Are You Aware Of the Fire Beneath Your Feet?
Governor's Mansion
155 West Paces Ferry Road, New Whitehorse, Terranova
9/11/2101, 1815.27 American Time
Sitting down at his desk, Guy Thomas Zellner, Governor of the Union, calls up his copy of the LeHaye Bible, bookmarked to the Book of Tribulation, stroking a button on the workstation holodisplay to begin.
”The Antichrist,“ Saint Timothy LeHaye, the last of the true Christian prophets, speaks in the background, as fireballs boil up from the Twin Towers, from the Pentagon, from the Capitol, from all the ancient and long-vanished monuments of his race’s superiority over them,”in retribution for God-fearing men rallying together to stand against him, destroyed all the places holy to the race of Man, all the monuments of Their supremacy, bringing woe, devastation and death upon the believers and those still unbelieving alike, and,“ the scene dissolves to leather-clad, jackbooted zeds running through the streets on antique Ford-Davidson gasburner motorcycles, whipping and otherwise preying upon innocent men, women and children,” the armies of the Harlot of the Antichrist rode through the streets of the fallen cities, subjecting men , women and those children who still obeyed the will of their fathers and their Lord, Jesus Christ, to unspeakable and multiple depravities, turning them away from their Christ, away from their fathers, turning them towards the path to bestiality, darkness, Hell itself.“
A larger holovid projector plays on the wall in front of his bed, showing him real-time Webcam footage of the scene outside his Capitol, all those ungrateful, goddamn Fall Line and South Coast zeds on the front steps, screaming “GIVE US A VOICE! GIVE US A VOICE!” over and over.
Highly unauthorized Webcam footage...YouTube knows better than that, the National Police as well, letting a freelancer get a cam within a mile of the Capitol at a time like this.
”So it was in all the cities of the earth(’Chaos, rampant in the age of distrust’),“ LeHaye's voice drones,“ the armies of the Harlot—”
A child window briefly pops up, showing the murderous zed Hillary Clinton, butcher of Waco, chief architect of the Conspiracy against her kind and his.
”—and the Antichrist who was but her black-hearted harlot—”
Another child window shows Hillary's lover, the infamous Condelezza Rice, the zed directly responsible for the September 11th Massacres a hundred years ago.
”—riding through the streets(’confrontations, impulsive habitat’)leaving misery and death in their wake(’on and on south of Heaven’)for three days and three nights. On the morning of the fourth day, the armies of Man banded together as one, under the banner of RJ Williams and all his mighty men, driving the forces of the Harlot before them, subjugating them in the bondage the race of Eve deserved(’on and on south of Heaven’), the bondage the Lord had commanded Adam to inflict upon Eve at the beginning—“
Knocking back half a glass of Kentucky and kike with his free hand, the inheritor of the New America watches and smiles, as soldiers beat down on all those filthy, stinking zeds.
His smile disappears when he looks back at all those zeds on the steps of his Capitol continuing to chant and stomp their feet, National Policemen arrayed all around them, not doing a damn thing to stop them.
”—and, when they were done(’on and on south of Heaven’),“ LeHaye continues, ignorant of the shrilling zeds on the other HV,“ the Lord called together all the mighty men who had done this thing, saying unto them[in a voice that sounds a lot like the first Chairman of the YouTube Media Committee, Bruce Boxleitner] ‘too much folly and wickedness has been loosed upon My Earth, too many false covenants, enforcing all manner of folly and wickedness and depravity in the name of freedom, have profaned and corrupted My Chosen People, have allowed the harlots free rein over you, and you have suffered much because of it, your people stripped bare and their shame and their whoredoms laid open and exposed, just as I warned them would happen should they ever turn away from Me.
Your sufferings are now at an end, and will remain so forever, if you follow My commandments to the letter. First, you, My mighty men, shall now take and keep your rightful places as My anointed kings over Men. In this duty you must not fail Me, or, again, you shall suffer My Perfect Wrath.’
‘This we shall do, Lord,’ said the mighty men all as one.
‘Second,’ Christ said unto them,’ you must place the harlots in the same bondage I commanded Adam to lay upon Eve at the beginning. They are beasts, lowest of My Creation, and, this is how you must treat them. Pen them up in cages, keep them apart from one another and from yourselves, put upon their backs all the low and hard labors of the world and constantly lay bare their shame, expose their many whoredoms and chastize them for it. In this duty you must not fail me, or again, you shall suffer My Perfect Wrath.’
‘This we shall do, Lord,’ said the mighty men all as one.
‘Third,’ the God of Abraham commanded them,‘ you must, at once, rule your nations with force and with fire, and forbid the making of false covenants, the adherance to false covenants; I say unto you now, true freedom lies in utter bondage to Me, the Lord, your God, and to you, My chosen Kings over all the earth.’
‘We know that now, Lord,’ said the mighty men all as one. ‘Forgive us the folly of adherence to false covenants, for believing their promises of freedom and equality, for we know those promises are promises of depravity, perversity, sinfulness and to bondage far worse than Yours, Lord.’
