Conroe's Wish

Conroe's Wish

A biped, he stood with his legs wide and hands locked behind his back.
His epidermis was blue-grey with a rough texture like fine grains of
sand. His head was washed clean by depilatory foam, a pair of short
antennae projecting from the back of the skull. Head tilted downward,
he stared with piercing green eyes through the transparent floor.

Through the floor, against the background of space, he could see his
ship, the GB Reve. In the distance, it was a bright green oval, the
brightest of the many star vessels surrounding her. The star Alpha
Hercules' radiation reflected from the atmospheric molecules trapped in
his ship's recycling gravity field. The radiation itself was bent
around the ship by powerful super conducting magnets, an approximation
of the geo-magnetosphere. A small quantity of the molecules were the
run-off from the Reve's own environmental systems, but mainly, they
were the oxygen nitrogen atmosphere of the last planet in which the
Reve had been in orbit and her gravity field was thick with them.

He tapped his foot against the transparency and whistled perfunctorily
as the Reve slid down the window. The biped, and Durian, wore a simple
void black duty uniform. Three eight-pointed stars formed a triangle on
each shoulder strap. On his left hip was strapped a bladed flute that
was the proud symbol of his status and class among his own people. On
his left breast were brass flight engineer's wings, a navigator's
sextant, and a small, simple rectangular pin denoting the Cotati, the
highest award given to Fleet enlisted personnel.

Only the highest of awards were worn on the duty uniform and the Durian
usually did not even bother with those. But, now he wore it as a
reminder that he came from the ranks, he was no Gorgerin Institute ring
knocker' - as his old mentor, Nike Smith, would have said. As an added
touch of defiance, he wore the silver dragon emblem of the long defunct
Deacons Expeditionary Force on his left shoulder above the regulation
Hercules Fleet division patch.

He turned and looked up at his companion as the station rotated, taking
the Reve from their view, filling the sky with the other ships of
Holders' Hercules Fleet. These other ships, having spent less time in a
planetary atmosphere, were nowhere as brilliant as his. Many, being so
distant and with gravity fields clean of reflective gases, were
completely invisible to him.

His companion was a human female. Blue-black hair peppered lightly with
grey-framed delicate Asiatic features. Her jacket was similar to his in
design, but was made of a light, brown material. In addition, she wore
a brown, green, and yellow plaid kilt and shoulder sash, the regimental
colours of the 1st Bacchanal Hunting Regiment. The sash was held in
place by her right shoulder strap. Her shoulder straps, similar to the
Durian's bore three small dark brown 'planetoids' forming a triangle. A
white tufted sporran hung from her belt.

On her finger was a tarnished and smooth West Point ring. She took as
much pride in it as the Durian took in never having attended the
Fleet's equivalent. And, she paid an inordinate amount of pride to the
1st Hunting Regiment, her home and family since graduation from that
venerable institution.

Lung Allele Brigitte was a rejected clone. Grown in Scotland, her
records sealed, she was raised by foster parents in Hawaii, having no
idea who her donor was. For beings like her, beings without family, the
1st Hunting Regiment was more than a career; the regiment's six hundred
year tradition was a substitute for her missing genetic heritage.

And, unlike the Durian, she paced with mounting aggravation. They had
been waiting on the Shale for more than an hour as stewards, valets,
and crewmen under the direction of an arrogant gold-braided
aide-de-camp, emptied the office. As Alpha Hercules flared, the
increasing levels of radiation that lit the Reve so brilliantly would
soon make the outer layers of Herculean Station uninhabitable.

It was this chamber that Shale Cult Holders selected as his command
centre after his fleet retook Herculean station from the Association of
Outer Colonies Mali.

At one time an elaborate hall used to entertain society's upper echelon
as it passed between Earth and the Outer Colonies, the chamber was now
a clutter of free standing star charts, hollow-projectors, computers,
tables, desks, and chairs. They took the station and commandeered the
chamber during Alpha Hercules' low period. Now, for the few days before
the station's highly elliptical orbit took it safely from Alpha
Hercules' increased radiation output, all of the outer levels were
evacuated.

The main door slid open with a hiss. Lung Allele ceased her pacing and
gave her attention to the being that walked through. In fact, the
small, slender human with the pronounced widow's peak commanded the
entire chamber's attention. Even the Durian suffered to tear his eyes
from the panoramic view beneath his feet.

"Shale on the deck!" The shale's Aide, a handsome young Lieutenant
bellowed. The chamber went rigid as all occupants snapped to
attention.

"Captain Caviar, . . ." Ignoring everyone else, Fleet Shale Cult
Holders nodded toward the Durian and then the Marine, " . . . Colonel
Lung Allele, sorry to keep you waiting." He said without the slightest
hint of sincerity. Years of telecommute therapy and megaton treatments
belied his more than seventy Earthier years by giving him the
appearance of a human naturally aged to his mid-forties.

The Shale wore a void black uniform like the Durian's, but it was
adorned with almost nothing, cutting a dark swath as he strode through
the chamber. On each shoulder strap was a row of three starbursts,
slightly larger versions of the Durian's stars. Other than that, he
wore a Hercules fleet patch on his left shoulder. Most assumed he
refused to wear his many medals and Coati out of modesty. Those few who
really knew Cult Holders knew he refused to wear them out of vanity. He
did not present what he had earned because of what he had not, namely
the wings and sextant worn by the Durian. The wings represented a
qualification to pilot both star vessels and orbital craft while the
sextant recognized a proficiency in flux calculations and astronomy.
Having catapulted through the ranks during the Nine Years' War after an
unanticipated and undeserved act of valour, the Shale never again had
time for the years of study and experience necessary to earn either
wings or sextant.

"Shale, I beg your forgiveness, but before you begin, I have to ask
again for a transfer from the Reve. When the 1st Hunting Regiment was
assigned to the Hercules Fleet, I made the Reve my Regimental
headquarters. Now that the Reve is detached from her squadron, I'm left
with a single company. I have to catch up with my Regiment."

"Colonel Alvin is taking good care of the 1st Hunting Regiment." Lung
Allele's stomach knotted. When last she saw Alvin, he was a Lieutenant
Colonel Alvin and the 1st Hunting Regiment's overly ambitious executive
officer. "Don't worry Colonel." Holders noted the anxiety in her eyes.
"Alvin's rank is brevet and he is 'Acting' regimental commander.
Besides, it's because the Reve is detached from her squadron that I can
send her on this mission."

"Shale, beta Company is light infantry. That's all that is assigned to
the Reve. Lieutenant Tamils is more than capable of commanding whatever
mission you . . ."

"Colonel, . . . I don't have time for this." Holders was barely able to
contain the frustrations and pressure of this highly public command
under the best of circumstances. He had much more to worry over than
the petty concerns of a marine colonel and he let her know it. "You
will remain on the Reve, understood?"

"Aye, sir." Lung Allele acknowledged grudgingly.

"Everyone out." Holders barked suddenly, unable to bridle the anger
Lung Allele released. At the stunned hesitation, he shouted
"OUT!"

The stewards and crewmen quickly ceased all tasks and hurried from the
chamber. With a malicious grin and a nod, the Durian turned to join
them. "Not you, Captain." Holders muttered in exasperation. "But you, .
. . out." He shouted at the Aide who lingered as the last of the
workers filtered away.

The Aide was obviously unhappy with his dismissal. He was accustomed to
being around the Shale, the centre of activity. He skulked away with
the rest.

As the door slid shut, leaving the Shale, the Captain, and the Colonel,
alone, Holders shook his head sombrely. "Are you familiar with Rohr
Colon Boreal?"

The Durian twitched his antennae and shrugged. "Only as a dot on a star
chart."

"Then you haven't been keeping up on the intelligence bulletins." The
Shale criticised sharply. "Colon Twelve is a marginally habitable
terrestrial, somewhere between a PI and a PIII. A few decades ago a
terra-forming group considered it for colonisation. As the Captain well
knows, they settled on Cams Delta II and the Fleet took over Colon
Twelve.

