gunther, stepping off the ladder and taking a seat on the second lowest rung. "Rogers, is it?"

"Yessir."

"Is there a problem?"

"No, sir. It's just that -- how can I put this?"

"Bluntly would be nice," said Gunther, rising and moving to the strike craft across from him.

"Yessir. You don't have a call sign."

Gunther stopped. "A call sign? I don't need one. Nobody calls on me."

The young man grew nervous. Gunther suddenly wondered if he was too tough on his flight crew.

"Y-yes, sir. I understand," he said, turning to walk away.

"Wait, wait. Come back," said Gunther, giving in. "I guess you're right. So far I've just been barking out training orders. I guess 'Flight Captain Gunther' won't work too well in combat."

Rogers nodded.

"Did you have something in mind?"

"No, sir, I didn't," said the blonde pilot, shrugging.

"What's your call sign?"

"Grizzly, sir."

"Grizzly? Like the bear?" asked Gunther.

"I've always flown bombers, sir. Big and powerful."

Gunther held no particular interest in callsigns -- or anything about being a pilot, for that matter. Rogers seemed nervous, though, so he played along.

"Does it have to be an animal?"

"No, sir, but I guess most are," he said, finally looking Gunther in the eye. "Pilots usually pick animals or historical figures -- mostly from their home planet."

"And where are you from, Grizzly?"

"Neo Terra, sir."

"I don't recall seeing any grizzlies last time I was there," said Gunther.

Rogers belted out a quiet, nervous laugh. "Probably not, sir. I saw one when I was young, though, at the Veheran Interplanetary Zoo. It was the first time the zoo had come to us, so everyone got pretty excited about it."

Gunther remembered attending the zoo. Hespera had cleared it for business years before Neo Terra had. Of course, the fanfare accompanying the opening was always the same -- parties, parades, and endless news coverage. All for caged animals. His father had organized a large social gathering, even managing to convince a couple high-ranking generals to attend. It was the day before Gunther was to leave for the academy, a fact that earned him several drunken toasts from the UTF officials in attendance.

"I guess Neo Terra is always the last to adopt anything even slightly Veheran," said Gunther. "Still, though, I never saw what they had to fear from a few animals. After all, they handled the Renaissance well, didn't they?"

Gunther's secondary school concentration had been history. Sometimes he liked to poke and prod, finding out just how well others could discuss historical subjects.

"Yes, but we still saw the effect it had on other planets, with new animals and plants running wild. We weren't without our own infestations, of course. The worst were the rats," said Rogers, bowing his head in thought for a moment. "Hey, that gives me an idea."

"Rat?" asked Gunther, taken aback. "You think 'Rat' would make a good call-sign?"

"No, no, of course not," said Rogers. "The rats infested our cities and nibbled on all of our crops, making a complete menace of themselves. Even now, they're still a pretty big problem, especially in urban areas -- like where I lived."

"I see. So what's your idea, then?" asked Gunther.

Rogers' face lit up. "The only way we could solve the problem of introduced species was by introducing more. That's when Neo Terra lifted the ban on household animals -- specifically cats."

"Fighting fire with fire," said Gunther.

"Exactly. Of course, a common housecat usually isn't even much help -- some see their own reflection and run the other way. Certain ones, however, had the killing instinct; we called them mousers. Soon enough, there were as many dead rats as there were live ones."

"Mouser," said Gunther. "I like the sound of it. I'll go ahead and enter it into my flight computer."

"I'll be sure to let everyone know, sir."

Gunther saluted. "Go enjoy the calm before the storm, pilot."

"Yes, sir."

Rogers walked away. Once again, Gunther was alone with his thoughts. The Everett was preparing to strike at a small militia outpost, a target that held little to no tactical value. He wondered if Parks' new second-in-command would object to such an easy mission so void of danger.

Despite the ease, his stomach gathered an uncomfortable pressure. For years he had sat on the bridge, away from the worries and troubles of a common soldier. Shielded by the thick hull of a capital ship, he could focus on the overall battle -- commanding, organizing and rallying his troops.

He leaned against his strike fighter, caressing its smooth hull with his fingers. Now only these precious inches of armor separated him from the enemy and the empty vacuum of space -- which of the two would kill him faster, he didn't care to think about.

A rumbling murmur passed through the hangar. Disdained, he patiently looked up towards the ceiling. So much for the calm before the storm.

The warning alarm wailed. Gunther winced. For a second, he thought he could hear Parks barking at the poor officers on the bridge, demanding every last bit of information on just how badly the old man had messed things this time. Grudgingly, Gunther grabbed the rail of the step ladder, climbing into the cockpit. The hangar erupted with activity. Pilots and infantry rushed to their stations, paces quickening as a second shockwave rattled the ship.

Gunther pulled the throttle lever up and into active position. With a soft click, the anti-grav engines came to life, the ship mimicking his lifting action and raising away from its supports. His heads-up display flickered into existence, floating between his face and the glass of the cockpit. With a few quick keystrokes, he called up the available sensory information.

Damn. A militia battleship, tactical ships fully deployed, approached with solid determination. Gunther waited for Parks' command.

"All tactical ships, engage the enemy. Repeat, all tacticals engage the enemy," buzzed a voice over the comm. As usual, the order was too late and completely misguided.

Engines flared as ships rocketed from the hangar. Gunther eased forward on the throttle, causing his fighter to lurch slowly through the protective force field and into space. The field echoed a warping, electric hiss as his ship passed through. Once on the other side, all commotion from the hangar died instantly, replaced by the gentle hum of the engines.

As others shot by, Gunther's fighter drifted, passing slowly through space as he formulated a plan.

On his display, he saw his flight squadron forming behind him, the only display of discipline on his side of the battlefield. Red markers appeared on his radar -- his replacement had marked the enemy fighters and bombers as the primary target.

Excellent. The other squadrons would make for a perfect distraction as his crippled the enemy battleship.

Using his interface pen, Gunther marked the 3D representation of the enemy battleship. He knew the precise locations of all thrusters necessary for a turn to port, perfect targets to disable for the Everett's inevitable retreat. The militia battleship would turn in circles like a boat with no rudder, while Parks would hopefully realize how hopeless this confrontation was.

Linked up with his command computer, the rest of the squadron instantly knew his plan as he marked the targets. He pushed the throttle forward fully, his fighter rocketing forward. The back of his neck pressed into the seat as the gravitational dampeners struggled to overcome the force of the engine. His display showed the rest of his squadron keeping a perfect formation.

"Delta Squadron, report," said a raspy, old voice over the comm. Parks' new bridge monkey.

"Mouser reporting."

"Your flight heading indicates a direct path at the enemy capital ship. You are to engage the enemy tacticals before heading to that objective."

Gunther depressed the comm button once again. "Roger that, sir. We are performing a flanking maneuver."

The raspy voice became frantic. "A flanking maneuver! You're flying directly away from us! We are under attack and require immediate defensive support."

"No need to worry, sir, we'll be coming around behind them in a second," said Gunther, grinning as he disabled the command comm.

His squadron gained no attention from the massive swarm of attacking militia tactical ships they had bypassed. The battleship, however, would be ready for them.

"Delta Squadron, abandon formation at the first sign of AT fire. They know we're coming. Grizzly, you stick with me and attack the primary objectives. Everyone else, try and draw AT fire."

"Roger that, Mouser," said Grizzly.

The first round of anti-tactical fire burst into a red cloud of hot plasma before them, shattering the formation. Gunther pulled away hard, his ship shaking from the gaseous impact. Every cloud transmitted a dull roar to the insides of his ship, indicating just how badly he had been hit. His shields held.

