VOLTRON X
                                
                    Book 17: Homecoming
                         by: Christine

     The empress sat at her window, staring out at nothing. 
Dressed in a gown of costly red velvet, with glittering jewels
at her wrists and throat, A'lara seemed as exquisite and
fragile as a porcelain doll.  Her golden hair flowed long and
loose, the way Lotor liked it.   Her gown's neckline plunged
shockingly low, revealing the soft upper curve of her
breasts.... and several bruises.  Clumsy, she'd told her
handmaids.  She was terribly, laughably clumsy.  Some of them
even believed it.
     Though bitterly cold and pelted by acid snow, Lara
remained at the window, trying to convince herself that she
wasn't miserable.  After all,  Lotor didn't hit her.... much. 
He was faithful.... on Galra.  And he'd allowed her people
their freedom.... at the cost of her own.
     Outwardly, no woman was wealthier.  Inwardly, there was
no one more barren of joy.  Deep inside, her heart was bleak
and dark as Galra itself.
     Sitting there, gazing at the frigid night, Lara let her
mind wander back to her dreams.  Closing her eyes, she saw
herself free and happy.  In dreams, she was a daring pilot,
surrounded by loving friends.  She ruled a world free of
Galra's iron stranglehold, a people who still had hope.  And
sometimes, when Lotor finished with her and sauntered back to
his quarters, Lara dared dream of a man.  Not tall, or
surpassingly handsome, but kind.  Someone whose first thought
was always for her safety.  Not that any such man had ever
existed, or would be allowed to continue living if her Lord
and Husband learned of him..... but it was a sweet, harmless
fantasy.  And lately, false though it was, her dream was all
that prevented the young empress from crumbling, or hurling
herself through that gaping, snowy window.
     Delicate hands clutching at the heavy fabric of her
skirts, Lara watched the snow come down until the window
vanished behind a haze of unshed tears. Then a door swished
open behind her, and Lara leapt from her chair, whirling to
face the room with desperate haste.  But it was Rakelle, not
Lotor.  The empress whispered a small prayer of thanks to her
sleeping ancestors.  Inclining her head with regal civility,
Lara gave the dark-haired young handmaid permission to speak.
     "Madam,"  Rakelle began, bowing deeply, "His Imperial
Majesty requires your presence at the royal box.  There is to
be an entertainment this evening, and you are commanded to
attend."
     An entertainment?  A'lara 's heart sank.  Another of the
Polluxan royal family would be dying tonight.  Bandor, most
likely, for Lotor had sworn to execute Avok last of all, after
he'd first watched his entire family torn to bits in the
arena.  Recalling how Queen Arianna had died,  Lara started to
shake.  She couldn't sit through another public butchering,
the empress thought wildly, not tonight, when Lotor had
scheduled one of his "visits".  She wouldn't be able to hide
her loathing, and he'd have her beaten again.  Taking a deep,
shaky breath, Lara closed her eyes and whispered,
     "Inform His Highness that I am ill, and will not be able
to attend him, this evening."
     Rakelle's brown eyes grew very wide.  "Madam....., are
you certain?" 
     Lara's chin lifted.  "I will not go,"  she repeated
hoarsely, hands behind her back to still their trembling.  "I
would rather be dead a thousand times over than support
this.... horror!"
     A low, scornful chuckle made her whirl to face the
sitting room door.  Lotor stood framed in the threshold, arms
folded upon his powerful chest.  Tall and handsome was her
husband.... and terribly cruel.  A sudden wave of nausea
overcame the young empress as she realized that he'd overheard
every word..  She began shaking uncontrollably, then collapsed
to the tiled floor, retching like she'd taken poison again.
     Lotor was at her side in three swift strides.  Seizing
her arm bruisingly tight, he hauled his shivering wife to her
feet.  Fortunately for Lara, he was more amused than angry.
     "I believe we had an arrangement, Tzezrah,"  he purred,
golden eyes mere inches from hers.  "The well-being of your
pathetic species in return for complete obedience."  His grip
tightened suddenly, his claws opening five crimson slits in
her soft skin.  "Did you wish to alter our agreement?"
     Unable to speak, A'lara shook her head violently, no.
     "I thought not."  Releasing the silently weeping empress,
Lotor turned to face Rakelle, who still knelt where she'd
dropped when he'd entered the room.  "YOU!"
     Rakelle's forehead smote the floor.  "Yes, Mighty One!"
     "You will bathe and robe Her Imperial Highness in her
most elegant attire.  She has a part to play in tonight's
little show."
     "Yes, Majesty!  It will be done at once!"