"Up until about a decade ago, when the Auk's Militia became an
organized threat, we used Colon Twelve to store anti-matter fuel rods."
Holders spoke hesitantly, almost as if he took responsibility for an
act that had nothing to do with him. But, Fleet Command was like a
brotherhood that spoke with a single mind. And, it never made mistakes
as long as they could be covered.

"Storing fuel rods on even a marginally habitable terrestrial is
illegal." Lung Allele exclaimed.

"And dangerous." The Durian added.

"That's why this mission is classified." Said the Shale candidly. "And,
. . . I'm sure they knew what they were doing." He used the old fleeter
saying, applied to every incongruous order resulting in higher costs
that gains. "Just as you are sure I know what I am doing.

"Anyway, the practice was discontinued when the Auk's Militia became a
serious threat and there became a real possibility of the facility
falling into their hands, a precaution that has proven justified.

"About four years ago, the Partier's Wish, carrying the last shipment
of fuel rods, disappeared."

"And that is why I am here." Clavier announced.

"It is." The Shale conceded.

"Why?" Lung Allele asked.

"The Partier's Wish is a Ramie Interstellar Shipping transport. I am of
the Ramie. My clan is Ramie Interstellar Shipping. My father is
Partier; he is listed as Chief Executive Officer in the company's Union
Exchange registration. And, the Shale is aware of the duty I owe the
clan. The Shale also believes if my father engaged an illegal
commission, my obligation is to cover it quietly."

Of course it was the truth, but Cult Holders had played this game long
enough to know that it wasn't the truth unless he admitted it or there
was insurmountable evidence that could not be explained otherwise. "The
Shale believes that you will carry out your orders, . . . this
time."

The Durian felt the barb sharply. Holders referred to the mission from
which they had just returned, to recapture the Union star vessel after
its retreat from Alpha Hercules.

The Durian wasn't going to make excuses. The Reve was badly out-gunned;
the small Hub Jana class frigate was no match for the larger more
powerful Leasburg class. And, the Reve had more than taken her 'pound
of flesh.' Both ships came away from the engagement badly damaged. They
drove her underground; she would have to find a safe place to make
repairs. While she did, she was no threat. In that regard, Clavier and
the Reve had acquitted themselves admirably, but ultimately, he had
failed.

"We assumed . . ." The Shale continued, again applying 'we' to the
brotherhood of Fleet Command. " . . . Or hoped, the Partier's Wish was
lost on the curve." The curve was the bending of space and time used to
travel between the stars. In theory, the curve could approach infinity.
In theory, anyone on the curve as it approached infinity, could not be
aware of the passage of time and could not know they were forever
trapped outside of normal Einsteinium space/time. 'In theory,' because
no star vessel lost on the curve returned to tell the tale. It was a
risk every spacer accepted upon boarding a star vessel.

"And now you've found her?" Lung Allele asked.

"Not exactly." Holders elaborated. "A deep space explorer dropped out
of lox just under four light years from the Colon system. It picked up
the Partier's Wish's distress beacon, transmitting from Colon
Twelve.

"We know she lifted off planet. Maybe she had a malfunction before
entering lox. Whatever the case, she must have returned, either to
orbit or she managed to land." Holders postulated. "The crux of it is:
if the Partier's Wish is still in the Colon system, the Association of
Outer Colonies has access to one hundred and fifty-six fuel rods.
That's one hundred and fifty-six lox jumps I don't need them making.
I've arranged for the Reve to be fitted with a magnetic containment
hold."

"I wondered what the quartomaster was on about." The Durian grinned
sardonically.

Holders ignored him. "With Beta Company's help, the Reve should be able
to transfer those rods to her holds and bring them back here, or dump
them in the Void, or shoot them into Rohr Colon."

"Here." Holders took his comp-pad from a trouser leg pocket and
transferred the files to the Durian's directory. As his own comp-pad
beeped, Clavier took it out and pressed his thumb against the small
rectangular indentation, confirming his receipt and understanding of
the orders.

"Before you go, . . ." Holders continued. " . . . This isn't in the
orders, . . . I don't want this to turn into a killing war. That means
the blockades have to be effective. Earth has kept control by
restricting what it will pay for the colonies' natural resources. We've
kept them from developing the infrastructure they need to fully exploit
their own resources. We have to stop them from getting the materials
they need and the time they need to develop an infrastructure."

"Sir, they started this." Lung Allele argued. "If we're going to finish
it quickly and with a minimum of casualties, it has to be a killing
war: quick, bloody, and decisive."

"Colonel, this isn't like the Nine Years War or the Earth-Basilica
conflicts. Humankind has not turned on itself in one hundred and
twenty-three standard years. They've started calling it 'Plax
Congregation' and they say this marks its end. It's not ending on my
watch. This is a political disagreement that has gotten out of hand and
we are going to get it back under control."

"And if the Ark does not agree?" Clavier asked.

"You have your orders." Holders voice cracked, strained with
exhaustion. Right now, he felt every minute of his seventy-one earth
years.

As Lung Allele and Clavier left him alone in the quiet, cavernous
command centre, he looked up toward the door, almost startled by the
revelation - Clavier was not human. What if the Durian Jorum Pa did not
join them on this? What if the Union Assembly decided this was an
internal Earthier matter? He dismissed the worry, but the concern
gnawed at him. He could trust Clavier to follow orders. As for the
rest, it was simply out of his hands. He told himself 'I'm sure they
know what they're doing.'

Rohr Colon Boreal

Using two massive points of gravity, space was compressed toward the
destination and expanded from the source point. Fixing on too large a
mass, or no mass at all, a vessel could achieve infinity and disappear
forever.

For tens of hundreds, maybe thousands of times the Durian had sat on
the bridge, watching helplessly as the lox time counted down to zero.
He felt no less relief this time as the flux engine shut down and
Einsteinium space reclaimed them. Blank monitors flared to life as the
ship was awash in electromagnetic radiation. Soft, electronic screeches
of background radio waves crackled over the communications system. And,
Conic, the ship's computer, blared in panicked distress.

Target acquisition, target acquisition." Conic warned in a smooth,
calming voice that belied the stress and excitement running through the
bridge's sentiments.

Clavier, surrounded on three sides by monitors and interface panels,
immediately glanced down at the tactical display. As he watched, images
formed, raw data acquired by the Reve's sensors and was being
interpreted by Conic's programs. Rohr Colon Boreal and the planet Colon
Twelve appeared in relative positions, nowhere close to scale. The Reve
appeared as a green circle. Next to the green circle was a flashing red
dot. That red dot had bounced a radar signal off of the Reve, sending
Conic into distress.

Alongside the red dot appeared a block of text, flashing physical
properties, size, mass, velocity, orbital trajectory, etc. Clavier
tapped one blue finger over the red dot, hoping to call up more
information. None appeared. "What is it? What is it?" He asked Conic
and then the bridge crew, no one in particular, but directed toward
both science and tactical stations.

"Never mind." He muttered as the red dot suddenly accelerated toward
them. "Main thrusters, full burn, five seconds." Reve's main thrusters
fired, burning ton of reactant mass and pushing the ship away from the
red dot's new trajectory. Whatever it was, from its mass, Clavier knew
it could not possibly carry enough fuel to accelerate as quickly as
Reve.

As Reve shot noiselessly past the red dot, a new set of data appeared
on the tactical display. Red dot had a transponder code: it was
ordnance assigned to the Vinci.

The Vinci's, an Indiana Class cutter, had been decommissioned from
Fleet service and sold to the Association of Outer Colonies some years
ago. And, she had just taken part in the raid on Herculean Station. The
titbit of datum popped into the Durian's head only because he knew the
Vinci's from its days as a mail cutter, small fast ships that carried
communications through flux from one star to the next. 'Didn't keep up
with intelligence, indeed,' he thought, scoffing at Holders
suggestion.

Red dot continued on its new orbit, crossing into the Reve's ion wash
and detonating with enough force to send ripples through the light
frigate. Reve's crew could not even notice the ripples; the ship's
decks and consoles were still vibrating and rattling from the main
thrusters' plasma ejection.