With a press of a button, he opened a private line to Rogers. "Grizzly, you with me?"

"Yessir."

"This is about to get real hot. I'll put in the initial burst to weaken the plating, then you finish the job."

Four thrusters stood between them and the Everett's safety. Gunther's fighter screamed past another plasma cloud, filling the cockpit with an awful sound. He noticed his shields were a bit lower than the others in his squadron and cursed his lack of flight hours.

Fizzling out in a fiery explosion, the first thruster went down with no problem. The enemy captain was clever, though, and caught on to their plan quickly. Anti-tactical fire suddenly filled the space in front of Gunther's cockpit, forcing him to careen wildly, nearly skidding against the hull of the battleship. A split-second barrel roll just barely saved his port wing.

"All units attack primary targets," Gunther said into the comm.

Delta Squadron swarmed around the NGM battleship, like a colony of frenzied ants bringing down their lumbering prey.

Gunther zipped along the surface of the battleship, struggling to stick to the intricate lines and contours of its hull. The challenge was greater than dodging the anti-tactical fire, but also less deadly. Grizzly had now pulled ahead of him. Somehow, the younger pilot had no trouble handling the rough flying, even though his ship was twice the size of Gunther's.

An indicator disappeared off of the display. Delta Squadron had destroyed a second thruster. A concentrated burst of energy from Gunther's fighter and two others left the third drifting into parts in space.

"That's three!" said Grizzly, as a chunk of the plasma turret shot past Gunther's cockpit.

"Alright, Delta," said Gunther. "That should give us enough time. Disengage and head home."

As they pulled away, Gunther noticed a cloud of red blips forming above his ship on the 3D display. The NGM tacticals were pulling back. The Everett would be fine now.

"Mouser, we have incoming," said a female Delta pilot.

"Roger that," said Gunther. "Keep heading towards the Everett."

He opened the command comm line. "Everett, this is Gunther reporting. We've disabled the rotational thrusters on the enemy capital ship. We need a concentrated volley on incoming bogeys."

The Everett was barely visible behind the oncoming wall of fighter ships, a wall which crept closer and closer.

Switching output channels, he said, "Delta, when our cover fire breaks up the incoming group, hit afterburners and we're home free."

He awaited confirmation from Parks.

"Everett, we need that strike now!" ask Gunther, his voice loud and firm.

Individually, the enemy tactical ships started to become clear. Their massive formation was clearly intent upon Delta Squadron, the six lonely UTF tacticals which had crippled their mother ship.

"Delta squad, defensive formation A2," said Gunther. The heavy fighter and Grizzly's bomber pulled to the front of the group. The tacticals with weaker shields, like Gunther's fighter, stayed behind them.

"Everett, come in! Parks, I know you can hear this. We need a volley!"

The Everett blinked out of sight. Only the foggy disruption from its hyperspace engines was left, a dim cloud which warped the starfield behind it. Gunther's mouth hung open in shock.

The militia's wave of tacticals only intended to make one pass. It was all they needed.

Shots of energy surged forward, all focused on the small group of Terran ships. Grizzly's bomber, flying directly in front of Gunther, took the first few hits well. A missile, energy round -- something hit it hard, directly in the port engine. It took a hard spin to starboard before exploding into a fiery mess.

The formation's forward velocity was too high to allow Gunther time to react, much less time for his ship to even physically turn to avoid the collision.

A shower of debris pelted his fighter, demolishing the shields, tearing away chunks of the hull, and ruining vital systems. Gunther felt the flight belts restrain him as he was pulled in every direction. An alarm indicating a failure of the gravitational dampeners sounded, signaling a sudden increase in turbulence. His head whipped hard into the cockpit glass, drawing blood.

He was spinning out of control now, with no sign of stopping. His ship retained its original trajectory, slightly deviated by Grizzly's ship, flying through where the Everett had just jumped to hyperspace. A nauseating pattern emerged, showing Gunther the same series of images every several seconds. His view alternated between a starfield and a shrinking militia battleship, reeling around in a maddening spin. He caught a glimpse of a prominent star amongst the others. What star was it? He tried to concentrate, but no answer came.

The joystick was dead. No -- one directional thruster seemed to work. He pulled sharp in one direction, adding to the spin. Perfect timing and patience would slow the fighter down. Again, the bright star crossed his field of view. He tapped on the joystick as it crossed the center of his line of vision. Ever so slightly, he tamed the spinning beast.

On the thirtieth pass, the star crawled across the glass of the cockpit. One final tap and it slowed to a pace close to stillness.

Gunther reached down frantically to the side of the seat, pulling out a small paper bag. He cupped it over his mouth as his body sternly rejected his lunch. Sealing the top, he wedged it under his seat. Globules of blood floated in front of his face.

"Everett," he said, depressing the comm. "Everett, come in."

No answer.

"Delta squadron, report."

The comm buzzed with a low static sound. Either it was broken or there was nobody around to answer.

His fighter still drifted sideways, or at least his sideways, at a fairly high speed, even though the nauseating rotation had stopped. He wondered what parts of the small craft were still intact.

None of the ship's systems seemed to react to anything he tried. The HUD refused to display, leaving him to work by starlight. Just barely, he thought, he could hear a low hissing sound. Passing his hands slowly around the walls and glass of the cockpit, he felt no odd currents or suction. Considering the damage his craft had taken, the cockpit glass remained in remarkable shape, with only a few small scratches. Somewhere, however, matter was escaping into space. He hoped it wasn't oxygen.

"Everett," he said, lazily depressing the comm switch. "This is Gunther. Come in."

He was still spinning, slowly but noticeably. His stomach contorted as he noticed the sensation. Ships like these only came with one bag, which he had already used. He spent half an hour, painstakingly tapping and twisting the joystick, making the smallest of corrections to finally right his craft. Finally, the starfield in front of him stood rigid. Surely, he was still moving laterally, but he couldn't feel it.

Resting his head, he thought of potential escapes from this situation. No amount of tinkering, he knew, would repair the ship. Or would it? If he could get on the outside, perhaps something could be arranged.

But then he would lose his air. His atmospheric unit only recycled air; it wouldn't create more if he opened the cockpit. Taking in a deep breath, he decided it was working fine. Exhaling, he noticed the air seemed warm. Body heat? Fuel leak? There were too many possibilities.

He pulled his helmet from a side compartment. Delta Squadron pilots generally considered it bad luck to wear the helmet in the cockpit. Rubbing his aching head, Gunther decided he could risk it.

Hours passed. The air thickened. He fell asleep gasping.

Chapter IV: Gunsmith

 * To: JSheldon::UTFhc::


 * Sender: 8915::starshare::


 * James,


 * The secrets we hold are infinitely more valuable than any measure of human life currently held in space, including of course my own.


 * The crew of the Atlantis project knew a secret. That secret is now safe. It's as simple as that, my friend. However, the secret they held is different than the one you seek. You wish to know the aim of the project, correct? I'll glady share that.


 * I've built a ship, James. Humanity's first ship, and humanity's last ship. If you're religious, you may think of it as a veritable Noah's ark.


 * I have named it the Surrogate. It houses three things: life, knowledge and an environment, everything humanity needs to start over.


 * At this very moment, it travels through space, ready for the first full-scale transformation of a planet in human history, fully automated and performed in just over half a millennium.


 * Settling in orbit and terraforming a planet, it will sit and wait for our saviors to arrive and rebirth humanity.