‘You are forgiven,’ the Lord, their God, told them,’ as only I can, as only the race of Man is capable of, but, be warned, you must do as I say, in all things, or, again, you shall suffer My Perfect Wrath.’ ”
‘We shall do as You command, O’ Lord,’ said the mighty men all as—“
Goddamnit, his Gilda would have to have the bad fucking manners to whimper for more of what he'd just gotten through giving her.
Angrily, he knocks back the rest of the Kentucky and kike, her Governor getting up out of the chair, grabbing the kinky black hair of that worthless piece of Fall Line ghetto trash, jerking her head up just so He can slap her across the face one, two, three, four, five, six frickin' times, just like she wanted him to, like she’d do to some other zed whennever he turned his back on her for even a second.
Her subhuman kind continues screeching in the background for rights they don't deserve, as “South of Heaven“ plays in the background, both serving to make him that much angrier, as he just keeps hitting her, just like she wants him to.
Like all those other zeds want him to as well.
“GIVE US A VOICE! GIVE US A VOICE!” they all continue chanting , their stomping pounding in his head, as he hauls his Gilda out of bed, throwing her into the desk, the holo of the Book of Tribulation wavering a bit from the resulting impact, the Governor of the Union grabbing hold of her hair again, driving her ugly, black face hard into the polished cherry wood of the desktop.
His every breath comes in ragged heaves cooling the white foam running down the corners of his mouth, the Governor of the Union—their Governor, whether they frickin' liked it or not—stabbing a button on the holodisplay.
If they wanted a voice, then he would give them a voice.
By God, would he ever give them a voice.
“Guy?“ Micheal John Bauer, his Prime Minister, asks.
“It's gone on just a little bit further than it should've, don't you think, Micheal?“ his Governor tells him, Micheal replying instantly:
“All units, you are authorized to use Delta Level protocols to disperse the crowd, repeat, Delta Level protocols.“
On the larger HV, National ACV-137 Spectre gunships swoop down on the zeds, five-terajoule laser cannon, five-hundred gigajoule autolasers and hell missiles tearing into them, other National Policemen converging on the Capitol's front entry, their .502 Magnum massdriver riflesblazing, the zeds getting what they wanted at long last, the speakers in his office deafening him with the cheering and exultation of those watching this on the InterWeb.
Echoing with the only voice the Governor of the Union would ever permit any of them to have.
“...Mama?!” the thirteen-year old girl screams, kneeling over her mama, holding her hand...she's bleeding from the ears and the mouth, her chest is all crushed, and her legs are bent out of shape.
She's not moving.
“Mama,” Jami pleads, hearing the engine roaring, tires squealing as he turned around again, “ you gotta get up, now, please, he’s comin’ back, Mama, please, please, you gotta get up.”
The roar of the gasburner’s engine grows louder, he had gotten up speed, Jami feels the headlights burning into her as he charges back down Long Street, horn blasting the first few notes of “Glory to the Union,” into the night, he’s gonna be on top of them any second now, out to finish what he’d started doing.
“Mama, please,” Jami sobs,“please, get up, please get up, please—”
Hot, burning white lights....
...rip through the bridge, more alarms screaming in her ears, goddamn Yanker warships everywhere she looked in the flickering piloting holodisplay...they didn’t have one freakin' chance in Hell of making it out of this alive....
“Grav shielding reduced by 95%!” Chief Warrant Officer Micki Phillips reports from the engineering station at the rear of the bridge. “Primary and secondary electrical systems are trashed out, teritary electrical system 78% disrupted, warp engine severely damaged, venting antimatter and warp engine coolant, auto-repair system off line, main lasers two, three, five, seven, eight and eleven knocked out, grav beam forward and starboard emitters destroyed, electronic warfare subsystems destroyed, crew and middecks both open to space, hangar bay destroyed...med section reporting heavy casaulties, 13 dead, 19 wounded.”
“Number One,” she adds,“ I know you want to save as many of them as you can, we all do...but—”
“All available warp engine power to the grav shielding and main lasers!” screams the frightened senseless 21-year old girl now commanding the Unbroken.“ Return! Fiii-re!”
“—you’re in command now,” that bitch of a flight engineer just has to remind her,“you have to think of your ship and crew as well...you’ve done all you can, you have to....”
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
Zellnersboro Aerospace Corridor, 0.05 AU from Twice-Born
9/11/2101, 2320.68 Zulu
“...all hands, man your battle stations, captain to the bridge, on the double, captain to the bridge, on the double!”
Commander Jamilinne Sipe, captain of the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken, is already out of bed—she's learned a long time ago to sleep in her greys—out of her quarters, and halfway down the red-lit corridor to the ladder leading down to the middeck by the time her first lieutenant had started shouting over the 1-MC for everyone to come running.
Jami's also learned to sleep light....
