Our Lives, Our Fortunes, Our Sacred Honor
Governor's Mansion
155 West Paces Ferry Road, New Whitehorse, Terranova
9/16/2101, 2108.98 American Time
His gaze narrows and hardens, as he watches the giant HV projector in his living room, the image of Michelle Sipe's little blond piece of poot hanging from the ceiling of the cell, head stuffed in a plastic bag, the words "EASY ACCESS" scrawled on her body in black magic marker along with arrows pointing to the only damn thing any of them were ever really any good for.
Not even for that, Guy Thomas Zellner, Governor of the Union, thinks to himself, the voices of everyone watching this online echoing his sentiments-and those of the beautiful young man seated next to him on the sofa-that this was just so disgusting, so typical of those effing, goddamn zeds.
"Terranova has voted," another one of 'em chirps, as she crosses and uncrosses long, stockinged legs, showing her online audience flashes of her nasty, stinking poot,"and the life of a violent sexual predator comes to an end at the hands of one of her own kind, through an act so deviant, so perverse, so violentlly at odds with normal, civilized behavior, that only one of them can derive pleasure from subjecting another to it...and from making another subject her to it."
As the BoobTube pootie turns to some quack for the obligatory psychoanalytical bullshit, the Governor of the Union points a mouse towards the HV's holospace, a lidar picture of the hurricane now almost on top of the continent of Great Britain and its barrier islands appearing in a window floating on top and in front of the other holo.
"No chance of anyone surviving that," young Jacob Sipe speaks up.
"I wouldn't think there was," the Governor of the Union replies, still looking at the HV.
"They may have escaped the Marines," Jacob then says,"but no sinner ever escapes God...they shoulda realized that three hundred years ago, when He drowned the zeds at Midnight Bay for their persecution of the righteous."
"That's right," his Governor tells him; young Jacob's belief in that lie, untempered by the truth, will do for now.
Later, of course, once he'd proven himself worthy, Zellner would initiate him just as he'd initiated his uncle.
"None of them," the inheritor of RJ Williams' legacy says slowly,"can ever escape."
Commonwealth Forces Base Goose Green, West Cumberland Island
100 miles from the coast of Great Britain, Terranova
9/15/2101, 2111.01 AMT
"Hold on, ride's 'bout to get rough," Jemal Bryant shouts to the other two, at the same time he fights the SC-130 Gorgon dropship as it drops like a brick from the sky towards what Commonwealth told him was the landing pad for his people's dropship.
'Cept it ain't there, and all of the buildings are already collapsed, even though they just barely beat the hurricane here.
"Seems," Commonwealth remarks, as he holds onto the arms of the nav station,"you gravely underestimated the amount of hydro this bird had left."
"Naw," Bryant snaps, nearly all of his attention focussed on landing and not crashing, something the 100-mile-an-hour leading edge winds are not helping. "Neither one of us reckoned on it gaining height and strength, while we were trying to fly out of it."
There's a shriek running through the spaceframe that Bryant does not want to hear.
"Was that-" Commonwealth starts to ask, Bryant replying,"yeah, it was."
"Put yo' heads between yo' legs," he adds,"and pull the magic handles, y'all."
Commonwealth Forces Base Goose Green, West Cumberland Island
160 kilometers from the coast of Great Britain, Terranova
9/16/2101, 0111.65 Zulu
The shock of ejection compresses his spine and tunnels his vision, as Captain Eamon Fitzpatrick's seat shoots upward from the rapidly-plummeting Yanker dropship, that shock followed, thankfully enough, by the shock of his parawing deploying, as the leading edge of the hurricane swings him around like one of the bits of prefab shelter flying at the veteran Commonwealth Forces Legionnaire's face.
It's up to at least a Category 9 now, he has time to think, as his parawing starts to shred under the force of the hurricane, winds up to 402 kilometers per hour, don't even know if the shelters can withstand that kind of punishment.
The winds continue blowing him away from the makeshift Commowealth base-his home for last almost two decades-towards Mount Piven, the highest point on West Cumberland Island, about 370 meters of forests and craggy rocks, as they tear at his parawing...the shelters are built into caves on the slopes of the mountain, about halfway down from the peak, closed off with massive boulders rolled into place by bots, which isn't the most sophisticated or secure method, but it isn't as if the former Commonwealth embassy's military detachment has a great deal of resources at their disposal, even with the occasional supply drops from Mars Command.