 * And then humanity can live once more, avoiding these gruesome wars of yours, guided by the careful hand of the Higher Ones.


 * Sincerely,
 * Lionus Nadel

Jeffrey's assigned room stretched just above his head, with a narrow path down the middle unsuitable for any but the thinnest soldier. Worse yet, the designers of the ship had somehow fit four beds into the room. A thin, stained mattress adorned the top bunk to Jeffrey's left. He piled his gear into the lower bunk opposite the unfavorable bedding.

A row of shallow shelves underneath the bed proved just enough space to stash the few items they had given him as he boarded the ship. His medical equipment, however, left him in a predicament. He found that, if he put his medical duffel at the foot of his bed, he had just enough room to sleep-if he kept his legs bent.

He lay down, twisting the stiff pillow to support his head and back. Drowsiness washed over his body for the first time in weeks, replacing the constant exhaustion and strain provided by his training.

Fire training, they had called it-- a brief, torturous course on how to be a soldier. He still felt the same, with perhaps a better idea of how to fire a gun or follow an order. The hallways of this ship were filled with soldiers like him-inexperienced, angry young men looking for a generalized revenge.

Jeffrey stared at the grated steel of the bunk above him. Earlier, he had marveled at the size of the behemoth ship. The crew of the Corona took pride in the vessel; it was one of the largest in the fleet. Its reputation came not from its size, however, but from the way it was utilized, deployed on its own at the forefront of an attack, risking everything to rain down destruction on an unsuspecting enemy. Onboard were the Dragonflies, an elite group of soldiers who were notorious for disabling an enemy ship from within.

He sighed. He was a Dragonfly.

His predecessor died early in the last attack, leaving the Dragonflies without a medic. The subsequent lack of life-saving abilities led to even more open positions on the roster.

He glanced around the empty bunk. Were all three of his bunkmates late? Perhaps they were making better use of their free time. He grew uneasy and checked the time; he had two hours left, and no reason yet to panic.

Metal scraped against metal as a man appeared in the doorway.

"Hello there!" said the man, shifting sideways and wedging himself through the door, a large weapon attached to his back grinding against the doorway.

Jeffrey noticed a large gut on the man and wondered if he was a grunt or an officer.

The small room filled with the noise created by the newcomer. Every movement of his body brought a new sound to the room. Jeffrey was pulled further and further from his slumber at every thud, dent and curse.

Finally, the man came to an arrangement similar to Jeffrey's, but with less space to sleep.

"You'd think we were cargo," said the man, turning around.

The recognition was simultaneous, both men pausing, mouths agape.

"Jan?"

"From the transit center," said Jan, his mouth curving into a smile.

Jan hadn't changed. He looked a bit less afraid now, though.

Jeffrey laughed. "I never expected to see you again."

"Hell," said Jan, "I'm glad to see you conscious."

They both chuckled. It was the first time Jeffrey remembered the day in a favorable light.

Jan paused, "Russell, was it? The last two weeks have shot my memory to Hell."

"You remember it right, but 'Jeffrey' is what I prefer."

"Jeffrey, Jeffrey," said Jan, as if trying to code it into memory, "not shortened to Jeff?"

Jeffrey said, "No, I hate it that way."

"Of course you do. Makes you sound too young, right? By the time you get to my age, you'll be making everyone call you Jeff."

"Well now, that won't be for a very, very long time."

A deep laugh erupted from Jan's diaphragm. The man certainly had a unique sense of humor.

He settled. "I'm glad they assigned me here. Quite the coincidence."

Jeffrey wished that he was glad. He couldn't shake a deep-rooted combat anxiety. He wondered if other greens were the same.

"I think they go by the sign-up lists," said Jeffrey. "We were pretty close together."

Jan looked up in thought, "You're probably right. Still, it's fortunate for us."

"Yes, since we're so good with teamwork and all."

Again, Jan laughed, bringing a warm red to his cheeks. "Teamwork? Sure. I'll attract the trouble; you rush in and save the day."

"To be honest," said Jeffrey, "I don't remember much of it. I just know I had a terrible headache afterwards."

Jan cracked his knuckles and leaned back-or tried to, at least, finding his head a few inches too high to clear the upper bunk.

"It was all unbelievable-though, I guess, fitting with the day. I can't say you did much to the guys who attacked me, but you sure did motivate the crowd. Mere seconds after you went down, a mob rushed over us. It turned into a brawl."

"I thought you said I saved the day," said Jeffrey.

"Hold on; I'm getting to it. After a few punches were exchanged, this woman suddenly starts screaming. All of the men stop fighting and stare at her. We notice she's rather pregnant and, surely enough, the baby was on the way."

Jeffrey pulled back in disbelief, "You have to be kidding."

Jan leaned forward enthusiastically. "No, ask your friend! He delivered the baby."

His friends from school. They had lost touch after Aethra.

"In the cafeteria? With the blast doors closed?" asked Jeffrey.

"Yes! Well, no. The blast doors finally came up about halfway through. It was all rather funny, looking back. You, slumped over in the corner, with a baby on the way in the other."

They laughed. It felt good to have bonded with someone so quickly in this new environment.

Jeffrey looked towards the door. "I wonder when the other two will show up."

"Maybe they're your friends from the station," said Jan.

"That would be nice," said Jeffrey. "But I think medics are spread pretty thin throughout the militia right now."

"Whoever they are, I hope they don't have as much junk as we do," said Jan, looking at the mountain of equipment dammed up on his bed.

Jeffrey eyed the large, intricate weapon that Jan had carried across his shoulders. As a combat medic, he only received training for light arms. Jan's equipment, however, seemed to have a theme of firepower.

"It's an ion cannon," said Jan, answering the stare. "Actually, it's a broken ion cannon. I think the trigger wiring is faulty."

Jeffrey grimaced. The NGM was just so wonderfully equipped.

"They gave you a broken weapon?" asked Russell.

Jan scratched his bald head. "I guess, given my experience, they figured I could fix it."

"Can you? What experience do you have?"

"I used to work on the weapons systems of tactical ships. The technology is similar to guns like this," said Jan, patting the ion cannon. "Why the hell they would have such a complicated trigger setup in a weapon as small as this, I can't figure out, though."

"For the UTF, you mean?" asked Jeffrey.

Jan stared at him blankly. "Well, no. The UTF's ion cannon was a lot simpler."

"No, no," said Jeffrey, "You used to work on tacticals for the UTF, right?"

Jan grew visibly uncomfortable. "Yes, way back when-I had come to Aethra to get away from all that, you know."

"To get away from the fighting?" asked Jeffrey.

"No, to escape the UTF. I wanted to leave in the middle of a term; they generally don't let soldiers do that, especially in war time. After my request was denied, a buddy and I, erm, 'borrowed' a corvette and made our way to Aethra."

Jeffrey's eyes opened wide. "You stole a UTF ship? And you're alive?"

Jan's face swelled with pride. "It's simple really. All I had to do was pull a few wires on all the tactical ship weapons. I'd just love to see the looks on the pilots' faces when they pulled the trigger and nothing came out-the jerks deserve it for how they treated the hangar grunts. Meanwhile, my friend had uploaded a customized bug to the communications array, so they couldn't follow our first jump. After that, we were home free."

"And after that?" asked Jeffrey.

"After the first jump, we just had to wait it out. We snacked on the ship's reserve of food for a couple weeks and then came to Aethra."

"Amazing," said Jeffrey. "And the ship?"

Jan leaned back against the wall, his bald head just barely clearing the upper bunk this time. "The militia was happy to take it off our hands, after a rather tense initial meeting. In exchange for the ship, they arranged to see us safely off. I always wonder if they'll use it for some exciting recon mission."