"Main thrusters, full burn, ten seconds." The Captain said to the
flight engineer. "Quickly now, while the explosion can shield
us."

Colon Twelve

Addax Bishop sat alone on the bridge of the Vinci. Feet propped on the
control console, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, fingers running
through the bristles of his neat trimmed beard. His eyes were a clear,
bright blue, his hair so blonde as to almost be white. He wore a white
flight suit that was now a dingy grey, and carried a pungent, salty
odour that only a chemical wash could remove. When first issued his
uniforms, identical to the Union Fleet, except for the white that was
to be an antithesis to the Fleet's void black; he knew they would be
impossible to keep clean. So, to the dismay of his shipmates, he
practically lived in the flight suit, saving the duty uniforms for
special occasions.

On each shoulder strap, Bishop proudly wore the row of three stars,
rank of commander. Bishop had been part of the Association of Outer
Colonies' aggressive recruiting campaign. Frustrated and stifled by
Fleet Command, the young lieutenant followed many other promising young
fleeter's and leapt at the opportunity for a jump of two rank grades
and his own command, even if it was an obsolete Fleet cutter. And the
Fleet, as unresponsive to its own needs as it was to those of its
beings, soon found itself with a desperate shortage of personnel.

Not that it was so easy for Bishop. During the months of boredom and
frustration, almost as stupefying as Fleet life, he had often
questioned his decision, until they gave him the Vinci's.

With practiced reflexes, the Fleet retaliated. Holders' Hercules Fleet
efficiently and effectively ran off the small band of rebels,
scattering them to the Four Corners.

Lights flashed, the computer chirped and beeped in alarm, the crews'
voices chattered, oblivious, in the background. Directly in front of
him, half a dozen monitors were configured to display the life signs,
equipment status, and video images of each of the Vinci's EV team. None
of them gave any indication of the computer's distress.

"What is it, Vance?" Bishop asked.

"Missile bearing RA one six two four, DEC thirty-three fifty-one has
acquired target and detonated."

"Target status?"

"Unknown."

"Target identification?"

"Unknown."

"Is she one of ours?"

"Unknown."

Bishop leaned forward and thrummed his fingers on the control console,
tapping out a set of calculations. Just less than twenty seconds for
the signal from the Vinci's mine to reach them. Depending on the type
of ship that set it off, they had between four and five standard days
to make the last transfer. Five days they could manage. With four . . .
Bishop shook his head doubtfully, it was not enough time for another
trip and to prepare the ship for launch.

Maybe they should leave now. Twelve fuel rods was a good prize. Cut off
by Union blockade and desperately short on all but humanitarian aid,
the AOC would pay top dollar for the anti-matter. The crew should be
very happy with their share. Still, fourteen rods would be better and
almost guarantee a captaincy, especially since it looked as if the AOC
had lost the rods to the Union years earlier.

Mack, as usual, was right. At Alpha Hercules, Mack had been right. If
Bishop had listened, the Vinci's would not have been cut off from her
squadron and left to the mercy of two Union destroyers.

The obsolete little cutter, heavily outgunned, made an emergency lox
jump to Rohr Colon, where it picked up the distress signal. As a Junior
Lieutenant, Bishop had worked the Colon Twelve armoury. He remembered
the Partier's Wish and he immediately knew what the signal meant.

Mack thought they should jump to an AOC colony, report it so that a
proper cargo transport could be sent in to claim the prize. Bishop
wanted it himself. Besides, they needed to go down there and at the
least turn off that beacon before it brought the Fleet down on their
ears.

Bishop watched the monitors. They displayed the video fed from the
cameras mounted in each of his crew's helmets. Watching the Vinci's
from their perspective, the fore landing strut came into sight through
the pea soup thick yellow fog. A dark shadow, Bishop recognised the
rear strut, came into view as they moved beneath Vinci's underbelly.
The ship's cargo lifts were lowered, waiting for the two anti-matter
fuel rods carried by the six spacers. Once the two fuel rods were
loaded into the lifts, the crew retreated to the airlock.

Bishop was there waiting, watching them through a small window. The
spacers exchanged glances, purposely looking away from the scrutiny of
their Captain. Senior Chief Petty Officer Edgar Maximal was the only
one to look directly at Bishop, acknowledging his presence with a bare
nod.

As the environmental indicators moved to green, the spacers lifted away
their helmets. The airlock door slid open with a pressurising hiss and
the spacers filed out, squeezing past Bishop in the narrow confines.
Wet, orange clay, covered the e-suits and small, black, oblong leaves
stuck to their legs. As they squeezed through the Vinci's corridors,
the clay smeared on Bishop's flight suit and the leaves stuck to the
walls.

"Mack, we have company." Bishop pushed firmly against Maximal, keeping
him from following the others.

"Union or Militia?"

"I don't know, so we're going to assume Union. They set off one of the
mines."

Mack nodded wearily. "I will begin pre-launch sequence."

Bishop shook his head. "No. We need one more run."

"Back to derelict? There is no time." Maximal knew exactly how long
they had, and it was not enough.

"We can make one more, if we hurry. I'm sorry, but you need to go back
out. Take half an hour to rest and eat, then get four fresh
crewmen."

"Just four?"

"I'm going with you."

Half an hour later, the Vinci's airlock lowered six figures to the
ground. They stepped outside and were enveloped in the thick, yellow
fog. Except for Maximal, the e-suits were fresh and clean. Orange clay
quickly splashed up around their ankles and calves.

The same clay was splattered over the landing struts and underbelly of
the Vinci's. As they walked away, Bishop paused at the fore strut. He
leaned forward for a better look at the small brown discoloration, just
a few centimetres across. He rubbed his hand over it. Brown dust flaked
away and came off over his hand. "Void damn it." Bishop muttered with
disappointment, glad this was their last trip. This chlorine in the
atmosphere was rusting his poor Vinci's apart.

Reve

"We know . . ." The Durian began. " . . . The Vinci's, a mark V Indiana
Class cutter was hear. And, we know, if she is still here, she knows we
are here." A holographic blue print of an old Indiana Class rotated
lazily, hovering ten centimetres above the table, projected from the
flat screen monitor set into the table's surface. Alongside the wire
frame depiction, lines of text, known design specifications, scrolled.
"We cannot be sure of her exact capabilities, we do not know what
upgrades and modifications the AOC has made.

"We do not know if either Vinci's or the Partier's Wish is still
in-system. Whatever signal was detected in deep space is no longer
broadcasting. But, it was four years old, so . . ." Clavier's antennae
twitched as he explained to the Reve's senior officers, Colonel Lung
Allele, and Beta Company's commander, all seated around the briefing
room table. "My guess is that if the AOC are in-system, there are not
many of them, possibly just the Vinci's. If they had a sufficient
force, there would have been a ship waiting for us instead of an
automated missile."

"Or they're not here at all and just left the booby-trap." Reve's
executive officer suggested.

"Lieutenant Row, . . . " Clavier called through the open arch
separating briefing room from main bridge. " . . . could you join us
please?"

A young woman with dirty blonde hair finished her sightings
impatiently, hesitantly shaking one finger toward the Captain while the
other glided over the interface panel. "Just one second."

Clavier shrugged and arched his brows, a human gesture that had become
natural to him over the years. "Lieutenant Row has worked very hard
extrapolating the last known position of the Partier's Wish from the
deep space data. "Conic, . . ." He said to the ship's computer. " . . .
Colon Twelve schematic overlaid with Lieutenant Row's calculations
please."

The rotating wire frame of the Vinci's was replaced by a blue-green
sphere with just a hint of enveloping yellow and splashed in wisps of
white. Red dots cut a line across the sphere, leading into a red curve
that spiralled down to the planet's surface.