The parawing starts losing lift, as what little silk the winds haven't ripped to shreds is being weighed down by the torrential rain...he doesn't even know where Bryant and the woman are, he didn't think about them 'til-
Crap!
He barely remembers to roll onto his knees, before hitting the ground, the grav shielding in his borrowed suit of LandWarrior armor switching on to absorb the force of the blow, the former Commonwealth military attaché freeing himself of the now-useless parawing and its harness, cursing the entire time it takes for him to scramble to his feet.
One of the curious rabbit/kangaroo-like mammals native to nearly every reach of this boghole planet eyes him curiously, as it crouches on its haunches, ready to run like hell in case this particular Human should turn out to be gunning for its glossy reddish-brown hide.
After a few curious sniffs, the creature-which the trogs have taken to naming jocritters, after the chap what shot the first one for a trophy on his wall-takes a tremendous bound forward and away from Fitzpatrick, now trying to consult the Land Warrior's inertial navigation system for some sort of bearing, as he hobbles painfully in the direction opposite the one the jocritter had taken.
"Hey," Bryant's voice shouts in his bloody ear,"Commonwealth?! Commonwealth, you there?"
"Whereever here is, yeah," Fitzpatrick, wincing as the effort to talk sends sharp pains shooting through his chest, replies, as he keeps limping ahead.
"Yeah," the Haziri's holo adds, as it floats in front of him,"I know where you at, you've just come into range of my suit's interrogator, and yo' squawker's just barely transmitting."
"Which is understandable," Fitzpatrick replies, through another wince of pain,"considering my interrogator's smashed, along with the rest of my suit and a great deal of my body. Is she with you?"
"Yeah," Bryant tells him,"she's with me; we're in a cave about 150 feet-fifty meters-'head of you, just keep walking."
"Might as well be fifty klicks," Fitzpatrick grouses, as the wind whistles and gets stronger, a loud crack! beside him immediately followed by a large tree flying down the mountain past him, a large rock crazing the faceplate of his LandWarrior armor, another bouncing off his helmet with a hollow sounding thock! while still another strikes his right shoulder with an impact that would definitely leave a bruise in the morning.
The landing must've knocked out the grav shielding, he observes, as he continues struggling up the mountain against the wind and wind-blown debris.
He sees the goose-egg sized rock just as it smashes in his faceplate and turns out all the lights.
Spinks House
387 Sullivan Drive, Owensboro, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2116.56 AMT
"-breaking news in the Miley Spiers sex scandal," the YouTube reporter says from inside the living room, Vice Admiral James Bentley Spinks not paying it much mind, instead watching the National Police cruiser move slowly down Sullivan Drive, headed towards the cul-de-sac, passing the War Pig wheeled APC in the Pates' driveway, more National Policemen and TSID agents ransacking the place, same as they'd done to Garry's across the street.
The cruiser turns on its lights, bleating its siren for just a second or two, as it turns down Spinks' driveway...curfew was a little over five hours ago, everyone's supposed to either be in their houses or at work after 1600.
One of the many new regulations what went into effect following the ruckus at Port 13 earlier today, instead of at midnight tonight, like Zellner had originally planned.
The cruiser stops halfway to the house, the two Gnats getting up and out of the car, both of them putting their hands on their gunbutts as they walk towards Spinks, the four and a half-decade veteran Spacefleet flag officer staying seated-his aching knees making any other option impossible-sipping a cup of strong, hot, black gang coffee.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asks, as the two National Policemen get within earshot, the more senior of the two-a master sergeant-recognizing Spinks, as he motions for his partner to stay put and continues walking towards the front porch.
He waits until he's on the front step to say,"sorry to bother you, Admiral. We were just checking vehicles for heat signatures when we saw someone sitting on the front porch. If we'd known it was you, sir, we wouldn't have even bothered."
"No bother at all, Master Sergeant," Spinks replies,"you're only doing your job."
"Glad you understand, sir," the Gnat tells him.
"How long are they gonna be at the Pates?" Spinks then asks.