"You did all of that to avoid working in a hangar?" asked Jeffrey.

Jan frowned. "I didn't leave because of the danger. My ex-wife had taken my kids to Aethra. I couldn't afford to just miss two years of their lives. Hell, I had already missed enough due to serving."

Pacified with realization, Jeffrey opened his mouth, but failed to reply. Jan looked up from the ion cannon at Jeffrey's pause.

"No, no," said Jan, his voice quick and steady, "It was nothing like that. My family is just fine."

Jeffrey sighed. "That's good to hear."

"Most certainly. After I contacted them on the transit station, I decided to enlist. Being planetside and all, they understood completely."

"So you still haven't seen them?" asked Jeffrey, realizing the other man obviously h

"Unfortunately, no. I guess it's just more incentive to end this damn war and get home."

End the war. Would it end? While the UTF seemed infinite in influence and resources, the NGM seemed to gain three recruits for every casualty. Now, it seemed, they were even getting deserters from the other side.

Diversity lent them a renewed strength. Initially, the militia recruitment officers only found success in Cerbera Minor, which had seen the most of the war, and Vehera, the center of the ideologies that drove the border worlds to war. Traditionally, Aethra had been neutral; now the planet supplied over half of the NGM's troops, as well as ships and weapons.

Vehera had always been Jeffrey's dream-setting up a practice in some small settlement, owning a house and living a simple life. He had been attracted to the planet since he was a boy, hearing tales of a pristine, mysterious planet, breathable and brimming with Earth-descended life upon discovery. Hours upon hours he spent studying the planet and it sun, a brilliant star that radiated with the same vitality and clemency as Sol.

Vehera drove him. He would die before seeing the planet and its ideals ruined by the Terrans, although he had never set foot on it himself.

"All Veheran tech is like that," said Jeffrey, snapping himself from his reverie.

Jan looked up again, confused. "What?"

"The ion cannon. You said it was too complex. Everything on the rogue worlds is like that."

"How do you figure?" asked Jan.

"I guess it's just a tendency we have. After learning about so much new technology," he paused here, thinking to correct himself with old technology, but went on, "We want to use it. Even if it's no real use."

Jan popped a small panel off the gun. He put it in one side of his mouth and spoke out the other, "I wonder if that's how Earth technology was 500 years ago. I almost feel sorry for the gunsmiths back in the Origin War."

"To an extent, maybe. But I'm sure their sprinklers weren't as complicated as the ones we have back home," said Jeffrey.

"Sprinklers?"

"Yeah," said Jeffrey. "I was raised on a farm with a hopelessly complicated irrigation system. Top-of-the-line Veheran technology. I probably devoted a day out of every week to keeping it maintained."

"Oh, so you're handy with machines then," said Jan.

"Only the ones found in farms and hospitals," said Jeffrey.

A woman adorned with higher rank appeared in the doorway. Jeffrey and Jan rose in salute. They held the position in silence as she examined a piece of paper, one of many in the stapled, wrinkled packet in her hands.

"Jeffrey Russell," she said, looking up from the papers.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, straightening.

"Graduated from Darnelli Medical School with honors?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She scribbled with the pen. "And Jan Goldberg," she said, eyeing Jan.

"Reporting, ma'am."

"It says here you were with the UTF."

Jan swallowed, "Yes, ma'am."

"And you commandeered a corvette, escaping to Aethra?"

Jeffrey could hear the pride in the other man's voice even before Jan replied to the affirmative.

She grinned. "You'll fit right in here."

Shuffling the papers into a neatly folded packet, she slipped them into a ring on her belt.

"I'm Lieutenant Gibson. I'll be serving as your training coordinator," she said, looking from Jan to Jeffrey. "At ease, both of you. Are there any questions?"

Jeffrey relaxed while Jan took a seat. He glanced at the top two bunks.

"Where are our bunkmates?" he asked, resting one hand on his medical duffel.

Gibson looked at the crowded mess on the two lower beds. "You two only have each other as bunkmates. The extra room is for your equipment." Her solid gaze fell on Jan, hunched over awkwardly on a bag of equipment, the back of his neck pressed once again against the upper bunk. "You'll find the bunks are retractable. Cargo netting is available in the armory-it's what most others use to stash their gear."

Jan rose, searching for some lever or switch to create more space.

The lieutenant stiffened. "Boarding routine training is in forty minutes. We meet right outside the barracks."

With a short shuffle of footsteps, she was gone. Jeffrey pulled a latch on the top bunk, causing it to spring upwards, slamming flush against the wall. Jan, either dumbfounded or enlightened, did the same.

Jeffrey sighed. Forty minutes until training. Already, the woman was eating into their free time. He hoped her calm nature would carry over into the training exercise.

Meanwhile, Jan was trying to latch his ion cannon onto a hook in the ceiling. Jeffrey noticed the barrel was oriented directly at his face. He shifted slightly to his left.

"She referred to you as a gunsmith," he said.

Jan, realizing the cumbersome weapon would not cooperate, dropped the cannon back on the bed. "Yes, well, that's what they call us. Gunsmiths. Or, well, I guess some say 'Gunners'-that's the more official term anyway."

"It sounds a bit archaic to me."

"I suppose so. We do fix guns, though. If your weapon breaks, I could fix it for you," he said, gesturing towards Jeffrey's submachine gun.

"They taught us basic maintenance in training," said Jeffrey. "I'm sure I'll be just fine."

Jan furrowed his brow, studying some inner panel on his weapon. "I'm sure you're right. It's a fairly simple gun, unlike this piece--"

He pulled his arm back in pain after a small, buzzing sound. He let out a stream of curses while shaking a numbing sensation from his hand.

Jeffrey suddenly realized why they always put medics and gunsmiths in the same bunk.

"Hey, Jim, how are you today?" asked Jeffrey.

"Just fine, Russell," said the medical bay guard. He was a popular guy. Of course, any guy named "Jim" was popular-it was the derogatory name the UTF had invented for the rebels. "You're a little later than usual today."

Jeffrey groaned and handed his identification card over. "Lt. Gibson kept us a little longer than I would've liked. I might be checking myself in shortly if she keeps up this pace."

"I heard she's tough," said Jim, swiping the card and handing it back. "She's ex-UTF I believe. You know how the bastards are."

"Some of them aren't so bad," said Russell, smiling and walking into the medical bay.

The NGM had spared no expense in its medical facilities here on the Corona. With three medical bays, the ship could handle all kinds of assaults and emergency situations, as well as hosting a large number of wounded during more peaceful times. Medical Bay C, which Russell currently stood in, was the least busy. Typically the hangars and engineering sections saw the most injuries even between battles; bays A and B were set up to handle those. Bay C, tucked comfortably away into the ship, was reserved for patients well on their way to recovery. It was quiet and sparsely populated enough to be manned by a single medic at a time, given of course that the medic had the right qualifications. Jeffrey had those qualifications.

At times Jeffrey resented the quiet work in the solemn bay, but mostly because he felt his skills were not being utilized. He was one of the most qualified doctors on the ship, burdened with taking care of the minor medical situations of the ship, from in-grown toenails to motion sickness. Of course, there were very few soldiers on the ship who had just the title of soldier; many of them had much more mundane jobs. He could have been serving food in the cafeteria.

He walked down the row of beds, reading charts, drawing back curtains, chatting with sleepy patients and making sure everything was in order. The lighting dimmed slightly, a ship-wide phenomenon designed to mimic nighttime. After checking on his last patient, Russell decided he would do some work at the front desk.