She barely acknowledges the cry of “Captain on the bridge!” made by one of the Legionnaires standing guard at the hatchway, barely even hears Lieutenant Commander Stephanie Rhoads announcing “captain has the bridge,” as she sits down at the command station, belts herself in, feels her ship emerge from warpdrive into normal space, hurtling headlong at 611 klicks per second towards—
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the Red Cross medical relief ship Bernadette Healey, transporting refugees from Twice-Born; am under attack by hostile machines, have taken heavy casualties, warp engine, hangar bay, and med decks all holed, grav shield generator destroyed...we are defenseless, we have women and children on board, someone please—“
someone screams amidst the snow on her right-hand command holodisplay, the captain of the Unbroken seeing the Red Cross medship for herself in the left-hand display, along with four Freeman Lang-class heavy cruisers, two with the coiled snake insignia of the Alliance For Ethical Government, the other two sporting the flaming phoenix and star of the Twice-Born Republican Interstellar Navy, all four closing on the medship together behind a cloud of T-novan-built F18B Predator warpfighters displaying both supposedly-warring factions' colors, lasers from all the hostiles tearing into the unarmed and defenseless ship.
“Gunnery deck, bridge, fire main lasers, “ Jami snaps, no hesitation in her voice,“ launch Gobstoppers and Smashmouths, defensive, launch decoys and anti-beam ordinance; Number One, release the hounds!“
“Warpfighters away,“ Stevie replies from the piloting station at the forward end of the bridge, the holo of the 1,262-ton Dauntless-class cruiser's gunnery officer, Lieutenant Prudence Davidson, reporting,“Missiles and torps away, firing main las—
Crap!
The bridge shakes, sparking briefly in places, alarms howling inside the headphones of her CyberLink, her flight engineer, Chief Warrant Officer Ariel Dixon, shouting from her station behind the comm and lidar operators,“Grav shielding reduced by 83%, primary electrical system 64% disrupted, secondary el system 41% disrupted, direct hit to warp engine, warp engine containment destabilizing, venting—”
“Return fire!” Jami snaps. “All nonessential systems to secondary power, all available warp engine power to grav shielding and main lasers!”
“Hit 'em again!” she adds unnecessarily.
Moot House #464
Flynt County Highway 49, Owensboro, Terranova
9/11/2101, 1830.00 AMT
“Maan,” Marc Bevill asks his fellow wits seated with him at the stretch end’s middle booth,“just what is their problem? It's our tax money what supports ‘em lazy zeds here and on the South Coast, and this is how they repay us...so what if they don’t have no real represenatives in the Common Legislature, and Horse's Ass gave the corps the right to do whatever they had to to make some money off 'em...man, it wasn’t like it was Pharaoh coming in and killing off all their first-born sons or anything like that.”
“Hell,” he adds, after a sip of his large to-go cup of Moot House coffee,“as far as I’m concerned, Guy Zellner can kill all of ‘em off, nothin’ but a goddamn bunch of troublemakers and crybabies anyway.”
“Damn straight,” Joe Keane chirps right up,“ you damn straight they are, nothin’ but a buncha crybabies, every damn one of ‘em, bitchin’ ‘cause we have to come in there and make 'em do a little bit of work and try to educate ‘em...shoulda shot all of ‘em dead back durin' World War I, 'steada lettin' em all live like we did.”
“Y’damn skippy,” Jim Hunter remarks. “Need to send the goddamn Third Shock Army down here and knock all their heads around, that’s what they oughta do.”
“How ‘bout some more coffee there, darlin’!” Joe hollers out to Candace Hill, the salesperson working the stretch end today, the dirty, goddamn leprechaun SOB banging his cup on the table, knowing damn good and well Candace is busy taking the orders of a family of four in the booth behind them.
“Maan,” Marc observes,“can’t get no good service round here.”
“Hey!” he shouts at Candace.“ The man said he wanted some more goddamn coffee! How ‘bout you shake that fat ass of yours over here with the coffeepot?!”
“You need to do somethin’ ‘bout them girls, Sunni,” Carl Eustis, Joe’s running buddy from way back in the Pleiocine Era, says to Sunni Pate, as she brings the pot around, refilling all four men’s cups. “Gettin’ to where you can’t get a cup of damn coffee without having to wait an hour and a half.”
“She was waiting on other customers,” Sunni replies, feeling Joe’s eyes zeroing in on her ass as she turned round to go back behind the line.
“Always got a damn excuse,” Jim comments, Joe telling him,“it’s the fuckin’ Cooter House, Jim, whaddya expect?”
“More than what I get, for the money I have to pay to eat here,” Jim whines in reply. “I mean, look at this, a goddamn dollar seventy-five for a lil’ bitty ol’ sliver of softshell pie, goddamn ninety cents for a cup of coffee that don’t fill y’hollow tooth and almost five damn dollars for two bacon cheeseburgers and hashbrowns.”
“I know, brother,” Marc replies,“ it’s just ridiculous how much you have to pay...ninety cents for a damn cup of coffee.”
The Moot House district manager chokes on what she wants to say to them, listening to Candace call in her order to Jody Harbuck, the second-shift cook, as she sits back down at the low counter and gets back to work on next week’s schedules for all three of her stores...Ibrahim’s sorry ass was supposed to be have been here ten minutes ago, but it would probably be more like two hours later, before he even bothered to come in the door, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be sober in any case.