"No tellin', Admiral," the master sergeant says. "BoobTube's gotta finish setting up the scenes, and the TSID's still canvassing the house, to see if there's anything linking any of 'em to the hajjies, or if there's anything else we can use."
"Sorry shame 'bout Randy, tho," Spinks says with a semblance of sincerity.
"Who?" the master sergeant asks.
"Randy Pate," Spinks repeats, the master sergeant telling him,"never served with the man myself, sir, but, it is a shame."
"Y'think a man's man enough to train 'em up right," he adds,"and, it turns out he wasn't much of a man atall."
"Yeah," Spinks says, managing to hide his disgust at that particular sentiment.
"You know what they're gonna do with the kids?" Spinks then asks.
"The two zeds," the master sergeant remarks with a chuckle,"you'll be seein' real soon on BoobTube...as for the two boys, the youngest one's on his way up to New Whitehorse-Guy's new boy's taken a shine to him-and the older one's opted for reassignment."
A bleeping from inside the house puts an end to the conversation.
"Dadgum it," Spinks says, painfully getting up from his chair,"gotta call comin' in, and I left m'Link in the livin' room."
"I got get back to trollin' anyway, Admiral," the Gnat master sergeant says, saluting Spinks a final time, before the two men exchange pleasantries and part company.
Office of the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Spacefleet
Building 219, HQTRS,Freeman Lang, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2124.47 AMT
"Master Chief," the Old Man's holo says to Master Chief Petty Officer of the Spacefleet Tybee Whistler MacGruder.
"Admiral, I didn't wake you, didn't I?" the Terranova Republican Spacefleet's most senior noncom asks, knowing full well he didn't.
"Naw, naw," Vice Admiral Spinks replies, shaking his head,"I couldn't sleep anyway. What can I do for you, Tybee?"
"Fleet Admiral Sipe's called an emergency meeting of the Union Security Council," MacGruder says, giving the overt reason for the call,"for midnight tonight."
"Ken give a reason?" MacGruder's former skipper on the Lockwood asks.
"You know the SeeMo, sir," MacGruder replies,"he don't feel obligated to tell us enlisted peons jackshit...but, 'tween you, me and the TSID-"
The Old Man chuckles at that.
"-he's worried that family might come calling, and they might want their kids back with the vengance of the Hebrew patriarchs-"
An angry buzz!buzz! in MacGruder's ears warns him the TSID heard something he wasn't supposed to say.
"I see," the Old Man replies, nodding his head, asking, "who are the Hebrews, Master Chief?"
The buzz!buzz! gets louder.
"I meant the Christian fathers, excuse me, Admiral," MacGruder replies. "Must be the long hours at the office getting to me."
"Yeah," the Old Man says,"probably. You got annual leave coming, Tybee?"
"My annual leave's got annual leave piled up, Skipper," the senior noncom replies, getting to the actual purpose of his call,"that's how hard I've been working lately, but you know the Fleet."
"Sure do," Admiral Spinks replies, MacGruder adding,"shame too, 'cause a buddy of mine-you remember Sparks MacKenzie, don't you, sir?"
"As many times he's stood Captain's Mast," the Old Man chuckles in reply,"I should. He still in the service?"
"No, sir," MacGruder says,"he retired out a light commander, believe it, or not, right after we whupped the Commies at Tau Ceti."
"Is that right?" asks the Old Man. "I thought he'd end up completing his contract in somebody's brig."
"Me too, Skipper,"MacGruder replies, chuckling himself,"me too."
"Anyway," he adds,"Mac's a stormchaser now, flying a demilitarized Prometheus he bought at an auction nine years ago. He flies out of the aerospace port in Lockwood, and he's been pestering me forever and a day to go up with him, just the two of us, and these two girls he knows, sisters, actually, who he wants to initiate into the Mile-High Club."
"Great Scott," Admiral Spinks remarks, shaking his head,"he sure don't change, does he?"
"Not that I know of, Skipper," MacGruder says. "Anyway, he says he can get a third, if, as he put it 'the Old Man ever gets tired of the ol' ball and chain and wants to have a lil' PYT action.'"
The Old Man chuckles again.
"After all the times I put his sorry ass in the brig-" he says.
"Not to mention busting him down to spaceman more than once," MacGruder observes.