As soon as he sat down, Jim buzzed in from outside the door. Russell depressed a switch, letting the guard know he was there.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"You've got a visitor," said the guard, the speaker crackling as he let his finger off the button.

"Send him in."

The door slid open. It was a her.

"Lt. Gibson," said Russell, standing up and attempting to straighten out his coat.

"At ease, private," she said. "I'm here to see the prisoner."

To Jeffrey, the prisoner was just another patient, although not as talkative; he had been in a coma for over two weeks.

"Certainly. Right this way," said Jeffrey. His desk work could wait.

The bed was like any other in the bay, although located on the far wall away from the others.

Lt. Gibson stopped at the end of the bed. "Not much security."

"There doesn't need to be," said Jeffrey. "He's not going anywhere for a while. When he does wake up, he'll be as weak as a kitten."

The comatose man had stern features and a face that seemed frozen in concentrated thought.

"So his condition hasn't changed?" she asked, looking sullenly at the man.

"He seems to be continually improving. I wasn't here when he arrived, but according to the sheets he was in pretty bad shape."

"How so?"

Jeffrey remembered Jim's comment about Lt. Gibson being ex-UTF. He wondered if she had known the man, but didn't dare to ask. He understood that the man had been somewhat famous on the other side of the war. William Gunther held no familiarity for him, however.

"No gunshots or anything of the sort, but some severe respiratory issues. He was stranded in a UTF fighter while his cockpit filled with a nasty concoction of gases. More or less, he was poisoned by the gases and slipped into a coma. We barely found him in time to save him," he said.

Lt. Gibson frowned. "Any permanent damage?"

"Not that we can tell. His lungs are in good shape, but the rest of his body is going to take some time to recover from the overall effects of the gas," he said. "He's scheduled to be transferred soon to a planetside POW hospital."

"I know," said Gibson, "That's why I came."

Jeffrey nodded. They obviously had some sort of history.

"Would you like some time alone?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I've heard enough. That's all I wanted to know."

She turned to leave.

"One moment, ma'am," said Jeffrey, "I need you to sign this visitor slip."

He flipped to the last page of the man's documents, an empty sheet of lines. Curtly, Lt. Gibson signed on the first line, nodded to him, and walked out of the bay.

Russell stood at the end of the man's bed, wondering just what chain of events had led him to this bed in a foreign ship. He walked over to check the man's vitals. Referencing the last recording, Russell was surprised to find them a bit higher than usual. He recorded the changes, smugly smiling. UTF or not, he was always happy to have a patient recovering well in his medical bay.

At the top of the page sat the usual notice of prisoner-of-war status. It reminded Jeffrey, or whoever else was staffing Bay C, to report any unusual changes in condition immediately. Russell would report it, of course, reminding his superiors of the great job he was doing.

On his way back to the desk, he stopped, remembering that Lt. Gibson had signed the last sheet. Curious, he flipped through the pages to find it.

"Mari," he said. "Mari Gibson. Not a bad first name at all."

A strong arm wrapped around his neck, pulling his head backwards into a solid blow.

Chapter V: Traitor

 * To: 8915::starshare::


 * Sender: JSheldon::UTFhc::


 * Lionus,


 * The higher ones, Lionus? Have you truly gone insane?


 * You reprimand the war I fight while sitting in a cell and waiting for an alien race to rescue humanity?


 * Humanity must rescue itself. Only by moving about this galaxy can we save ourselves from destruction. As it stands now, Neo Terra may be the only hope we have of a future.


 * But Neo Terra is just barely habitable. Centuries of monumental effort are to be poured into it before it begins to look like Earth. Have you really found a planet that can be so easily terraformed by a single ship?


 * Please, Lionus. I beg you. Give me the location of this planet and I will multiply your resources tenfold. I will trim your 500 years down to 50-- even less if I can get the funding. Imagine, Lionus: Humans could set foot on this planet of yours within your lifetime! Planet Nadel, perhaps? Have history view you as a hero, an explorer, not a murderer.


 * Sincerely,
 * James

The medic collapsed backwards into his patient, nearly knocking both men over.

Gunther braced himself against the man's weight and gently lowered him to the ground. He glanced from curtain to curtain, looking for any signs of activity from the other patients. Nobody had heard him.

He checked the medic's coat for anything useful. Not just a medic, he noticed-a doctor, a young one. Dr. Russell. For a second, Gunther regretted the miserable payment he had given for the life-saving services. His surroundings belonged to an militia capital ship, though; he had to find a way out.

The ground seemed to give under his first step, the room twisting as though to turn the opposite wall on its side. Gunther closed his eyes hard, pulling close the lines of his forehead in an effort to find his bearings. Opening his eyes, the room righted itself again, although his body still burned. Muscles contracted with reluctance, with any coordination only assembled through intense concentration.

He had awakened early. Something had triggered it, he thought-something fleeting now like a dream. Had he heard Mari's voice? On a militia ship? His headache flared at the thought. The Everett had been attacked out of the blue, an entire flight squadron lost to quixotic command decisions. Save for the microscopic chance of a random meeting in the middle of dead space, the Everett's position had to have been compromised-but by Mari?

A large door at the other end of the room offered his only chance of escape. Somehow he knew a guard would be on the other side, bored and waiting. He scoured the front desk, finding a small, black button-- an intercom? He depressed it, shuffling around pens and papers, ending the auditory performance with a dropped coffee mug.

A low, deep voice came from the speaker on the desk, "Jeffrey, you alright in there?"

As quietly as he could, Gunther moved to the other side of the door, away from the desk. He crouched, waiting for the guard.

And he waited. Steadying himself against another dizziness spell, he finally heard the sound he expected. The door opened and the guard walked in, his head turned away from Gunther.

After practicing the same attack for the second time in a night, Gunther dragged the unconscious man behind the desk. Briefly, he wondered why the NGM guards followed the UTF tradition of not wearing a helmet when on ship duty. The guard would wake up wondering the same thing. He stripped the guard's uniform, guessing that it would fit well, or well enough. It did. He would play the role of recruit, innocently exploring the ship. The guard's rifle would answer any of the tougher questions.

The door slid open, revealing an empty hallway. Hastily assembled ships were the militia's trademark and it showed more on the inside of the ship than on the outside. It had to be a battleship, Gunther decided, most likely the same one that had attacked the Everett earlier. How long ago had that been? He should have checked for a calendar on the desk.

It didn't matter now.

He started down the hallway. His first encounter, another guard on duty, nodded curtly as he passed. Gunther studied how the soldier moved about the ship, copying his walking style and the way he held his weapon. The floor plans slowly came to him. He had always made a point to study whatever information they had received on enemy ships in order to better instruct his own men as they boarded, but he never imagined using them in this type of situation. The twists and turns of this ship varied considerably from the plans he had seen, indicating some manner of uniqueness. Overconfidence must have overtaken the commanding officer during the ship's encounter with the Everett.

He would find out more once he got to the war room-if it existed. Briefly he had considered taking to the hangars in an attempt to commandeer a tactical ship, but then grimly remembered his last experience in the cockpit. If he could get to the war room, he could transfer information, perhaps even future battle plans, back home. Militia officers would be there as well, potentially serving as hostages if he had to ransom his way off the ship.

He was in a tough spot.

A short man passed by him in the hall, briefly questioning his presence with a glare.

"Excuse me, private," said the man after passing him.

Gunther paused, drawing in a short breath through his nose. He turned around.

"Yes, sir? Is there a problem?" asked Gunther.