Sighing, Sunni turns her attention to the tickets Ibrahim had stuck Amy Smith—no relation, thank you, Jesus—with auditing, the responsibilty, of course, having gone straight to the point on her head, no surprise there....
At least, she tries to turn her attention back to the tickets, hard to do with Toby X booming through the store, Canadace’s idiot co-worker, Scott Ogles, having uploaded ten dollars to number 127 on the jukebox in the far corner of the store...ten years ago, Toby used to be one of her cooks, making $6.75 an hour...now, he makes millions per second, three houses, the one he had in Vargas big enough for the whole town of Owensboro to fit in its horse barn...how the hell was that for irony?!
“....evil gonna fly, there gonna be some hail, when ol’ Guy Z. start rangin’ yo’ bell Terranova gonna give it to ya Terranova gonna give it to ya, say T-Nova gonna give it give it to ya.,” the “artist” once known as Toby James Bohannon raps, his holo gyrating in front of the Union Colors,“Brought to ya courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue, numba one in da hood, gee!”
“O’,” Scott, looking oh so pretty(useless)leaning on the condiment stand on the office end, shouts,“hail yeah!” as the song restarts.
Another sigh...Toby had been just as good—or as bad—a grill operator as he was a rapper, at least on the nights when he hadn’t been too geeked out on rapture to put in a performance at the grill...and, clean or stoned, you could forget about putting him on weekends—which reminded her, she still needed a cook for third shift, Ibrahim doubtlessly having not troubled himself to call someone in for little Johnny’s worthless ass....
Okay, back to the tickets...the system automatically priced and totalled the damn things, yet, whennever food costs got a teeny weeny bit too high, the Moot House Method specifically called for her to access the tickets written in the last 21 shifts and go over them for any sign of error, when the only possible error the girls(and two guys)could make was to call it in wrong....
“...I didn’t—” Sunni starts to say, even knowing it wouldn’t be any use.
“Bitch,” Jimmy spits back at her, jerking a hand at the holoprojection floating over the office workstation,“ don’t you even think of effin’ tellin’ me these ain’t your errors—if they are, in fact, errors...can’t be nothin’ else, but yours, sweetpea, system only charges the prices based on what you say into your Link, so it can’t be its fault.”
“Chargin’,” he added, tapping the holo,“ for a grilled cheese plate on four on ticket 223, when I know damn good and well you called in a T-bone dinner on two, a pork chop dinner and a Porterhouse dinner for that same ticket...do you realize just how much money you just balled up and threw away on that order?”
“Goddamn,” he added, looking right between Sunni’s legs,“if you didn’t have other redeeming qualties to ya, I’d have fired and sent ya back to PTP long time ago....”
“...the rule of law,” Micheal Bauer's holoimage says from just over the high counter, a pair of TSID ops flanking him, as he stands on the Capitol’s still charred and bloody steps,“simply does not apply to enemy combatants, and that was what those people were, plain and simple, foreign troublemakers, instigated by Gilda Schrenko,” the Union Education Minister,“ and the Conspiracy she willingly serves, to create problems where none existed. Yes?”
“Jamie Murdoch,” a balding man, medium height, wearing a brown suit, speaks from the middle of the mob of YouTube News reporters at the foot of the steps,“ Sir, what do you have to say to the claims that people in the Fall Line and South Coast simply wanted sovreignty or representation in the Common Legislature?”
“You right-wing liberal media talking heads are something else indeed,” Bauer, chuckling and shaking his head, replies,“ willing to parrot every word put in your damn mouths by the zeds controlling the Media Committee.”
“Damn,” he adds, shaking his head, pausing for a few moments before finally answering Murdoch’s question:
“It just so happens, Mister Murdoch, that the majority of the people in both the Fall Line and the South Coast—as opposed to all the instigating rabble rousers, most of whom are not even Terranovan citizens, let alone from anywhere on the continent of Basseterre—are perfectlly fine with the way things are now; if you don’t believe me, then check the Ministry of State IW site for the results of the election held last November, you’ll find that 73% of the people in both regions voted no on Amendment 46, which would’ve given them the independence they supposedly wanted, and 77% percent voted no on Amendment 49, which would’ve granted each of the Fall Line and South Coast the full voting representation in the Common Legislature you liberal Republican media elites keep telling folks they all want.”
He pauses again, and the reporters to laugh, Bauer concluding:
Moot House #464
Flynt County Highway 49, Owensboro, Terranova
9/11/2101, 1831.40 AMT
“And, for those of you still believing the zeds' ridiculous assertions that we somehow made all that up, let me clue you in on a dirty little secret...the Secretary of State just happens to be one of them.”