Row stomped into the briefing room, slightly winded from even the few
steps onto the main bridge. "The dots are the transmission source." She
explained. "Extrapolated from the frequency and strength of the
transmissions. The red line represents the Partier's Wish's descent
trajectory if she were to continue on course from the transmission
source. See how the curve widens as it moves away from the dots?" One
thick finger swept across the hollow picture, following the red curve.
"As we move away from the source, the possible trajectories increase,
but not so wide to prohibit our search pattern. Once we make orbit, we
only have a narrow search band. Depending upon the orbit, it shouldn't
take more than three revolutions."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Row nodded and moved back toward the bridge.
"No, please take a seat, we are not through yet." The Durian gestured
toward the empty chair reserved for his Senior Science Officer. Row,
more anxious to get on with her planetary survey, shuffled anxiously
before reluctantly sitting.

"In forty-seven hours, we fire retro-thrusters and begin aero braking
manoeuvres. I want the ship fully secure. We are going to decelerate
quickly, perhaps more quickly than the gravity generators can
compensate.

"As you know, we accelerated to avoid the missile coming out of lox and
again soon after. I have tried to wind the strings." Clavier said,
using a Durian metaphor. "If the Vinci's is in-system, they know we are
too. The AOC has recruited heavily from the Fleet, taking some of our
finest. It is likely such a being serves the Vinci's.

"Our acceleration will bring us to Colon Twelve sooner than had we
followed standard procedure. It is my hope that we may regain some of
the surprise lost in our lox entry."

Between Row's calculations, Clavier's experience, and Durian
psychology, Partier's Wish was located precisely where predicted. Reve
accelerated to a higher orbit, taking up station keeping in an optimal
position to keep watch over the derelict.

From high in orbit, with Rohr Colon's radiation output much less than
Alpha Hercules, the boreal effect on the Reve was much reduced. Reve's
gravity field was still laden with atmospheric molecules, including the
oxygen, nitrogen, and chlorine of Colon Twelve. An occasional wash of
green and yellow flashed over the spherical magnetic field, like a
rainbow over a soap bubble.

Lung Allele stomped through the Reve's narrow confines, eyes firmly
affixed to the comp-pad in hand. Crewman and marine alike went flat
against the bulkheads, making way for the determined Colonel.

The Colonel was planning and preparing to transport her marines to the
planet's surface. Beta Company took up three-drop shuttles. All three
shuttles were being prepared. Only one would drop initially, a
reconnaissance party whose objective was to find and secure the
Partier's Wish.

That done, the other shuttles would join them, the 1st Beta Company,
one hundred marines strong, would quickly load the cargo of anti-matter
fuel rods for transport to the Reve's external cargo module.

While the marines readied their shuttles, the fleeter's detached the
cargo module, giving it a parallel orbit to the Reve. It was a routine
precaution. If the magnetic containment failed, the ship would have a
chance to escape destruction.

The Colonel found the Captain in the gymnasium, stepping out of the
Reve's small pool. It was sealed behind a transparent partition,
separated by a revolving door. The pool was small; barely long enough
for three strong strokes across. Steam and condensed droplets obscured
the Colonel's view of the unashamedly naked Durian.

Lung Allele watched unwavering, just as unashamedly as the Durian
passed through the revolving door, wiping himself dry with a towel. To
the Durian, bathing and nakedness was a natural part of his culture.
Bathing was used as a means of controlling his species' partially
exothermic metabolism. It was easy to forget other cultures, namely the
predominant Earthier Western cultures, did not share his views.

Clavier nodded greeting to the Colonel and reached into his locker.
With Clavier's eyes and antennae facing the locker, Lung Allele let her
eyes wander his body in fascination. Water dripped from exoskeleton and
ran in thin streams along the joints where it melded with the flesh.
The exoskeleton was a cord of flexible cartilage that wound round the
arms, legs, and upper torso. Along the chest, it was like a set of ribs
fitted to the outside of the body.
Beneath the exoskeleton, was a lean musculature. Although
appreciatively humanoid, the muscles were perceptibly alien in their
lines and groupings - just alien enough to be unnerving in their
familiarity.

Finally, her eyes lingered on the oddly shaped genitalia, and then
snapped back to meet the Captain's stare as he turned to face her.
"Uhm, uh, . . . I understand Lieutenant Row wants to accompany Beta
Company?" The Colonel stammered, covering badly, but recovered
quickly.

"She does." The Durian replied as he pulled the black, skintight
thermo-regulating suit over his naked body. The suit covered him from
neck to ankle and wrist. The gel between its inner and outer layers
served as insulation, retaining the Durian's body heat and protecting
it from the ambient environment.

"And you don't want her to?" The Colonel asked directly. Clavier's
antennae twitched and he shrugged as he put the void black duty uniform
on over the thermo-regulating suit. "I cannot recommend it."

"Why not? Afraid the marines will show up your fleeters once we're
planet-side?"

"It is what you are trained for." Clavier said with a wry grin.
"However, Lieutenant Row does not keep up with her phys apps."

"No, she doesn't look it." Lung Allele commented, picturing the science
officer's midriff, bulging from around the belt of her duty uniform.
"What sort of condition is she in?"

"Physically? Marginal, she would not be here if she could not keep up
with the minimum requirements."

"What's her problem?"

"She works." Clavier snorted. "When she is not using the ship's
telescopes, she is combing her database."

"She's a real scientist?" Lung Allele asked.

The Durian laughed softly. "She is, one of the few. You do not think
the Science Council would waste one of their politicos on the Reve?" It
was the way of life on the fleet, lawyers and politicians were assigned
as Senior Science Officers on deep space exploration vessels,
scientists to frigates and destroyers.

"What do you think?"

"I think she really does need to keep up with the phys apps, but they
are too rigid." Finished dressing, Colonel and Captain stepped into the
corridor, scattering a small cluster of passing crewmen, sending them
rigid against the wall. "And, she understands more about Colon Twelve
than anyone else aboard the ship. She would be an asset. But, even so,
she does not have field experience.

"This is your mission Colonel. The Fleet will not interfere, unless you
request it. If you do not want her, I will deny her request based on
the phys apps."

Lung Allele considered. Beta Company was hard driven infantry, trained
to spend weeks at a time living and fighting in bulky, uncomfortable,
armoured e-suits. Any fleeter would slow them down, much less a science
officer in marginal physical condition for even the sedentary shipboard
life. "I will think about it Captain. And, if you are willing to
release her into my command, I would prefer to talk to her
myself."

The Durian nodded brusquely and squeezed past her. "Captain, one more
thing." Clavier paused and looked back. "As you said, this is a marine
mission. Shall Holders does not want a killing war. I don't believe
there's any other kind. A bloodless war is a politician's fantasy. The
only way to end this war quickly and with a minimum of casualties is to
turn it into a 'killing war.' If there are AOC down there, I won't let
them run off to fight another day."

Clavier opened his mouth to say something, and then paused. "As you
wish Colonel. It is your mission, but you heard the Shall's
orders."

Colon Twelve

Quad Valley

Delicately edging its way over the spongy moss-like base, the shiny
black insect carefully nibbled the plant's overhanging leafy edges. In
the never-ending war for biological supremacy, these two species, alone
on this desolate crystalline island, reached a compromise of sorts. The
insect ate only at the excess leafy appendages; the plant did not kill
the insect. With its mouth set high on its head, between dark, beady
compound eyes and its body low to the ground, it was perfectly designed
not to disturb the plant's upper surface, designed to keep its part of
the compromise.

Long, feathery antennae flailed frantically, the ground shook. Six legs
scrambled away from the shaking that released billows of plant gas into
the air. A great 'pillar', absolutely beyond the comprehension or
experience of the insect, dropped from the sky, shaking the ground and
cutting off its escape.

With the pillar in front, the plant gas behind, the insect jumped.
Every instinct told it to stay away from the plant's upper surface, so
with two sticky feet, it hung on the leafy edge that was heavily
serrated by irregular crescent moon bites of its own gnawing.

The pillar rose and landed elsewhere, only to be followed by another
and another. Its antenna lobes told it to run from the plant gas, its
optic lobes told it to run from the pillars. Conflicting signals sent
it into distress. In defiance of the evolutionary compromise, its
desire not to be squashed overcame its fear of the plant gas, sending
it scrambling over the edge onto the leaf's upper surface.