The man, a technician, dressed simply and had a simple look to him. A thick mustache covered his upper lip, dark black with the occasional grey, like the rest of his hair. Tools hung loosely from his belt, including a welding torch and a slim tank of gas.

"Callahan," he said, looking at Gunther's name tag. Gunther had forgotten to do so himself, and mentally thanked the technician for reading it. "I know a guy with that name, and you ain't him."

"Sir, there are lots of people on this ship," said Gunther, trying his best dumbfounded look.

The technician moved closer to him. Gunther tightened his grip on the gun.

"Yeah, but he's got a scratch across the C just like you do," he said, again motioning towards the tag.

"Oh?" Gunther looked down. "They did mention something about this suit being reissued. I just assumed the guy before me died."

The other man frowned, pulling out his radio. "No, I just saw Jim today. Hold on here for a second."

"Yes, sir," said Gunther.

He pulled his radio to his mouth. "Sam, you there? Sam? I got a question about uniform inventory."

No reply. Gunther eased up a bit.

"Damn him," said the technician. "Alright, you seem normal enough. Just head on through."

"Thank you, sir," said Gunther, turning to walk away.

"One more thing."

Gunther's jaw tightened. "Yes, sir?"

"Who's in charge of you?" asked the technician.

"Mari Gibson, sir."

The technician thought for a moment, pursing his lips together.

"Ah, okay. So you're one of the new Dragonflies," he said.

A smart man would have made up a name to catch a potential intruder in a lie; this technician was not that man.

"That's right, sir," said Gunther.

"Hell, I can respect that," said the technician. "You guys have the toughest job on the ship. You have a nice evening."

"Thank you, sir."

Suspicions relieved, the technician returned to his duty, presumably menial repairs around the ship, which clung tightly to the stereotypical disarray of an NGM vessel. Gunther shifted the strap of his rifle so it hung loosely on his back.

He knew his journey would end at a door guarded by at least one soldier. Quick lies and a gun would only get him so far. Ideas swarmed through his head, a plan constantly evolving as he moved through the ship.

But the plan fell apart as soon as he saw the door. Surprisingly, it remained unguarded. He simply pressed a button and walked in.

He had gotten there-the war room. It stretched upwards, the walls narrowing towards each other until interrupted by a small strip of ceiling. Long red curtains separated the bastions of the wall, lending a rippling appearance to the space. A Veheran sculpture dominated the upper part of the room, its chiseled lines and crystallized protrusions complemented by a warm hue of yellow which glowed softly from within.

A large, elevated, central table looked as if it could seat thirty people, but remained barren and still. Its sleek, black surface provided none of the information he sought.

"Mr. Gunther," said a stout man, emerging from a passageway concealed by one of the curtains. "I'm glad you're here."

Immediately Gunther shifted the rifle, taking aim at the stranger. The man, a general with fully adorned uniform, stood his ground unphased.

The general said: "I'd apologize for being late, but I have a feeling you won't apologize for being early. I really had intended to have this meeting planetside-"

"Cut it," said Gunther. "You're getting me off this ship."

"I certainly could do that; I'm in command of this vessel. But I won't."

Gunther shifted his aim upward from the medallion-adorned chest to the grinning face of the general.

"Now, no need for that. I know you were out for a while and that you probably can't handle a rifle," he said, a crude smile stretching across his ruddy face.

"At this range? Even the greens on this ship could manage a killing shot," said Gunther. His head still swelled with pain, but his hands were steady on the rifle.

"In defense of the greens, I have to say that their rifles are a bit heavier," said the general.

Gunther held his aim while trying to gauge the weight of the rifle.

"Damn," he said, lowering it.

He had walked right into a trap.

"The medics onboard assured us you wouldn't be awake before we got to Bor," said the general. "I didn't want to take any chances, so I made sure the man guarding you had an empty magazine."

"So you knew I would come here." he said.

"Given your reputation and record, yes-we knew you would try something. We had figured it would happen on Bor, though," said the general. "Like I said, this meeting is early. I'm General Edgar Chambers."

General Edgar Chambers. Bor. Gunther wondered why Chambers gave information away so readily.

"What do you want?" asked Gunther.

"I want you to join us. To become a commanding officer in the Neo-Galactic Militia," he said.

"I'm not a traitor," said Gunther.

General Chambers frowned. "That's not what I've heard."

He produced a small remote from his pocket. At the press of a button, the opposite wall of the room lit up in full video. Gunther immediately recognized the UTF news network, his own name accompanying the top story. Bold letters barked out at the viewer: TRAITOR KILLED IN ACTION. A familiar face appeared on the screen.

"It was unfortunate, to say the least of it. We just managed to terminate William Gunther in the middle of the act of treason. The turncoat had given away our ship position and an ideal time to attack, but we still managed to survive against incredible odds."

Parks. Gunther struggled to keep his composure under a deluge of anger.

"Enough," he said.

Chambers turned off the screen. "I'm sorry I had to break it to you. I should add that you're officially MIA status; your father threatened to resign his post if you were recorded otherwise. I'm sure he would be rather impressed at your performance, just as I was. We've since made adjustments to the ship to prevent an attack like that from happening again-but still, very clever strategy. Others higher up think so as well. We can use someone like you."

Gunther ignored the repeated offer. "How am I alive?"

Stretching his back, Chambers moved to take a seat. He motioned for Gunther to follow, earning a reluctant but complying response. From his belt he pulled out a small metal box of cigars and a lighter.

"Care for a cigar?" he asked.

"I don't smoke," said Gunther.

Chambers chuckled. "Of course you don't."

"You allow smoking on your vessels?" asked Gunther.

"No, we don't," said Chambers. "But that's an archaic rule. This ship is run too tight to be blown up by a nice, relaxing smoke."

Chambers gingerly lit up a cigar and puffed at it, enjoying the initial flavor. Gunther let his question hang in the air.

"You're alive at the insistence of one of our newer recruits, Mari Gibson," he said, pausing to gauge Gunther's reaction. "She would only offer us information on the Everett in exchange for an agreement not to harm you. Of course, things got complicated when you nearly disabled our ship-- your flight formation didn't exactly work in your favor, either. Technically, though, we never shot at you."

"Mari," said Gunther. "She's the traitor. She's here on this ship?"

"Yes, you're right. The news report probably should have been about her," said Chambers. "She's currently in charge of our boarding party, the Dragonflies. Quite the soldier."

Gunther recalled her heartfelt goodbye. Had she tried to warn him? Mari had a habit of being too subtle.

"I want to see her," said Gunther.

"Accept my offer," said Chambers, "And you'll be working with her on a regular basis."

Gunther stared at him, trying to collect information from the stony gaze of the man. Age hung on him and the stresses of combat had worn his skin. His rough face widened when he spoke, every word revealing evenly spaced, pearly teeth.

"I need time to think about it," said Gunther.

"If you want time, you have time," said Chambers. "But make it quick. We have a council meeting tomorrow morning, and I want you to be there."

"A council meeting?" asked Gunther.

"Yes, with many important people in attendance. We'll be discussing some urgent matters that have just come up, one of which I think will help you make your decision. Come to the meeting, and give us your decision directly after," said Chambers.

"And if I say no?"

"Then we throw you in a cold, cramped prison cell until the war's over, when you'll either go to trial or get liberated, depending on how things turn out. With all the information you'll have, we couldn't possibly let you go free. I'm sure you understand," said Chambers.

"Yes," said Gunther. He found himself unable to manage any other words.