“Damn sure is,“ National Policeman First Class Geoff Halfacre says, through a mouthful of hashbrowns, onions and ketchup, the voices of those watching this all over the IW agreeing with him, Bauer adding:
“And, even she doesn't think highly of her own kind,“ Bauer adds,“ as she proved when she voted for Guy Zellner two years ago, instead of Cynthia McKinley.“
National Policeman 1st Class Garrison Lee Sipe picks at his double quarter cheese plate, only part of him really tuned in to either his elder half-brother or his partner, most of the rest of him still thinking about the zed they'd rousted earlier in that traffic stop on 75, just a mile from the Centerville exit.
What they'd done to her kid, while they made her watch...what they'd done to her afterwards, while waiting on the unit they'd called in to transport her to the LEC in Ford's Valley.
What was going to happen to her, that part unpleasantly reminding the thirty-six year old Sipe of twenty-seven years ago, when Mama had been run down with Daddy's antique gasburner, and Jami had been blamed for it.
Sipe sighs, Halfacre looking at him funny but saying nothing...they even sold copies of those three seasons on the IW, $59.99 TSC per download, and still, they said she'd only ended up in YDC, getting slapped on the wrist while being turned out by the other zeds.
He'd even told that lie to himself and the three nephews Jami had never even seen, even after Jacob had found the footage in his comp's plasma matrices, Sipe catching him staying up 'till well past second sunrise watching his Aunt Jami being—
“Hey?!“ Halfacre snaps Sipe out of his reverie. “You there, Garry?“
“Yeah,“ Sipe replies, repeating himself, taking a bite from the double cheeseburger on his plate, in spite of being sick to his stomach.
“You been doing that a lot lately,“ Halfacre, his mouth stuffed with even more food, observes. “Anything you wanna talk about?“
“Naw, man,“ Sipe lies,“I'm good.“
“You sure, buddy?“ Halfacre asks. “You not having problems with your old lady, or nothing like that, are you?“
“Naw,“ Sipe assures him. “Michelle ain't givin' me no trouble, least no more than what she usually does.“
“Zeds is nothin' but trouble,“ Halfacre remarks, shovelling a forkful of scrambled cheese eggs into his mouth at the same time.
“Not,“ he adds, food dropping from his mouth back onto his plate with every word,“a goddamn thing but.“
“Yeah,“ Sipe remarks, taking another bite of double cheeseburger, chasing it down with a forkful of hashbrowns covered in cheese.
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
Zellnersboro Aerospace Corridor, 0.05 AU from Twice-Born
9/11/2101, 2333.91 Zulu
“Got him,“ Prue remarks over her Link, the captain of the Unbroken watching one of the Loyalist heavies go up in a bright ball of fire, as twelve 160-terajoule lasers punch through clouds of anti-beam ordinance and grav shielding at point-blank range, Stevie jerking the stick in her left hand in all directions at once, twisting the cruiser out of the path of thirty-six 160 TJ lasers burning their way through the blue-gold fog of ice and strips of gold foil Unbroken leaves behind in the course of her evasive maneuvers.
Stevie brings the main lasers to bear on an AFEG heavy's underbelly, Prue and the other main laser gunner slashing it open, even as the ship's fifteen robotically-controlled five-hundred gigajoule autolaser quad turrets scour the surrounding sky clean of warpfighters, forty-seven megaton Smashmouth antimatter torps detonating in the midsts of more cruisers, heavy cruisers, warpfighters, even a few battlecruisers the Loyalists and the AFEGs had managed to hold on to in the five years since TB's disputed Presidential elections had torn the world apart.
“Aren't,“ Unbroken's navigator, Sub-Lieutenant Genera Muncie, asks out loud,“the Loyalists and the AFEGs supposed to be deadly enemies?“
“They're at least supposed to hate each other's guts, even before the civil war,“ Ariel is quick to speak up, something the captain of the Unbroken finds more unusual than two supposed enemies working together to achieve somebody's greater good.
As the Commonwealth's own history bears out, the latter is not all that unusual.
“Supposed to be,“ Jami remarks, Chief Lidarman Meliza, tenth so named of Clan Potonakro, reporting,“that medship's made it to warpdrive, but we've got three others lifting from the surface, along with additional warpfighters and cruiser-class machines.“
“Where the hell are their escorts?“ Radioman First Class Alannah Munro asks, Stevie quick to reply,“they have big red crosses painted on their sides; New Geneva apparently thought that was all the protection they needed.“
“Some fools,“ Jami remarks, Unbroken turning to bring her main lasers to bear on a Loyalist Benjamin Zellner-class cruiser,“never freakin' learn, do they?“
“No,“ Stevie answers, Unbroken executing a micro, emerging from warpdrive close enough to one of the battle cruisers to scrape its paint job, the main laser gunners goring it in passing, as the three other Red Cross medships clear Twice-Born's upper atmosphere, hotly pursued by nearly a full fleet's worth of cruisers, heavy cruisers, battlecruisers and warpfighters.
All of whom are painted in the dull olive green of the Terranovan Republican Spacefleet.
“Radioman,“ Jami says, playing a hunch,“monitor the comm and data traffic from those Yanker—“
“Skipper,“ Alannah cuts her commander off,“they're in communication with the Loyalist and AFEG machines we're currently engaging; it's encrypted, so I can't tell you exactly what's being said, but—“
“You've told me enough, hon,“ Jami replies, as Smashmouths and one-kiloton Gobstopper antimatter missiles disrupt the approaching Yankers' formation.