"-after all that," MacGruder's former skipper says,"he still wants me to go mile-high with him."
"Ida know," he adds. "Y'think I should trust him, Tybee?"
"He figured you'd say that, Skipper," MacGruder says,"and says to tell you no hard feelings."
"Well," the Old Man, making a good show of thinking it over,"I have been bored lately, and he always did have a way of getting the most...inter-restin' girls to do what he wants 'em to. When's he plannin' on goin'?"
"He plans on taking off a little bit before first sunrise tomorrow," MacGruder replies,"to track a tropical depression forming over the Sea of Martinez; he figures his employers won't mind too much if he mixed a little business with pleasure."
"And that would be easier for him to do if I was on board," the Old Man replies.
"What I was figuring, Skipper," MacGruder remarks.
"I'll go anyway," Admiral Spinks says. "Whatever his faults, the man never was dull."
"No, sir, he wasn't dull," MacGruder replies,"that's for sure."
"You probably have a lot of work to get back to," the Old Man then says,"so I'll let you go. See you in a couple hours."
"Yes, sir," MacGruder replies.
Flynt-Martinez County Aerospace Port
Terranova Highway 341, Lockwood, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2132.68 AMT
"Damn, you stormers get to have all the fun," National Police Chief Warrant Officer Jubal Macon whines, as he relaxes on the edge of a 55-gallon drum of lubricating polymer and smokes a joint.
"Oh, really?" Gerald "Sparks" MacKenzie replies, taking a joint from the pack of Doobie Brothers Blonde the Gnat pilot offers him. "You guys get to put the boots to poot on a daily basis, and y'all can strut around and be he-roes on top of that; don't know too many folks that wanna be stormchasers."
"That's 'cause you're all crazier 'n hoot owls," Macon remarks, blowing out a smoke ring, MacKenzie being too busy watching 341 and the National Police CV-137 Prometheus cargo VTOL being prepped for take off to get a decent buzz off his ciggie.
"'Sides," Macon reminds him,"I fly Prommies, not Spectres, so I don't get to do all that."
"You can always pretend you do," MacKenzie offers half-heartedly, as he spots a War Pig wheeled APC and its escort of six TMC Magnum police cruisers turn off of 341 onto the approach road to the aerospace port, heading straight for the Prommie.
"'Specally when you go to the River," he adds, Macon asking,"and just how in the hell I supposed to do that, when people can access BoobTube any time they want and see that-"
He trails off when he sees the War Pig and its escorts pull up alongside his plane.
"That's my cargo," he says, standing up and walking towards the waiting plane.
"Tell me how the mile high goes when you get back," he hollers out as he walks, Macon keeping his back to MacKenzie the whole time.
"I'll do that," MacKenzie replies, drawing his 250-gigajoule laser pistol, setting it for taser and aiming it dead at the National Policeman's back, the low-powered laser beam carrying a bolt of electricity which drops the dumb sumbitch in his tracks, neither the ground crew surrounding the Prommie, the tac unit deploying from the War Pig or the Gnats in the escort cars seeing anything.
The cams have seen it, though, meaning MacKenzie now has less than no time to run like hell across the field, deal with all those Gnats, snatch the "cargo" and do the Foxtrot out of Delta, before the Gnats and the military pull together enough planes to blow him out of the sky.
He's running like hell now, even while thinking about what he's up against, almost certain this is where he's gonna buy it, but, he's been ready for that ever since Tau Ceti.
If the Man wants to take me now, he thinks to himself, switching the laser pistol to full power, burning down three Gnats in quick succession, He's gonna, not an effing thing I can do 'bout that, but 'em two girls don't got nothin' to do with whatever I've got comin', that's all I have any right to ask of Him.
Speaking of the two girls, a couple Gnats are trying to shove them back into the War Pig, cursing and smacking them around when they try struggling, even after they've been through the wringer and then some, MacKenzie getting close enough to take both those Gnats out with laser pulses at point-blank range, just as a red-hot poker burrows his way through his right shoulder, sending pain spiking through his gun arm and hand.
"Run, goddamn you!" he hollers at the dazed and bewildered little girls, the older one grabbbing her little sister's hand and running up the Prommie's open rear cargo ramp, MacKenzie gritting his teeth against the blinding pain, snapping off laser pulses at the Gnats and remaining ground crew, as he climbs up the gangway leading into the cargo VTOL's flight deck.