Caught on the sticky surface, the insect was helpless as the plant's
blossom slit open, a gaping, horizontal maw of sickly yellow death.
With a meek, unhealthy cough, the blossom released a noxious, yellow
cloud of chlorine, asphyxiating the hapless insect and burning its
respiratory spiracles.

"Hold on a second." Row called out between gasps for air. Her voice was
broadcast to the comm-unit of each marine's e-suit and to the Reve.
With a single, silent groan they knew better than to express, Beta
Company slowed its pace - again.

Row found the marines vigorous march unbelievable, bogged down as they
were with bulky armoured e-suits, equipment, and weapons. Even with an
e-suit unencumbered by plastic armoured plating and having no equipment
or weapons to carry, she could not keep up.

But, that wasn't the reason she called for a halt this time. "It looks
like peripatetic amerce, a cockroach." It was pure chance that she
looked down to see the trapped three-centimetre long insect flailing in
the tiny puff of yellow.

An ankle deep trail of yellow gas followed Beta Company on their march
through the field of shining black plants whose oblong leaves clung to
the boots and calves of their e-suits.

The field was a relatively flat pocket of clay near the top of a
mountain of quad. The mountain was a projection of crystalline quad
formations filled in with wet clay. The clay covered their e-suits, but
was not perceptible against the quad/clay camouflage.

Lung Allele, overly patient with the science officer, it was entirely
her decision to bring her, paused. Clapping shoulder to keep the
company moving, she walked back toward Row, pushing Beta Company on
past her.

Row carefully pinched the squirming insect between forefinger and thumb
and dropped it into a sample bag. "I'm no biologist, but this is
definitely derived from peripatetic amerce."

"Probably got here the same way we did, in the belly of a Fleet ship.
Fleeters carry all sorts of infestations." Lung Allele said, referring
to the Colon Twelve armoury. Only a small facility, it still had
traffic enough to carry a few roaches.

"Look at the chiding." Row held the bag up to Lung Allele's faceplate
so that the helmet's light fell onto it. "It's made out of the same
natural polymer as the plants." The plants and this alien cockroach
were covered in a skin of natural plastic. Black to the human eye, they
gave the field an unreal, artificial look, like the set of an alien
landscape created for a low budget science fiction 2D television show
of the mid twentieth century. "This fellow is the result of evolution.
It's a lot older than the armoury."

"So is the planet. Holders said it was P1 to P3. That means they've
found ruins somewhere." P1 to P3 referred to some of the earliest known
civilisations of the Preset epoch, a group of ancient cultures and
species whose purpose seemed to be the cultivation of life seeded
throughout this corner of the galaxy by even older and more ancient
species.

Holders knew nothing of history. So, she easily believed the prevailing
theories that put Colon Twelve into the category of a slew of other
worlds that were acclimatized and changed by the ancients to suit their
needs. Over thousands of millennia since, with the decline of those
ancients and the loss of their technology, worlds like Colon Twelve,
unsuited to sustaining a terrestrial environment, were on a slow steady
change to something that may or may not resemble their natural
state.

"Point to Colonel." Lewis Fen Tamale's voice crackled through the
helmet speakers.

"Go ahead Lieutenant." Lung Allele said to Beta Company's commander who
had taken six marines for forward reconnaissance.

"We have a visual."

Colon Twelve
Partier's Wish

In the deep valley between ridges of quad, lay the Partier's Wish. A
thick, yellow mist of chlorine blanketed the valley. Through it, they
could make out only dark shapes and shadows with their eyes. Using
infrared, radar, and ultra-violet sensors, the image became
clear.

The ship lay broken and helpless, its bearing at an odd angle where
it's a landing strut had given way or never deployed properly. A small
stream flowed in a tortuously winding trail from the mountains through
the valley. It became bloated and misshapen where it met the ship's
hull and thin and weak where it ran off on the other side.

Lung Allele led ten of her marines and Row down into the valley. As
they descended, yellow mist swooped up around their legs with each
step, whirling around them, engulfing and obscuring. In less than an
hour, the haze and mist became a thick fog, limiting their vision to a
few yards. Relying upon their sensor equipment, they stepped between
jagged cracks in the quad and navigated around clay flats saturated by
hydrochloric acid run-off.

High in the mountains, rising far above the chlorine mist, snowcaps fed
the valley stream. A waterfall tumbled over a quad ledge, feeding the
bubbling stream. High in the mountains, where the liquid water mixed
with the chlorine gas, life was scoured clean along the stream's
embankments. The plants and insects, carbon dioxide and oxygen
breathers, respectively, had built a strong tolerance to the chlorine
abundant in their atmosphere. But even they could not tolerate the
hydrochloric acid wash that formed when mist met water, a wash that ran
directly through the Partier's Wish.

The 1st Hunting Regiment and Row splashed through the shallow stream.
At its deepest, it rose to Row's waist. And, at its deepest, was where
it had pooled, the Partier's Wish acting as a dam.

Leaves, washed from the marines in the crossing, floated serenely in
the stream and gently sizzled, breaking down into their component
molecules. Where the stream pooled, the Partier's Wish's hull was
discoloured and thinned, forming a sort of concave path with small
specks where the acid had eaten through the metallic polymer
composites. Metal seams and braces were brown and flaking, bubbled and
poked.

Lung Allele put her hand against the bleached white section of hull and
pressed firmly. It was soft and forgiving, it felt as if it would give
way and burst through, but it was stronger stuff than that. It was
probably even still space worthy. "Get out of the water, quick." Lung
Allele gave the precautionary order sharply.

The rear guard, still crossing the stream, doubled their pace,
thrashing through and out of the stream. "It's okay Colonel." Row said.
"Partier's Wish has been soaking for more than four standard years.
And, she was only designed for short layovers in planetary atmospheres.
Her hull was built for the vacuum of space."

Lung Allele turned on her with and angry glare. "Up out of the water."
She repeated even though the last of her troop was just stepping onto
dry land. Her anger eased as she remembered Row's blatant disregard of
the Durian's orders. That was what first drew the girl to the Colonel's
attention.

"The hull is cracked." Row commented, noting the high levels of
chlorine in the atmosphere, visible as wisps of yellow caught in the
helmet-mounted light that lanced through the darkness. A quick scan
using the sensor set on the forearm of her e-suit confirmed it.

Beta Company and Row had entered Partier's Wish through a lower
airlock. The ship had crash-landed without lowering her landing struts,
using VTOL jets to lower herself into the Quad Mountain valley. Had her
struts lowered properly, Beta Company could never have found egress
through this particular hatch.

As standard equipment, each marine carried a portable power cell,
strapped to the right thigh. One of these was plugged into the hatch.
Greedily sucking at the energy, it cycled through and opened for
them.

Inside, it was as dark as pitch and wholly unnatural, or rather, more
completely natural. Durians built with a sense for nature, with rounded
corners, cylindrical corridors, no sharp edges. It was as if the
plastic and metallic polymer building materials had been shaped by eons
of flowing water. Through the corridors conceived by an alien mind, the
only light was their own; they made their way forward.

"Find the fuel rods." The Colonel sent Lewis Fen Tamale's team to the
cargo containers.

"Oh my God." Row's voice was feeble and followed by an unmistakable
gagging.

"Lean her forward." Lung Allele ordered quickly.

Two marines, one on either arm, tipped Row so the vomit would drop
forward in the helmet and not back into her mouth or nose. A vacuum
pump in the e-suit went to work, draining liquids, solids, and gases
indiscriminately, momentarily taking Row's breath away. Atmosphere was
quickly pumped into the suit, the computer compensating for the
pressure change and adjusting the mix, decreasing the oxygen
level.

Throwing up in an e-suit was not to be taken lightly. One could not
remove the suit to clean it and becoming dizzy, disoriented, or
light-headed, choking could easily follow.

Lung Allele moved her head so the light fell on Row's face. Grasping
the girl's helmet with two hands, she looked on the pale face. It was
pale, but it wasn't turning blue and the girl seemed to be breathing
properly. "You'll live." The Colonel banged the top of the girl's
helmet and turned her light upon what had caused Row's distress. Lying
face up on the floor that rounded up into the wall was an e-suit of
Durian manufacture.