“More than enough,“ she adds, Unbroken entering warpdrive again.
War Room, Commonwealth Forces Headquarters
20 kilometers underneath Cydonia, Cydonian Desert, Mars
9/11/2101, 2335.06 Zulu
She watches Unbroken emerge from warpdrive in the midst of the Yanker formation, main lasers blazing away, autolasers stopping inbound missiles, the Dauntless-class cruiser's squadron of Raptors blasting their way through the Loyalist and AFEG machines to come to the aid of their parent craft.
Her worst suspicions have been confirmed, but Angelique Gault finds she isn't terribly surprised by that...the President of the Commonwealth has learned the hard way nothing was ever beneath a Yanker, except possibly decency, fair play and the democratic principles they insisted only they were capable of, even as they slaughtered three thousand of their own people on the steps of their bloody Capitol.
Oh yes, I forgot, she remarks bitterly to herself, those weren't really Terranovans, but foreigners, aliens, offworlders, zeds whose WARCOM almost destroyed the human race, had it not been for the Lord RJ Williams leading the righteous on a holy crusade against the unbelievers....
“Coffee, Madam President?“ the Anazazi chief petty officer asks, a large plastic beaker of strong, black coffee in her right hand.
“Thank you, Chief,“ Angelique replies, nodding her head, as she takes the beaker and sips from it, before looking back at the fighting raging over TB.
She's just in time to see Unbroken torpedo a squadron of sixteen Arleigh Burke-class cruisers in full Yanker warpaint, just as another full squadron of Loyalist battle cruisers lift from their side of the planet, their Predator warpfighters already pursuing yet another pair of Red Cross medships transporting more refugees of the civil war out of the effing kill zone.
Should never have listened to the goddamn Red Cross, she recriminates herself for only the millionth time since the head of the Red Cross had gone on the IW a week ago and announced her harebrained scheme to send unarmed medships into a system the Yanker “peacekeepers“ had closed off, when they'd returned to Twice-Born five years ago(all in the name of preventing the Loyalists and AFEGs from spreading their civil war throughout space, oh, so effing noble of the backstabbing yobs)before asking the Commonwealth Forces to, pretty please, not provide escorts, because that would only start another interstellar war.
So, instead, she observes, taking another sip of coffee, Unbroken's all by herself, in the middle of a whole whacking lot of hostile machines, a recurring motif in the almost twenty years Jami's held command of that ship, starting with the bloodbath on Clavileno....
The President of the Commonwealth closes her eyes, sighing, opening them back up to watch Unbroken fighting for her life and the lives aboard those medships...another effing mistake she's made, believing Busbee's good intentions and letting Petro take on the ecorepair of Big Sky, knowing damn good and well that King Solomon had been spot on, one miserable sinner of an epileptic Yanker pederast did indeed destroy a lot of good.
She's been through so much already, she muses, her whole life, she's had to fight so bloody hard for what we take for granted, even for the love of a good woman...especially for that one, simple thing, and it took her hitting bottom to finally let Stephanie in....
She shouldn't, Angelique adds, taking another sip of coffee, watching her old ship shoot down even more Yanker trogs, have to keep paying for my mistakes.
Governor's Mansion
155 West Paces Ferry Road, New Whitehorse, Terranova
9/11/2101, 1838.11 AMT
“How in the hell,“ the Governor of the Union demands of his Chief of Military Operations,“did your little b—“
“We think Unbroken was forced out of warpdrive by the recent additions we made to Achird B's System-Wide Minefield,“ Fleet Admiral Kennisaw Mountain Sipe is quick to reply.“According to our latest intel reports, she was supposed to have been en route to Big Sk—“
“I can read, Admiral,“ Zellner replies coldly, glancing away from Sipe's holo to the larger HV, now showing the newly-implemented Amendment 1804 of the Articles of Union in action.
He fights the urge to smile, as he turns back to his CMO.
“So,“ he says,“I already emeffing know where your little bitch was supposed to have been. Since, however, no warpdrive course to Big Sky that I'm aware of cuts through the Zellnersboro corridor, what I'd like to know, Ken, is how—“
Sipe has the temerity to interrupt his Governor a second time:
“Once in normal space, she was able to intercept the Mayday sent via warpdrive transceiver by one of the surviving Red Cross medships, as it left Twice-Born's atmosphere, something she couldn't have done if she was still in warpdrive, as even another drivefield intersecting with hers—“
“I am also familiar with basic warpdrive physics, Admiral,“ the Governor of the Union, adding a guttural growl to his voice, snaps.
“Of course, sir,“ Sipe replies.
“And,“ Zellner adds,“I now also know how she ended up in the Zellnersboro corridor, in spite of a system which was supposed to prevent such a thing from taking place.“
“It's not one hundred percent effective,“ Sipe tells him.