He flips the switch to raise the rear cargo ramp, as he jumps in the pilot's seat, the chimp in the co-pilot's seat turning to look at him, nodding his head as he throttles the tandem plasma jet engines up to full power, rapidly lifting the cargo VTOL straight into the air.
"You gonna be okay, Skipper," the co-pilot, his old wingman "Hammer" McClusky, asks MacKenzie, as he straps himself in.
It's then MacKenzie takes a good look at his injured arm.
He then nods his head grimly, ice-cold fingers pushing the stick forward to orient the vectrals for level flight.
If He's gonna take me, he thinks, calmly taking in the massive amounts of blood spurting down his right arm and the equally-massive amounts already caked all over his hand, He's gonna take me.
Nothing I can effin' do 'bout it.
Governor's Mansion
155 West Paces Ferry Road, New Whitehorse, Terranova
9/15/2101, 2144.16 AMT
"I'm a bad lil' girlie, that I won't deny," Miley sings, shaking her bare ass at the piece of poot what's got her over her knee,"ooh, I'm such a bad lil' girlie, need ya bone to make me right."
"Spank that ass good!" one of those watching this online screams, as Jacob Sipe sits there, watching the vid in the background and the BoobTube pootie in the foreground not wearing much more than Miley, both 'em bitches making the nine-year old boy rub himself down there, making it poke out a little bit through the crotch of his green and white Cadet uniform.
"The latest vid from fifteen-year old Miley Spiers," the BoobTube pootie says," who has been charged with multiple counts of rape and murder following the discovery by the TSID's Special Victims Unit of eighteen girls, ranging in age from six to twelve years old, chained to a variety of devices in the 'fantasy room' of her 217-room Vargas mansion, and the bound, nude, sexually-mutilated bodies of at least 117 other girls scattered in a variety of poses throughout the room."
The holo behind her shows exactly what she's talking about, all so she and Miley can make Jacob rub himself even harder.
"According to TSID spokeswoman Lieutenant Ray Helen Plant," the BoobTube pootie says,"Spiers targeted those classified as being at-risk by the Terranova Ministry of Education's social engineers, using her one-trillion dollar fortune to bribe an extensive network of Ministry of Education employees-including schoolteacher and sex offender Mary Kate Walton-who were responsible for recruiting potential victims and arranging for their transport to Marley, where, according to sources inside the Media Committee, members of Spiers' entourage were waiting to herd them like cattle into waiting buses which would then take them directly to Spiers' mansion."
"With me," she adds, as the holo behind her shows pootie turning other pootie out to the cheering of all the monkeybones watching this online,"is noted psychologist and social engineer Doctor Alvin Wildgoose, author of the best-selling readers The At-Risk Child, The Failure of Mainstreaming, and Caged Heat. Doctor Wildgoose, why at-risk children?"
"The psychology of at-risk children is such," a skinny little blonde dude with thick glasses replies,"that they're easily manipulated by their greed and their love of the perverse, something that, as an at-risk child herself, Spiers knew entirely too well; she thus had prey more than willing to abandon the civilized values we adults endeavor to teach them and follow her into something only they would call paradise, unlimited wealth without work, unlimited freedom without restraint, and all they had to give her in return was only what they would've done to one another were it not for constant vigilance and discipline on the part of-"
"Enough of that," Guy snaps, as he comes into the living room, the HV in front of Jacob abruptly winking out.
"I was watchin' that!" Jacob whines, only to have Guy backhand him out of the sofa,
"I know," Guy tells him, the rebuking tone of his voice sending a thrill through the young man's body. "You were letting them seduce you into degradation and depravity; if that's you truly want, I can have your Uncle Micheal march your butt downstairs to the coldwire chambers, and I can use you that way!"
"Get me?" he then asks.
"Yes, sir," Jacob tells him.
"Get up!" his man snaps, Jacob instantly scrambling to his feet.
"Do you want to be my man?" Guy asks him.
"Yes, sir," Jacob replies.
"Are you worthy of being my man?" Guy then asks.
"Yes, sir," Jacob replies.
Guy shakes his head.