Light flooded into the room. Looking to his side, Gunther saw the door three figures silhouetted against the corridor lighting. Two guards escorted a woman through, the harsh light suffocated as the door slid back into position behind them.

"Mr. Gunther," said Chambers, "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our meeting short. My guest of honor is here."

The woman approached the table. Immediately, Gunther recognized her as one of the richest, most powerful women in the galaxy: Denise Banks. Her father had been among the first to land on Vehera, establishing the company SeedTech, a distributor of the exotic specimens found on the planet. She had just recently transitioned the administrative center of the company to Vehera, a controversial move that had every vainglorious member of the media arguing for weeks. As far as the core worlds knew, she had absolutely no involvement with the resistance movement.

"Denise," said Chambers, rising from his chair and extending his arms out. "It's good to have you on board my ship again."

Denise moved as though going in for a hug, but quickly snatched the cigar from Chambers' mouth at the last moment, grinning as she snuffed it out on the table.

Chambers laughed, "Still sticking to the rules, I see."

"Yes," said Denise. "I wouldn't expect so much from you, though, Edgar."

They hugged.

"Who's our guest?" asked Denise.

Chambers looked at Gunther as though expecting him to rise.

"This is the man we talked about earlier. William Gunther," said Chambers.

Denise Banks extended a hand out to Gunther. He quickly stood and shook it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gunther," she said.

"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Banks," he said.

"We have a meeting early tomorrow morning. I want you to be there," she said.

"I've already been invited," said Gunther. "I plan to come."

"I invited you," said Chambers, "but it was Denise's idea."

Denise smiled. Despite her advanced age and status, she had a youthful, warm smile.

"Until then," said Chambers, "you'll be under the escort of these two fine soldiers. They'll get you some civilian clothes and show you your quarters. I'd also like for you to go to the medical bay and get checked out."

"I will. A pleasure meeting you, General Chambers," said Gunther with a nod. "And you too, Ms. Banks."

The guards escorted Gunther out of the war room.

At first glance, his quarters appeared to be a typical civilian guest room on board a capital ship. Rugged edges had been replaced with soft lines, harsh lighting covered by shades and utilitarian bareness eliminated by civilian comforts. Some of the comforts were absent, however. Despite the ample decoration, the room retained all the functionality of a prison cell. His issued clothes laid on the bed.

Veheran clothes were simple, with a flowing design and bold colors. They mimicked core-world clothing to an extent, while downplaying excesses and sharpening frills. As a foreigner and a military officer, he felt out of place wearing them.

Then again, he was out of place.

Hunger set on him. An ineffective beep sounded when he tried to open the door. Moments later, both guards faced the open doorway, ready to raise their rifles at any sign of trouble.

"I'm hungry," he said. "Is the cafeteria still open?"

"Yes, sir," said the first guard, lowering his gun.

"Lead the way," said Gunther. "That is, if I'm allowed."

"Follow me, sir," said the guard.

He followed. The second guard took up position behind him, walking in pace with the first. They were good; they wouldn't allow the same slip-ups that had gotten Gunther so far before. Of course, he had no desire to escape at the moment. He would bide his time, taking Chambers' offer and waiting for the right chance. Until that chance, he had unfinished business on this ship.

Briefly, he remembered his last stay on the bridge of the Everett, where he had walked through the halls of his own ship with two of his own men, their loyalty to him superseding UTF regulations. His energy then was boundless, surpassing his current state of fatigue. No-he couldn't make his move now even if he tried.

The two guards remained silent as he entered the cafeteria. They mentioned the medical bay, perhaps noticing his shaky hands or tired eyes. Gunther waved them off. Some real food would give him strength.

But there was no "real food" to be found, or as far as he could tell. The NGM cafeteria had a rotating menu with only one day of the week having anything similar to the Origin staples of the core worlds. Neo Terrans and Hesperans prided themselves on their resistance to the Veheran Renaissance, rejecting the non-Origin foods that had become so popular on other planets. Tonight, menu only offered salmon as a main item, with fries as the only Origin side item. He had eaten fish before, of course, but had never liked it.

Somehow, though, the Veheran food selection bothered him little when he sat down to eat. He found every bite delicious, unable to satisfy the hunger he had built up while unconscious. The guards quietly shadowed him as he rose to get a second helping, and again as he received a third.

Finally, he felt his stomach react, once again accepting a normal intake of food. He disposed of his tray and headed out the doors. If any soldier or worker had questioned his presence, he had done a good job hiding it.

His shadows remained with him.

"Sir, we'll escort you to the medical bay now," said the guard.

"It's alright," said Gunther. "I know the way."

This time, they both followed behind him. It could have been the same way for the cafeteria-Gunther had known where it was as well. He walked with a newfound energy, confident that his medical check-up would go well.

It did. The doctor he had knocked out had left, along with the guard. A different, older doctor prescribed some small red pills.

"Your body is through most of the detoxification process, but these pills will help," he said. "Take one with every meal."

He went into a deeper explanation of the pills, but Gunther tuned him out. He passed the bottle from hand to hand, wondering if the medication matched the doctor's words. It was a trick the UTF would be all too eager to use-doping up a prisoner to prevent him from doing harm. Somehow, though, he couldn't envision Chambers or the NGM giving such an order. The pills were legitimate.

"Thank you, doctor," said Gunther. "Sorry about earlier. I hope Dr. Russell is doing alright."

The doctor gave him a short, cold stare, one of a man bound by oath to heal, but reluctant to help an enemy. He turned and went back to his work without another word. Gunther left the medical bay, his escort still in tow.

What little healing he had left, he hoped, would come that night as he slept in his quarters.

"You have a knack for being early, Mr. Gunther," said General Chambers.

Gunther once again took a seat at the war room table. The lighting in the room remained fairly dim, despite the time of day.

"Old habits die hard," said Gunther.

"The others should be here soon," said Denise, who had abruptly stopped conversing with Chambers upon Gunther's arrival. "You should know, Gunther, that some of them won't exactly be receptive to your presence here."

"I can understand that," said Gunther. "I am UTF, after all."

"Hopefully what I have to say today will change your mind," she said.

Gunther nodded. The last member of the council arrived five minutes late, making for a total of twelve in attendance, including Gunther. He did not yet understand his purpose there, or if they intended him to be a member or a guest.

"Good morning, everyone," said Denise. "And, of course, good evening to those of you who came up from Bor. This High Council meeting has been called because of the urgent and secretive nature of new intelligence we have received."

Gunther looked around the room. The High Council of the Terran Forces consisted of the highest ranked generals and most influential of the civilian sector. Apparently, the rogue worlds had a body just like it; the men and women here were the leaders of the resistance. But where did he fit?

The large, grim General Linn interrupted, "Forgive me, Denise, but I've heard the rumors flying around the ship, as I'm sure others here have. Is it true that the man you introduced as Mr. Gunther is an officer in the ranks of our enemy? You speak of urgency and secrecy, and then you have a Hesperan spy sit in on the meeting."

He glared at Gunther.

"William Gunther is no threat to us," she said. "He is the perfect candidate to help us in this time of need, and he has arrived at the perfect time to do so. I'm not a believer of fate or destiny, but I will gladly seize such an ideal opportunity. If you would let me speak, I hope that I can convince you on the issue."

Linn backed down. Denise handled him well, defusing insolence with tact.

She cleared her throat. "As you all know, Aethra was attacked a little over two standard weeks ago. I think I may have discovered the motivations behind the attack."

She inserted a disc into the small console on the table. A large, holographic projection of the Surrogate, the ancient ship that orbited Vehera, appeared over the table, spinning gently.