“Apparentally,“ his Governor replies,“it isn't even one percent effective, seeing how those effing medships also got through the mines.“
“No, sir,“ Sipe agrees, “it's no longer effective...doubtlessly, the navicomps on Unbroken and those medships now have a complete map of the SWMF in their plasma matrices—“
“Which the Commies can now use to get past the damn things,“ Zellner finishes for him.
“Just effing great,“ he remarks, just as his little Gilda, lying on the floor where he left her, starts up her damn whimpering again.
“Just“ her Governor repeats, stomping his bad little zed into the deep shag carpeting,“effing great.“
Aboard the Republican Union Ship Atlanta Three
Zellnersboro Aerospace Corridor, 0.03 AU from Twice-Born
9/11/2101, 1840.06 AMT
“Understood,“ Captain DeForrest Tucker Sipe replies to Daddy's holo, just as Unbroken follows the last of the Red Cross medships into warpdrive.
“Nav,“ he says to Lieutenant j.g. Jeff Ledford,“plot a course for Big Sky.“
“Sir?“ the preppie little North Coast brat has the nerve to turn and face his commanding officer and ask.
“Something wrong with your hearing, boy?!“ Sipe asks. “I need you to plot a warpdrive course which will have us come out on top of Unbroken and those medships before they can tell everyone how to get through the SWMF.“
“I think that's a pretty simple concept,“ he adds, his exec, Commander Phillip J. Snead, asking him,“do you want to recall the fighters, Skip?“
“Leave 'em in the air, XO,“ Sipe decides,“but have Ledford interlink our navicomp with theirs.“
“If,“ he adds,“that's not too much for your tiny brain to handle, Mister Ledford.“
“Intercept course plotted, interlink established,“ Ledford replies. “Drivefield generators one, two and three coming on line and answering navicomp commands, warpdrive entry in five, four, three, two, one—“
Space and time turn Sipe's stomach as Atlanta Three's drivefield twists them up, the stars themselves stretching like salt-water taffy, as the 42,053-ton Freeman Lang-class heavy cruiser enters warpdrive, her air group of 120 warpfighters forming a distorted V shape in front of it, the formation intersecting normal space, moving through it at roughly three thousand times the speed of light.
“ETA to New Seattle corridor,“ Ledford announces,“0306.00 AMT, 13 September.“
Twenty seconds subjective, give or take, Sipe observes, doing the math without even thinking about it.
Not even enough time to watch Dick Grissom, he muses, space and time returning to normal, the painfully blue disk of Tau Ceti's second planet resolving itself on his left-hand command holodisplay, his right-hand display showing him tactical view, warpdrive lidar instantly showing him the positions of the Red Cross medships.
And the ship commanded by his murdering, spoiled-ass brat of a sister.
“Gunnery deck, bridge,“ he snaps into his Link's headset.“ launch Mark 125s, stand by Harpoons and main lasers. Nav, as soon as—“
The lidar alarm howls in his ears, his lidarman shouting out:
“Unbroken's acquired us, entering warpdrive on an intercept vector!“
...spanking her as hard as he could, spanking her even harder, when she can’t hold in the sobs, the screams or the pleas, DeForrest Tucker sticking his fingers in there from time to time for variety, as Avery sat in Daddy’s chair, playing with himself while watching Girls Next Door on YouTube.
“She’s so nasty, ain’t she, DT?” Avery asks his older brother, watching Harlee Madison, wearing a leather thong, stockings and high heels, burn lit cigarets on Katee DD's breasts, slapping her face when Katee, handcuffed to a rafter in the Mansion's play room, yelps in pain.
Avery tells DT ,“ this is my favorite scene in the whole movie, bubba,” the nine-year old boy then saying,“That's what Jamilinne likes.“
“Damn sure is,“ his eleven-year old brother replies, spanking his six-year old sister even harder.
Even knowing it wouldn't do any good, Jamilinne tells 'em,“no, it ain't! I wasn't even—“
“And, now she’s lying too,” DT snaps back, balling up his fist, drinking another bottle of Daddy's and Mickey's beer, as he grabs hold of her long, brown hair and forces her to.....
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
New Seattle Aerospace Corridor, 0.05 AU from Big Sky
9/13/2101, 0806.00 Zulu
...watch.
Jami focusses on the here and now, as Unbroken emerges from warpdrive between DT's ship and his warpfighters, the main laser gunners burning holes through the Yanker heavy's rectangular spaceframe, the enemy ship's thrust vectrals lighting up with plasma vectored from its maneuver jet, Unbroken entering warpdrive before Atlanta Three has a chance to bring its main lasers to bear.
“Lieutenant Pollard,“ Alannah informs her, as they emerge from warpdrive directly behind Atlanta Three,“reports Fighter Squadron 214's dealt with the last of the torps, and they're now escorting the medships the rest of the way to New Seattle Spacedock.“
Gobstoppers set for radiation seeking home in on the enemy heavy's three warp engines, Unbroken executing another micro to dance out of the way of Predators about to swoop down on her.