"Could've fooled the hell out of me," he replies,"way you were slobbering all over yourself, letting the zeds and their filth lead you around like you was one of them on an effing goddamn leash."
"I was weak, sir," Jacob says.
"That is not an excuse," Guy tells him.
"No, sir," Jacob tells him.
Guy then points to the door leading to the bedroom.
"Let's see if you're better with the real thing than you were with the holos," he tells him.
"Yes, sir," Jacob says, before he walks past his Governor into the bedroom.
1,500 feet inside Mount Piven, West Cumberland Island
100 miles from the coast of Great Britain, Terranova
9/15/2101, 2323.16 AMT
"You got an awful hard head, Commonwealth," Bryant remarks, as the Commie finally comes to, fingering the bump between his eyes like the retired Terranovan Marine would've in his position.
"Where the hell am I?" he asks, slowly sitting up.
"In the shelters yo' peoples set up inside Mount Piven," Bryant replies, adding,"you missed yo' sister, she was here a few minutes ago checkin' up on you?"
"How long was I out?" Commonwealth asks.
"Couple hours, give or take," the Haziri replies, standing up and stretching himself, feeling every second of his sixty years, especially in the joints what go snap, crackle, pop like a bowl of breakfast cereal.
"Jesus," Commonwealth says, starting to get out of bed.
"I wouldn't advise that," Bryant says.
"Do you doctor as well as you can fly, mate?" Commonwealth is quick to reply.
"Naw, but the doctor y'all do have looks like she can take us both on without breaking a sweat."
Commonwealth chuckles.
"You talking about Hildy?!" he asks, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She's really more bark than she is bite."
"Something," the blonde Amazon woman Bryant had had words with earlier remarks,"he doesn't dare say to my face."
"Hullo," Commonwealth says, as he turns to face Hildy, as he continues trying to get out of bed.
"No, you don't, Captain," Hildy replies, putting her hands on her honcho's shoulders and pushing him back down in the bed.
"I've got things to do," Commonwealth says, "and you need the bed for someone who's actually injured."
"Now," he adds,"if you'd kindly point me in the direction of my clothes."
"Fi will fetch you some of your things," Hildy replies.
"In the morning," she adds, saying it in a way that Bryant wouldn't want to mess with her.
"Doctor's orders, Captain," she says.
"Fine," Commonwealth says. "But, there's a circuit board with several plasma matrices in amongst my stuff, Fi's-"
"Already gotten to it," Hildy cuts him off,"after your hairy friend over here-"
She indicates Bryant with a shrug of her head.
"-let her know about it."
"Thanks, mate," Commonwealth says to Bryant.
"No problem," Bryant replies.
"There was another person with us," Commonwealth then says to Hildy. "What-"
"She found herself a bunk and laid down in it," Hildy tells him, turning back to Bryant, as she remarks,"which is what your friend over here should be doing."
"Too tired to sleep," Bryant says, Commonwealth telling him,"she's right, you know, it'll be hours before this bloody hurricane blows over; best you get some kip 'til something actually happens."
"What the hell is a 'kip?'" Bryant asks.
"Sleep, man, sleep," Commonwealth replies, Hildy pushing him back into bed, taking this opening to tell the man,"that's exactly what you need."
"Yes, mother," Commonwealth smarts off, Bryant walking out of the makeshift sick bay into a cavern passage dripping with water, the Haziri wondering what other creatures would be lurking about in here.
He tenses a bit when he passes an Anazazi female, her feathers dyed grey to match her greys, her eyes narrowing when she catches sight of him, her left hand starting to go for the nofohaz in her scabbard, the potos on her gloved feet extending out with a click, Bryant putting up both his hands, remarking,"I kno' I'm ugly, girl, but I can't be that dam' ugly."
"I am no girl, Kromak!" the bird woman spits out. "I am Krizteena, eighth so named of Clan Nofohaz, Lieutenant in the Commonwealth Forces Corps de Legionnaire, and, if you ever call me girl again, I will carve who I am into your worthless, pontohaz, parasite-ridden Kromak carcass before I hang it from my wall as a trophy, now, move aside!"
"'kay, if that what you want," Bryant says, quickly getting the hell out of the crazy birdwoman's way.