"As you know, the Surrogate changed humanity immeasurably upon its discovery. Vehera aside, the information onboard gave us insights on the history of mankind before the Origin War. Specimens from the ship soon found their way throughout the galaxy, offering consumers new choices and altering the basic ecosystems of the planets-to the point of rebalance and to the point of disaster. The UTF could only hold onto the Surrogate and Vehera for five years before they retreated back to the core worlds to deal with the problems caused by the Veheran Renaissance. They hoped the civilians flooding into Vehera would collapse into anarchy, allowing for an easy conquest years later when they returned, having solved their own problems at home.

"But we didn't collapse into anarchy. Led by the ideals of the Old World, we erected a new civilization, marked by democracy and freedom of choice. Our way of life spread much faster than the UTF could handle; the Aethra and Strali systems seceded with little trouble as the core worlds struggled to control the economic, sociological, criminal and ecological problems the Renaissance had created. In the last ten years, however, the two trends have slowed down. Cerbera Minor, like Aethra and Strali, seceded to follow Old World ideals. The United Terran Forces, however--"

"Denise," said Chambers, "Sorry for interrupting, but we're all familiar with the past fifty years of history. Most of us here have lived it. How does this relate to the information you've found?"

"Sorry, Edgar," said Denise. "I didn't mean to stray from the purpose of the meeting. The reason for the history lesson is that two of our base assumptions have been wrong. History has been wrong."

The holograph spun abruptly, expanding beyond the space it originally filled, cropping the elegant lines of the Surrogate as it focused in on one of the small hangars of the station.

"During the attack on Aethra, nearly all forces were dispatched from Vehera to meet the threat. Intelligence showed that the majority of the Terran fleet was accounted for, stationed at home or seen in the attack itself; Vehera could afford to be left undefended. While our fleet traveled through hyperspace, the Surrogate was attacked," she said.

"Impossible," said Linn. "We would have heard of this."

Chambers stood up and said, "As the senior representative of the government of Vehera, I'd like to speak on this issue. After the Surrogate was infiltrated, we scoured the station again and again, finding no evidence that anything was missing, sabotaged or vandalized. We didn't want to muddle the feelings over Aethra with half-answers and confusion over the Surrogate. Everything we saw suggested that the infiltrators either didn't find what they wanted, or simply wanted to dam the inevitable surge of emotion felt over Aethra."

"And that's where we were wrong," said Denise. "We had assumed that the Surrogate was simply an artifact of the past, only useful to our cause as a symbol of the knowledge it once gave us. Recent findings by my team of investigators, however, have been disturbing. They tell me that the Surrogate still had information to offer-information that was buried under a complex series of activations and programming failsafes."

"How do they know that?" asked Chambers, once again seated.

"They know because they found it. Or, rather, they found where it was; the information itself has been deleted. Mr. Gunther," she said, turning to him, "You had a concentration in pre-Origin history during your stay at the academy. Can you tell us a bit about the history of the Surrogate itself?"

She had done her research. Gunther cleared his throat.

"It was built in Sol nearly a decade before Earth vanished, funded by the corporation headed by Lionus Nadel. Even after vowing secrecy, everyone involved in the construction was murdered. The ship was sent to Vehera, which it completely terraformed, although the process took nearly half a millennium," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Gunther," she said. "Recent research performed by my company shows that Lionus Nadel had ties with the Terra Liberation Front. Would you agree?"

"Certainly," said Gunther. "He was a businessman. He had ties all over the world, especially with world leaders. The Terra Liberation Front was a coalition of nations, just like the UTF, although not quite as technologically advanced."

Denise said, "But technologically advanced enough to develop the weapon that destroyed Earth-a project that would take massive resources."

"Yes, but they only had one, similar to the first deployment of the atomic bomb, where only two were in existence. Had they developed more, they would have won the war without a doubt. When their enemies, the UTF, went on the final push of the war, tracking down and destroying every ship, they felt compelled to use the prototype on Earth itself," he said.

"What would you say if I had intelligence and research suggesting that Lionus Nadel had direct ties with the funding of the development of the superweapon?" asked Denise.

Council members shuffled in their seats. Gunther straightened in his, leaning forward and speaking with a tone of mixed urgency and amazement.

"Are you suggesting that the information stolen from the Surrogate relates to the superweapon that destroyed Earth?" he asked.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," said Denise. "Does it not agree with your senior thesis? You argued that knowledge survives, both good and bad."

"Yes," said Gunther. "It agrees. And it's certainly possible. It doesn't explain why we-why the Terrans abandoned the Surrogate in the first place, though."

"That's the other bit of history I believe we have wrong," she said. "For decades we've believed that the Terrans pulled out of Vehera because of the problems that were developing in the core worlds. Rather than accept this flimsy explanation, I believe they pulled out after finding information on the weapon. They saw what Vehera would create-- a galaxy full of ideals that ran opposite of the principles that had helped them thrive for centuries. They didn't want to claim Vehera as their own because they wanted to eventually destroy it."

"The United Terran Forces are not on a mission of genocide," said Gunther.

"They aren't?" asked General Linn. "Did you miss what they did to Aethra? I'm certain you would be shouting 'Genocide!' if we had done the same to Hespera."

"Aethra was a distraction," said Gunther. "Whatever was onboard the Surrogate was important enough to justify, in their eyes, the attack on the planet. If you're right, Denise, it still doesn't explain why they waited fifty years before staging this infiltration."

"Yes," said Denise. "It doesn't. But I want you to find out."

"You want him to find out?" asked Linn, his face red and his eyes angry.

Gunther found himself asking the same question.

Denise raised a finger in the air to settle Linn, and said, "Yes, William Gunther has the background to make him ideal for this mission. He is familiar with pre-Origin history and UTF policy."

"What mission?" asked Gunther.

"I'm glad you asked," said Denise. "That's the next item on our agenda."

The Surrogate vanished from the holographic display. In its place materialized a new station, small and clearly of core world design.

"Earlier, I referred to intelligence that I had gathered on the issue. This core world station, named Iota, is designed to look like one of the many scientific, exploratory outposts on the fringes of settled space. We believe, however, that Iota is actually a high-energy weapons research station, ideal for the purpose because of its relative isolation. In response to the Surrogate infiltration, we will hit this station fast and hard, get aboard, find the information, and retreat," she said.

"And he will do this?" asked Linn, pointing an accusatory finger at Gunther.

Denise nodded in affirmation.

"How?" asked Linn. "Do we give him his strike fighter back, then send him home with all of our names and any other delicate information he's collected?"

Again, Chambers stood up. "No. Should he accept this mission, we will give him the Corona. He'll take my place as commanding officer while I move on to command the newly-constructed Isis."

Linn stopped hiding whatever was left of his outrage. The entire council involved itself after that, each member openly debating the decision Denise Banks had made. After half an hour, they came to a consensus-six votes for allowing Gunther to complete the mission and five against.

Exhausted, Denise faced him. "William Gunther, the High Council has deemed you worthy of holding the position of General in the Neo-Galactic Militia, representing the rogue worlds as commanding officer of the Corona. Do you accept this position?"

Her solid gaze and subtle intensity of voice urged him to accept. Chambers glanced at Gunther, reminding the younger man of the consequences of denying the offer.

"I accept," said Gunther.

During the swear-in, two council members walked out of the room in protest. He had walked into the room a prisoner, guided by two soldiers under orders to kill him at the slightest sign of escape. He walked out of the room a general, protected by two bodyguards under orders to protect him at all cost.