“Signal from Commander, Eighth Fleet,“ her radioman reports upon returning to normal space.“Vice-Admiral Naoska Clan Kerokha is launching cruisers and warpfighters to assist.“
“Good,“ the captain of the Unbroken replies, a view of the Atlanta Three's port side filling the entire right-hand command holodisplay.
“Main lasers,“ she orders,“fire !“
Even as autolaser quad turrets on that side of the Yanker heavy open up, Unbroken's 160-terajoule lasers tear into its titanium skin, gouging out a wound which gushes atmosphere and vaporized metal out the other side, the Dauntless-class cruiser skimming across the top of the other ship, as it begins heeling sharply to starboard from the vented gas.
“Gandymede and Muskogee emerging from warpdrive,“ Meliza soon reports,“ten thousand klicks from us and closing rapidly.“
“Both ships,“ she adds,“punching their air groups.“
Aboard the Republican Union Ship Atlanta Three
New Seattle Aerospace Corridor, 0.05 AU from Big Sky
9/13/2101, 0307.52 AMT
“Goddamnit,“ Sipe curses, watching as a Commie Albion-class battle cruiser and a Commie Cosmograd-class heavy cruiser emerge from warpdrive on either side of the Atlanta Three, both enemy ships launching Raptors towards it.
“Numbers one and three warp engines destroyed,“ Atlanta Three's chief engineer, Ensign Alan Miller reports.“Number two warp engine severely damaged, venting antimatter and warp engine coolant, no better than two lights per day possible; med section reports heavy casaulties, 167 dead, 394 wounded.“
“Weapons status?“ Sipe asks, the stench of his burning bridge assaulting his nostrils.
“Main lasers off line, no repair possible,“ Miller tells him,“ Autolaser turrets one through eighteen and twenty-three through thirty-eight destroyed, defensive computer destroyed, grav shield generator destroyed, grav beam generator destroyed.“
“So much for that,“ Snead comments, sweat glistening on his perfectly smooth, perfectly black head.
“Indeed, XO,“ Sipe says, disgusted.
“Nav,“ he orders,“get us the hell out of here.“
“Drivefield generator two coming on line and answering navicomp commands,“ Ledford replies, his hands furiously working both navigation holodisplays. “Warpdrive entry in five, four, three, two, one—“
Atlanta Three enters warpdrive, an instant before the main lasers from all three Commie cruiser-class starships converge upon its former position in space, the Freeman Lang-class heavy limping through the void at just a little over seven hundred times lightspeed.
He doesn't need Ledford to tell him just how long it will take to get back to Twice-Born.
He's already done the math...five days, a minute fifteen subjective.
Plus time to decelerate in normal space.
At least enough time to watch Dick Grissom, he thinks to himself, before I get my ass handed to me.
“You have the bridge, XO,“ he says, undoing the straps restraining him to his chair, before getting up and walking off the shambles of a bridge.
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
New Seattle Aerospace Corridor, 0.05 AU from Big Sky
9/13/2101, 0808.01 Zulu
“Recall the Raptors,” Jami says, her whole body starting to shake in spite of her,“ stand down from general quarters.”
She can just barely control her trembling hands, her fingers fumbling with the buckles of the her chair's restraints, managing to undo them, her knees almost going out from under her as she stands up, eyes on the wreckage of a bridge, as Stevie turns the ship over for deceleration.
“Effect repairs,” she adds, voice almost gone, the grav field generators holding her fast to the deck, as she turns and rapidly walks towards the hatch leading to the wardroom. “Bridge is....”
“...yours, Number One,” Unbroken tells her , as a burning....
...white light blinds her, his voice, stinking of alcohol, screaming at her, calling her a bitch, grabbing her, turning her around just so he can knock hell out of her, Jami making the mistake of trying to get back up, Daddy stomping her into the pavement, kicking her, hauling her back up onto her feet, slamming her up against the hood of the car, ripping her jeans open, pulling them and her panties down, laying into her ass with his belt and his boots, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he called her a murdering, goddamn bitch, telling her she did it, she did it, she was the one who’d run over her own mama, because she was a chickenheaded goddamn effing zed who hated even the one what gave birth to her, and how dare she effing try and put this all off on him.
Blue lights strobe in the darkness, another man telling Daddy,” we’ll take care of it from here, Captain Sipe, go on back home and sleep it off,“ someone grabbing hold of her hair, shoving something hard, metallic into her, Jami screaming her head off, pissing herself, every last nerve in her body on fire, a gauntleted hand slapping her ass, wrenching her arms behind her back and snapping on a pair of neural-paralysis handcuffs, pushing on whatever had been shoved up in her, before pulling it out and throwing her down into the street, the same man who told her Daddy to go home screaming for her to get up, you sick piece of crap, get the eff up, as he stomps on her, kicking her ass as hard as he could with his boots....
...Jami falling down onto her hands and knees on the deck of the wardroom, gakking up all over the floor and herself, her body heaving and trembling, her stomach tearing itself apart, her breath coming in ragged sobs, Unbroken’s skipper unable to do anything else except puke, shake.
And cry.
—endit—