Chest plating mimicked the Herat-hide breastplates, which were
considered a fashionable legacy of their violent past, while the suit
was raised and corded to resemble the exoskeleton structure. The helmet
was tall and the faceplate extended over its top curvature, giving
'visibility' to the antennae.

Casting her light through the faceplate, Lung Allele could see the
horror beneath. The faceplate was cracked; the head and face had turned
to dripping black jelly, corroded by the chlorine seeping through the
hairline crack. This low in the valley, the chlorine was too thick for
even the planet's indigenous life. There were no biotic, no bacteria to
eat at the flesh, leaving it a melting pool, corroded by the
atmosphere.

Lung Allele pounded Row's shoulder. "They had a crew of fifty. It's
going to get worse." And it did, as Beta Company entered sickbay.

More corpses, these without the cover of e-suits, lay upon the tables
and beds, flesh liquefying, clothes, soaked in the viscera, were
falling apart in swathes, the edges of which were blacked and frayed as
if burnt. Partial exoskeleton fragments, pocked and chipped hung over
the bodies, soft and distorted.

Row retched in dry heaves as the marines searched the bodies for
identification chips, patches, badges, and the like. Anything they
found, from tiny microchip implants, to intact pieces of uniform, they
brought to Lung Allele who scanned it all into her comp-pad and
transmitted to the Reve.

"They must have lingered for days, throats raw and burning with the
chlorine seeping into their atmosphere. Towards the end, at least that
one in the corridor made it into an e-suit." They listened to Reve's
flight surgeon as he reviewed the data transmission. "Probably
suffocated, fell over, cracked his head." The flight surgeon's
imagination tended to get in the way of his facts.

"Anyone you know?" Lung Allele asked as her camera swept over the
bodies and the viscous flesh bleached white bones and
exoskeletons.

"I knew them all, Colonel." The Durian's voice was mournful over the
helmet speakers. "The older ones at least. For my people, nepotism is
the normal way of business. My father is Murrain, the Partier for whom
Partier's Wish is named. Her Captain was my First Cousin. When I talk
of the clan as family, I am not speaking figuratively."

"Colonel, . . ." Lewis Fen Tamale said over their secured
communication's channel. " . . . We have a problem."

"What is it?" The Colonel growled.

"I think you need to come see for yourself." Tamale would not make such
a statement lightly. If he could deal with it himself, it would be
dealt with.

Looking over the spacers with their orange stained e-suits, the Colonel
picked out one with a rough, grizzled visage, made more foreboding by
the irregular shadows cast through his faceplate each time one of the
marines look him over. The patch on his forearm, a semi-circle open
downward over one eight-pointed star over three upward facing
semi-circles, marked him as the senior officer.

"Are you from the Vinci's?" The Colonel asked. There was no reply. But,
it may be because they were not on the same frequencies. Although by
the manner in which the senior warrant officer tried to hide an
expression of surprise, the Colonel thought he understood.

The ladder into the main cargo module was heavily corroded, the
metallic parts covered in brown dust, the synthetic materials soft and
uncomfortably yielding. When Lung Allele first climbed the ladder down
into the module, the mist immediately engulfed her with a thickness she
had seen only outside the ship. Normally, her first concern would have
been the four spacers, each wearing fleet issue e-suits, pointing
Kotuku / RTT laser rifles at Tamale and his men. Under the
circumstances, her first concern was for the over one hundred and forty
anti-matter fuel rods, each with a casing in varying stages of
decay.

Who knew how long this mist had filled the cargo bay, could they have
been corroding for nearly four years? If so, the magnetic fields could
break down at any time. They may not have four minutes. And they did
not have time for . . .

"Looks like a 'Mexican stand-off' to me." The deliberately pronounced
Earthier slang forced through the thick Durian accent would have been
humorous were the Colonel not staring directly at the Kotuku's hot
point. "Conic, scan all standard frequencies."

"Captain, . . ." Lung Allele protested. " . . . I have this situation
under control. This is what we are trained for. I will burn these
bastards. Even if they get us first, there is nowhere for them to go.
Reve will vaporise their ship before she can make orbit."

"Maximal, Edgar J.; Senior Chief Warrant Officer; personal
identification code M-A-K-S-Y-1-6-8-4-5. Who are you?" Mack let the
Kotuku rifle hang by his side and ordered his men to do the same.
Maximal may be a believer, but he was also a pragmatist. It was not
that he took the Colonel's threats seriously. What he saw in her eyes
was a determined fixation on the fuel rods.

The Kotuku's were dual fire weapons with both laser emitters and
magnetic repulse chambers for RTT slugs. A concentrated beam of light
would burn through the casings as easily as it would flesh or plastic.
Even the low velocity RTT slugs could bang into an already damaged
casing and shut down a magnetic field.

"Colonel Lung Allele, 1st Hunting Regiment." And added "Beta Company."
as she looked back to Tamale and his troops. "Are you alone?"

Maximal's first impulse was to answer the officer, just as he had done
his entire career. But, reminding himself this was no longer his Fleet,
instead began "Maximal, Edgar J.; Senior Chief Warrant Officer;
personal . . ."

Lung Allele raised her hand for silence. "I heard." The Colonel stepped
past the rebels, to the fuel rods they had taken down from their
storage racks. She looked over the empty racks, slots for fourteen in
all, including the two rods these four had been taking.

"You took fuel rods with casings rotting through?" Lung Allele asks
accusatorily, although it was not really a question. "Where are
they?"

"Two in the back are flashing red. They were yellow on our last trip,
that was about forty-five hours ago." He hated giving out the
information, knowing it considerably narrowed the fleeter's search for
the Vinci's. But, they may not have time to get back to the
Vinci's.

"Show me." Lung Allele ordered after having a pair of marines disarm
the spacers. Maximal stoically handed over his weapon and led the
Colonel to the back.

Each fuel rod, a meter long, a quarter that in diameter had a status
indicator, most were yellow, noting low power supplies or corrupted
casings. A few were green. On the top rack, at the rear of the storage
container, two were flashing red. The magnetic containment field could
fail at any time. If it did, the anti-matter would collide with the
matter of the casing and the gases and cancel each other out in a burst
of energy, causing every single other fuel rod in the ship to do the
same.

"Reve, have you been listening?"

"Yes Colonel, . . . good work." Said the Durian.

"And did you see this?" The Colonel let her camera roam over the fuel
rods, lingering on the flashing red.

"Yes, I did. Can we move them?"

Lung Allele sighed and clumsily put hands on hips. Her eyes glanced
absently downward at the status displays. "Our prime objective is to
keep them from the AOC. We've done that. I say we get out of here and
blow the anti-matter from orbit." It would be a spectacular explosion.
They would be able to see it just by looking out one of the Reve's
windows, more than eighteen thousand kilometres overhead.

"Captain, we can't do that." Row stood at the cargo hold entry, not
sure enough of herself to try climbing down the ladder in full e-suit.
"The planetary survey makes no mention of fauna adapted to the chlorine
environment. Indigenous life is regaining a foothold on this world. We
don't know if it exists beyond this mountain range. If we detonate the
anti-matter, we may be sterilising the planet."

"The plants and bugs are all well and good, but these rods could go any
time. I don't want to be here when they do." The Colonel said.

"We're expendable, you said so yourself." Row argued. "The human race
is spread throughout tens of star systems. This may be the only place
in the galaxy where this life exists."

"Colonel, we have a problem." Lung Allele rolled her eyes. The voice in
her helmet belonged to one of the snipers, enlisted men overlooking the
Partier's Wish, hidden in pockets of quad and clay. "Go ahead."

The soldier's camera view appeared in the Colonel's heads-up-display. A
tiny figure frantically climbed the facing slope. Higher magnification
identified the fleet issue e-suit, similar to those of Maximal and his
spacers.

Addax Bishop climbed the Quad Mountain, forsaking the relatively level
path taken by the crew of the Vinci's earlier. For speed's sake, he
climbed the sheerer incline, finding narrow purchase in the cracks and
crevices of the crystal. Shards of crystal peeled off, crumbling in his
grip, pushed away by his feet. Crewman Dowry followed, watching for
Bishop's hand and footholds.