Maybe not so crazy, he thinks to himself, getting his breathing under control...now, his grandaddy, he'd been crazy, least that what folk always told him, and what he always thought about him all the time he was growing up.
He didn't think the old monkey was so crazy anymore, not after he told him stories about where the Race had really come from-and it wasn't from this planet, despite what Wiki had to say on the subject-after he'd come home from the war back in '72, and he'd seen for himself just how much Anazazi and Neveleim hated monkey boys-and how good the bird folk and the woowoos were at kicking flying monkey ass all across the sky.
To be honest, bird folk and woowoos scare the pee out of this particular monkey boy, especially 'cause they have the right to want to kill every damn one of his kind on sight.
Bryant keeps on walking, trying to calm his nerves...he'd been certain the one who'd blasted his hopper out of the air on TB back in '70 was gonna cut his ass up for dog food, he'd had that look in his black eyes, and it had only been 'cause a snobo had interfered that he'd only ended up being sent to Coventry to sit out the rest of the war instead of being chopped up by some birdman's family heirloom.
He liked Coventry...wide open spaces, woods everywhere and sky enough to fly in, and the fishing was good, tho', when he and his fellow former POWs got together, they have to tell each other bullshit 'bout being starved, locked in cages, beat down, poked in the ass with dildos, cos the TSID and the rest of Terranova was always watching what they said.
Probably why the old monkey had to play at bein' crazy, 'cause that the only way he could tell the truth and not get burned for it, Bryant thinks to himself, as he keeps walking, finding a cavern with several bunks in it, most of which are occupied by Commies sleeping in their gear and their greys.
The bunk in the corner of the room is unoccupied, Bryant walking over to it, laying down, thinking about all the stalactites dripping water on his head that he could count while trying to fall asleep.
He doesn't even make it to two.
500 meters inside Mount Piven, West Cumberland Island
160 kilometers from the coast of Great Britain, Terranova
9/16/2101, 0428.00 Zulu
"Jesus Christ," Commander Fiachana Fitzpatrick whispers to no one in particular, as she studies the data on the plasma matrices her hard-headed twin brother brought with him.
"It's on, then," she whispers, eyes on the holoprojection floating over one of the workstation terminals taken from the base at Goose Green, the Commonwealth Intelligence officer taking in the data on fleet and troop movements, invasion routes.
The opposition the trogs are expected to face in orbit and on the surface of Earth, Mars, and Titan, as well as an exhaustive list of targets throughout the Solar System, with Fort Gibson, Cydonia, Tahlequah, the Oklahoma City Monument and the Cosmograd Memorial being at the top of that list.
Next is a to-do list for the fagboys and TSID ops accompanying the invasion force, once the occupation of the Commonwealth's capital worlds began, what facts to destroy, where the prison camps were to be built, which people were to be slaughtered out of hand, which ones to slowly break to the Yankers' will.
She sighs, as a bot brings her a cup of hot, strong, black gang coffee, which she sips at, before putting it down by the terminal...the base's warpdrive transceiver unit is installed on top of Mount Piven, accessible by wireless linkup anywhere on planet, and they should be able to get a signal through to Mars Command before the hurricane shreds the transceiver antenna.
And, it would be like sending up a flare to the trogs on the coast of Great Britain and on Basseterre; the bastards would only have to wait the storm out before sending in more than enough Marines to overwhelm the former Commonwealth embassy's garrison, leaving them a choice between fighting to the death, and being taken alive.
I know, she remarks grimly to herself, which choice I'll make when the time comes.
She takes a larger gulp of coffee, before stroking the transmit button on the terminal's holospace.
Aboard a National Police CV-137 Prometheus
4,921 feet over Bulloch County, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2340.08 AMT
"Son of a bitch," James "Hammer" McCluskey swears, lidar lighting off on a round dozen Spectre gunships converging on his position, with a squadron of warpfighters arrowing forth from the Spacefleet base at Valdosta to seal the deal.
Old Sparkie can't help him now, he's too busy being slumped in the pilot's seat stone-cold frickin' dead, and this old Prommie ain't even got so much as a rock to throw at the sumbitches.
The two girls are back in the cargo section, probably wondering what more hell's in store for them, Joey "Blaze" Avera's back there checking up on them, while Hammer's up here on the flight deck trying to fly this crate by himself.