Voices rang through his head, voices of the marines, voices from the
Reve, voices of his crew. His computer scanned the frequencies, playing
any communications signals it found. While in the freighter's inner
hull, climbing over the dualist structural frame, he had first heard
the marines; they were approaching the Partier's Wish. They had time,
he sent his crew forward.

Maximal and his crew went in to pick out a pair of fuel rods, a pair
still in green status. Maximal exchanged some terse words with a
Planetary Marine. Bishop's ambitions disintegrated as surely as a
matter / anti-matter collision. The marine called for a Colonel. A
Colonel! Had the Union sent an entire regiment after his little
Vinci's, a ship the Fleet used to call 'Little V'?

And then he heard the ship, the Reve. He knew the Reve, a Hugo Juan
class light frigate - only one company of marines. Of course that
company, possibly one hundred strong, far outnumbered the six of them
and the dozen left on the Little V.

Twelve fuel rods was better than losing his ship and his personality.
If captured, they would send him to a recidivist colony, use drugs and
psychotherapy to teach him the error of his ways, to take away what he
like about himself.

Bishop left quickly, Dowry close behind, jumping from the crack in the
freighter's hull on the opposite side of the ship from where the
marines found their airlock. Instead of climbing along the ship's hull,
they jumped into the hydrochloric acid stream some meters below. Bishop
slipped and ended up completely submerged in the acid. His suit
apparently undamaged, Commander and Crewman were up to the face of the
small crystalline mountain.

Warnings blared in Bishop's ears. He stopped moving, waiting for the
inevitable beam of light that would fry him before he knew he had been
hit. A beam of concentrated light had hit him, undoubtedly rebounding
to whomever had fired it, giving his exact distance and position.

Seconds passed - nothing. Then the marine's voice filled his helmet,
telling his Colonel where both he and Dowry were. A few more seconds
passed, Bishop kept climbing.

Colonel Lung Allele thought hard. She couldn't just let the rebels go.
Despite Holders' 'bloodless war', they would just return to fight
again. "Fry them, soldier."

"Hold one second please, Colonel. And you too, soldier." The Durian cut
her off before she said anything else that could be used at her court
martial. He reached over his shoulder. Feeling nothing, he turned his
head and shoulders. The head set normally fixed in the side of his
command chair was absent. He cursed softly in his native tongue.

During his last duty shift, he had probably walked off the bridge with
the damn thing still on his head. In fact, he could remember pulling it
off and tossing it onto his bunk. Still, his steward should have
checked and replaced it before he came on duty.

"Imam, . . ." He called to the warrant officer at the communications
console. " . . . Give me your comm-set." Imam tossed it over to the
Captain. It was damned awkward, using a human designed comm-set over
his tympanic membrane and nothing for his antennae. Since he was the
only Durian on the bridge, he would have to make do. "Imam, open a
secured private channel between the Colonel and myself."

"Aye sir." Imam confirmed the order and opened the channel.

"Colonel, belay that order."

Lung Allele, seeing the secured channel in her status display, spoke
freely. "I think you're forgetting where you are, nice and snug above
the world so high. This is my mission Captain - 'Planetary'
Marines.

"I understand that Colonel. And as much as I hate to stop you from
disobeying the orders of a twenty-four-point shale, I have something
else in mind. They can only be returning to the Vinci's. Now that we
have a fix on their position, we can track them straight to her."

"Fry them, soldier." Rang in his ears. Bishop expected them to be the
last words he'd ever hear. "Hold one second please, Colonel. And you
too, soldier." Words that rang exuberantly through his ears, words he
imagined he would hear clearly for the rest of his life, and then
static when the transmission was encrypted.

Quad Mountain

Tired and hungry, having nothing to eat but nutrient paste in twenty
hours, frightened and uncertain, Quos Buford slipped. One foot shot out
from beneath, twisting the other so that he lost his balance and
tumbled over the edge. He did not fall far; it was a gentle,
clay-covered slope. While still falling downward, his helmet blew, a
tiny explosion cracked the faceplate and broke the seal between helmet
and neck joint.

He didn't die instantly. Colon Twelve's atmospheric pressure and even
its atmosphere were comparable to Earth's; terrestrial life had once
flourished on this planet. But, the chlorine, especially concentrated
as it was in the valley, quickly raced into his lungs, burning throat,
nasal passages, and eyes. He screamed and coughed blood.

Maximal's first impulse was to race after him. But, the 'skull cap',
the small explosive charge with the proximity detonator, stopped him.
The explosive was attached to his helmet, standard procedure to keep
prisoners from running away. In this case, Lieutenant Tamale, who had
the unfortunate task of escorting the rebels to the shuttle, carried
the detonator.

Tamale sent a marine down to Quos Buford. "He's dead, sir."

"We'll have to come back for the body later." Tamale told Maximal,
almost asking the elder spacer's permission.

"Can you take these off now?" Maximal pointed to the skullcap attached
to the neck joint of his own helmet. "I give you my word we will not
try to escape until aboard your shuttle."

Magnifying the image, Tamale looked at the horror chlorine made of the
rebel's face and nodded uncertainly. He ordered the computer to
deactivate the skullcaps. Lung Allele would space him for it, but he
was not going to be responsible for another unnecessary death.

Reve

Briefing Room

"Would you like something to drink? I'm having bellmen myself." It was
a Durian drink, dried leaves boiled in sulphurous water, sweetened by
balls of hardened sap. "Would you like coffee or a soda?"

Maximal laughed at the cordiality. He did not know what he expected,
but it was not a cup of coffee. "A cold soda, something with
caffeine."

Clavier nodded to the steward who then went to get the drink. It was
the same steward who insisted the Durian's headset was not in the
Captain's cabin. It would be found, some time later, at the bottom of
the pool.

After the shuttle ride to the Reve, himself had left the rebel in the
briefing room. His crew was confined to quarters and had access to the
computer's entertainment systems. As soon as the Captain stepped off of
the bridge, the rebel recognised him.

He knew the Durian, or rather knew of him. But, last he heard the
Durian had left the Fleet for the Captaincy of a merchant marine
vessel. The rumour must be wrong, the Fleet would never give command to
someone who had left then returned.

And, the Durian knew of Maximal. But, he could not remember whether or
not they had met and had to ask.

Stripped of his e-suit, Maximal was brought in wearing a dingy
one-piece AOC flight suit. On the left forearm was the rank insignia.
The Durian glanced at the single semi-circle facing downward over one
eight-pointed star over three upward facing semi-circles. It was the
same rank the rebel bore when he served the Fleet. Unlike so many
others, Maximal had not left the Fleet for rank. "A very senior
enlisted rank to be serving on an old cutter."

Maximal laughed. "Especially serving as first officer, and me no
officer. Very senior ranks are all you will find in the Militia. It
makes an excellent recruiting incentive for young bulls stifled by the
old beings clogging the Fleet - and those who can't afford to bribe
them."

"True enough." Clavier also laughed, thinking of the nearly three
decades it took to reach the Captaincy. And, after three decades, it
was this civil war that finally brought him to the Captaincy. He was
not about to give it up, making him one of Maximal's stifling old
beings, he supposed.

"What is happening at Alpha Hercules?"

"You have been out of touch for awhile?" Clavier said.

"We left the battle early. Soon after the Fleet arrived, we became
disorganised. We were cut off from Militia's main force. We left before
the battle was over."

"The Union has Hercules Station."

Maximal nodded gravely. "I did not think we had the force to hold it.
But, it was a good try. What was the butcher's bill?"

"I do not know exactly." Clavier's antenna twitched. "Reve was sent for
before the battle's end. As soon as we returned, we were sent for you.
So, I do not know myself, but I understand they were surprisingly
light. I do not think either side has the stomach for this."