"National Police craft November Charlie Tango niner-three-zera-seven," a Gnat's holo says as it floats in front of Hammer's right eye,"you will land, at once, and surrender yourself to National Police custody, or we will use deadly force to bring you down! You have ten seconds."
"Shit," Hammer remarks, hearing the warning tone of lasers locking onto the Prommie from the front and rear, the former Spacefleet warpfighter pilot jerking the stick down and hard to the right, the jets kicking him in the ass, as he just barely manages to avoid being fried.
This time, the Spectres and the Preads lining him up in their sights right now, and Hammer knows he can't keep this up for too long, this isn't his old Predator, and it's been ten years since he had to do this sort of thing for a living.
A five-terajoule laser pulse sizzles past his windscreen, Hammer reflexively jerking the Prommie out of its path, cursing, as he almost steers right into a flurry of five-hundred gigajoule autolaser pulses.
Definitely too frickin' old for this crap, he thinks to himself, as he keeps juking, another buzz in his ears letting him know the bastards just upped the ante by throwing Cobra missiles at him.
"Helluva time for you to check out, old man," Hammer snaps at Sparkie's dead body, as he grits his teeth and jerks the stick in every direction at once.
In the cockpit of Republican Union Ship Eve Of Destruction
4,921 feet over Bulloch County, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2340.08 AMT
"What the eff do you think you're doing?!" the holo of Lieutenant Trevor Evenson screams over Chief Warrant Officer Oliver "Twister" Barrett's CyberLink, as the rest of Div 6 start locking lasers on his bird, and the Cobra air-to-air missiles he just launched take out the National Police Spectres on the tail of that Prommie.
"I got these bitches, Hammer!" the thirty-year Spacefleet veteran shouts out. "Run like hell!"
Barrett then jukes and twists around, cutting loose with the five-terajoule lasers in the centerline pod and the ten five-hundred gigajoule autolasers in the F18D Predator warpfighter's wings, sticking and moving, not looking to see if he's hit anything, that's a good way of getting your ticket punched, and Barrett's not planning on dying.
Not too soon, anyways....
He knows, in the back of his mind, that he ain't coming out of this one alive...the young punks calling themselves the Nazguls are nowhere near the caliber of the Commies who almost fried his sorry ass more than once during the course of two wars, 'specially not the kid calling himself a squadron commander, but there's twenty-three of them and one of him, and he's enough of a veteran to know what kind of math those numbers add up to.
That's fine, he thinks to himself, flipping the thumb switch at the top of the stick to let loose some more Cobra missiles, lasers continuing to blaze forth across the sky, as his right hand works the holokeys on his windscreen, catapulting Eve into warpdrive for just a second, the ship shaking and screaming, as it reenters normspace, Barrett spinning the Pread around, lasers tearing into a dozen other warpfighters at once, lidar howling, letting him know dozens more are-
Office of the Master Chief Petty Officer of the Spacefleet
Building 219, HQTRS,Freeman Lang, Terranova
09/15/2101, 2355.62 AMT
Son of a bitch, Whistler thinks to himself, as he sips his fourth or fifth cup of black gang coffee.
The Old Man's probably already here, Whistler will have to find some way to let him know the progress of the operation, without alerting the TSID, but, that can wait until, after the SeeMo's through with him.
First Finn Huckabee, the Chief of the Fleet thinks to himself, tallying up the cost automatically, and now Sparks MacKenzie and Twister Barrett, and God only knows how many others, before this is done.
Wonder if it's all worth it, he adds to himself, even though it was way too late to turn back now, even if he was having second thoughts about the choice he'd made ten years ago.
And, he doesn't...four thousand dead civs on the Capitol steps, billions more buried in frickin' latrines on Big Sky are more than enough to chase away any doubt he might have about the rightness-the righteousness-of the cause to which he's willingly risked everything he has.
The alternative's letting old Gotchanow kill all the zeds throughout Terranovan soil and the Commonwealth, knowing full well men like him can't live without something to kill.
That's no alternative at all.
No alternative at all, Whistler repeats to himself, drinking some more coffee, the Spacefleet's highest-ranking noncom then turning his full attention back to the work on his desk.
-endit-