"I believe - if the Union is not willing to meet our demands, it will
happen whether we have stomach for it or not, eh?" The Durian stared
impassively. But, Maximal thought he detected a trace of sadness in the
clear, piercing green eyes. "I know you - from the Impark Wars. I am
from Bilk III. When the Impark came, I volunteer for the Dracut
Expeditionary Force. The Fleet, in its wisdom, thought I could better
serve where I was.

"I want to thank you for what you did. Fighting the Impark, I mean."
Clavier's antennae twitched. "This won't be another one like that. Or
the Nine Years War, I am never sure with Durians, you are too young to
fight in the Nine Years War, yes?"

Clavier smiled and shook his head. "No, not too young, but I did not
fight. I was a Crewman Recruit, but only at the end. Yes, I am from the
ranks, I worked for a living. For a very short, miserable time, I was
assigned to a merchant marine vessel, the Calico. We did not see so
much as an asteroid, much less the Basilica." Clavier paused over a sip
of bellmen. "Chief, I need to know where the Vinci's is."

Maximal considered. How did they know the Vinci's? He thought back to
his discussions with the fleeters. He had not given the name of his
ship. How did they know . . .? Of course, the missile, they had never
changed its registration.

"Maximal, Edgar J.; Senior Chief Warrant Officer; personal
identif..."

"Yes Chief, I know. If the 1st Hunting Regiment can take the ship, it
can be done without loss of life. If the Reve has to do it . . ." He
did not bother finishing the sentence. He knew full well that Maximal
understood the implications. The only way Reve could stop that cutter,
if the Durian chose to stop her, was to blow her out of the sky.

"Sir, . . ." Clavier's first officer leaned into the briefing room,
hanging onto one arch. " . . . We've found the Vinci's."

The Durian excused himself from the warrant officer and stepped onto
the bridge. After a few seconds, he called out "Chief." and motioned
for Maximal to join them.

Sullenly, almost hesitantly, Maximal pushed himself away from the table
and went onto the bridge. He was uneasy, surrounded by officers, Fleet
officers, the enemy. This was the place where officers 'worked', where
they made their decisions. It was not his place.

Through the main view port that filled the bridge's far wall, Colon
Twelve, or most of one hemisphere, hung almost Earth-like toward the
top of the window. The Durian stood next to his command console. One
monitor gave a tactical display of the planet below. Partier's Wish was
clearly marked between the ranges of the Quad valley. On one side of
the range was the Reve's shuttle, the one sent to carry flashing red
fuel rods. The one carrying a single pilot who knew it would be his
last flight if a single magnetic containment field failed.

On the opposite range sat the Vinci's, camouflaged, but still visible
to the Reve's telescopes. "Open a comm-channel, standard hailing
frequencies. By authority of the Union Assembly's Declaration of Plax
Congregation Semitone, I order you to stand down and surrender your
vessel." The Durian jabbed his finger on a touch pad to close the
channel. "Play that over and over until they get the idea." He ordered
the communications officer.

"Aye, sir."

"Sir . . ." The First Officer said. " . . . The Vinci's is powering
up."

"Helm, bring weapons to bear on the Vinci's." The flight engineer fired
the manoeuvring thrusters, twisting the ship so that main missile and
laser batteries were aimed directly at the Vinci's. In the bridge's
window, the planet turned only slightly.

"Does she know we have her targeted?" Clavier asked the weapons'
officer.

"She has to, sir. We're using active sensors." Came the reply.

"Sir, the Vinci's is lifting off." The First Officer said.

"Imam, open the comm-channel. Vinci's, this is your last warning. Shut
down your engines and land."

No reply.

"What's his name?" It took Maximal a fraction of a second to realise
the Captain was addressing him. "The Vinci's captain, what is his
name?" The rebel hesitated. "Just tell me his name - please."

"Bishop, Commander Addax Bishop."

The Durian searched his long memory, trying to fit the name into it. He
could, but as with most things, could not remember exactly where.
"Commander Bishop, this is Captain Clavier of the Reve. You know as
well as I that I cannot give you the opportunity to achieve orbit, it
would be tactical suicide."

No reply.

"Can you hear me?" Clavier waited, counting the seconds. He could see
Vinci's acceleration. In a matter of minutes, she would be in orbit. As
Vinci's started across the planet, the Reve kept moving to keep full
weapons on her. They would lose weapons lock before the ship made
orbit. He could not let that happen.

Surely Bishop knew that. Surely the rebel captain knew that he could
only achieve orbit if Reve let him.

The Durian opened his mouth, ready to give the order to open fire,
ready to kill a dozen fellow beings.

"She's exploded." The First Officer reported.

The Vinci's trajectory levelled and her acceleration decreased until it
reached a negative inertia and Colon Twelve's gravity pulled it
planet-side. One of the anti-matter fuel rods had failed, taking the
ship with it.

Herculean Station

"Three prisoners, one corpse, and a derelict freighter with nothing in
its cargo holds. Not a very good showing." Holders commented dryly,
gazing over the Durian's report as it scrolled over the display of his
comp-pad.

"We accomplished our mission objective." The Durian regretted saying it
before it left his mouth. He knew mission objectives were not a measure
of success, not in the eyes of Fleet Command.

"I suppose you did, but I would have liked those fuel rods. And, we
have to pay a considerable amount out of our budget to your pilots,
both for the extra pay you promised and to keep them in their
contracts."

The Durian didn't give a damn for Holders budget. The fuel rods were
transferred from the Partier's Wish to the Reve's special cargo module.
His preference would have been to lob a nuke into the Durian derelict
from orbit, but Row was right whatever the origin of Coronae Twelve's
life, whether Earthier stowaways, Preserver transplants, or some
unlikely parallel evolution, they had no right to cause such a mass
extinction.

There was no shortage of volunteers to transport the volatile material
to orbit. Under Fleet registration, the pilots were entitled to hazard
pay above and beyond what they received merely by being aboard the Reve
in a potential combat situation. The Durian's regret was that for some
of his best and most experienced pilots, the extra pay meant they could
afford to buy out their contracts and retire from the service. But, it
looked as if this little skirmish was going to get messy. So, it was
likely Fleet Command would cancel all release clauses anyway.

It was painful enough having to send pilots and crew down to clear out
Partier's Wish, but he found it almost impossible to make the final
decision. He sat at his command console; just watching the damned
thing, wishing it would blow up and put him out of his misery. Fully
loaded without incident, the cargo module, in its parallel orbit, sped
across the sky, taunting him, teasing and challenging.

With the rods loaded, the only thing left to do was retrieve the
container, manoeuvre Reve into a hard-dock and then take it back to
Herculean Station. It should be safe; he knew it should be safe. The
container had its own magnetic containment unit, but it was no
guarantee, not with the individual rod casings in such a state. One
could go and cause a chain reaction; the container's shield would be no
use.

And then, like the Vinci's, taking all the worry and concern from his
shoulders, the container exploded. A sphere of white energy spread from
within. There was absolutely no violence or distress, the sphere simply
moved outward from the container, through the walls and finally
completely engulfed the thing.

"What happened? Was anyone on board?" He knew the answer to both
questions before he even asked, but they came out on their own. All
personnel had already safely transferred to the Reve hours earlier,
when the final loading of the cargo module was complete. "Let's go
home."

'Home' was Herculean Station until Holders decided to take this
skirmish to the colonies. The Shale set the comp-pad on the desk and
looked at the Durian. He said nothing for several seconds and then
cleared his throat. "Captain Clavier, I'm going to give you an
opportunity to redeem yourself; the sort of opportunity the Fleet has
not given since the Nine Years War."

The Durian was unimpressed. He was well beyond any concern over
redemption and he knew how much trouble the Union found itself. In the
decades since the Nine Years War, when there was no shortage of
personnel, Fleet Command could afford to break the ablest commander for
the slightest 'bad showing.' Until they knew how this skirmish would
end, those days were gone.

"We've found the dwarf." The Shale leaned forward. "I want prisoners
for recidivism. The Science Council wants to prove that this can be
resolved with nothing more than a personality readjustment. Cornelia
Fitch has made him a symbol in turning this dispute bloody. Bringing
him back into the fold will be my symbol for ending it peacefully."