____________________________________________________________

     Sven left his commander's office in a terrible mood.  His
bruises ached, but it was more than that.  Between the
business with Calvin, the nightmares, and his sudden,
inexplicable behavior, Sven knew full well that something was
wrong with him.  Hell, everyone knew it!
     The GA's drugs helped a little, but he could only take so
many pills before he ended up flat on his back.  Maybe the
leave time would straighten him out, though Sven very much
doubted it.  He'd be seeing see Anya, though......
     He'd gotten no further than the ready room, when a
perspiring and breathless crowd of friends surged through the
flight-side door.  Hadji, Vitorrio, Pierre, Brendan and
Stanislaus came piling in, looking quite nervous.  Spotting
Sven, they rushed over.
     He felt Bull's light scan, and lowered his shields far
enough to let his wingman get a sense of his general state.
     "All is being well, then, my friend?"  the Indian pilot
inquired, as the others gathered round.
     "Ja," he replied, slightly annoyed, but mostly glad that
they'd come to check on him.       Relieved, Hadji grinned, his
teeth almost fluorescently white against his honey-dark skin. 
Pointedly examining Sven's bruised face, he added, "I see that
you and our esteemed commander have had a manly
heart-to-heart."
     "Ja, you could say that...,"  and then, as they seemed
concerned still, he pulled out the leave paperwork.  "I got a
vacation out of the whole skit-mess, though."
     Icepick exploded.  "Que dices?!  You bounce an entire
damn Recon Unit, beat the shit out of the Tigers, and the
commandant gives you two weeks leave...?!  Pero, us he orders
to run the perimeter fence FIVE damn times for leavin' the
Hole with a few lousy Marinas?  You must be one HELL of a
kisser, hombre!"
     "Ja.., f*ck you, Vitorrio!"
     But Icepick only laughed.  "Too slow, man.  I'd have to
take a number!"
     Added Pierre, as Sven glowered like a pit-bull,  'Mes
amis,  perhaps we should ALL begin behaving erratically. 
Seems to tug on Pere Scott's heartstrings, and bring the
lovely girls to their knees, n'est-ce pas?'
     Fair-haired Brendan cut his wingman off with a feral
grin, sending, 'If it means a bit of unescorted leave time,
I'll dance naked in front o' the bloody PX, singing the
Academy fight song at the top o' my lungs, I will!'
     Sven gave the man a rough psionic shove that sent him
reeling across the room. 'Hal truten*, Hurricane!  You'd do
det WITHOUT the javlar leave!'  (*shut up)  
     Recovering his balance, Brendan grinned, and flexed his
stringy biceps. 'Naturally, Mate!  I've a ruddy duty t' the
lasses, now haven't I?'
     Only Stan hadn't spoken yet, though he glanced from one
pilot to another with wide-eyed, rather nervous amazement. 
Reaching into a cargo pocket, Sven located a ketchup packet
that he'd salvaged from Danella's hastily scrounged breakfast. 
Then, with the packet hidden in the palm of one hand, Ericksen
strode up to the younger pilot.
     'For helvete!  Ar du sa djavla dum that you're just going
to stand dar with your mouth open, skit-Ralph?'  he barked,
making Commander Scott sound like a missionary.  Then, so fast
as to be almost invisible, he lashed out and smashed the
packet against Stan's forehead, getting ketchup all over the
kid's face.  It was as if a flood-gate had been opened, or
permission given.  All of a sudden the others joined in,
slapping Ralph's back, shoving him around, and insulting the
bewildered youngster until he began cursing and struggling. 
Vitorrio took his wingman aside then, laughing.
     "Ralpher, man, Relax!  You're in!"
     After a moment, Stan wiped away the ketchup and returned
Icepick's grin, sending in his best unconcerned, masculine
fashion, 'Dobrze!  I was starting to feel left out!'
     'Nej, not any more,'  Sven responded.  'You may WISH to
be, though.  This ar one javla twisted crew...'
     'Callate, Loki!'  Vitorrio chided fiercely.  'You're
scaring away my new wingman!'
     They left the hangar together, Sven joining his friends
for the last few laps of their disciplinary run.  It was the
least he could do, considering.

____________________________________________________________


     Unbeknownst to the Terran forces on Kraelyth, Lord Hazaar
had assembled his battle group.  Fleet Dro-Shrahd lay in wait
off distant B'neerik, cloaked and silent. The storm troopers
he'd ordered up were still massing, their delay a matter of
logistics rather than willingness.  Whatever they thought of
their lord's commands, the troopers hastened to obey them, for
it was far preferable to die in battle than face Hazaar's
bloody version of military justice. 
     Calling up a long-range tactical view of the infested
world, Hazaar took note of his enemy's armament and estimated
manpower.  Just two warcruisers, still, and a few wretched
combot units. Pleased, the warlord drew his dagger from its
sheathe and began flipping the long blade from hand to hand. 
As his spies had indicated, Kraelyth was ripe for the picking.

____________________________________________________________


     A'lara got through it by dissociating herself from the
night's events
     It was as if she watched from a great distance as a
small, slender human girl, gorgeously gowned, but solemn,
swept into the royal box on the arm of Emperor Lotor.  The
girl responded graciously to the greetings of her subjects,
Lara was surprised to see, and even smiled up at her Lord
occasionally. When the Imperial couple took their velvet
seats, and the arena crowd chanted, "Valkrover Lotor!  Valkra
Lora!"  over and over until the very ground seemed to shake,
Lara drew further away.  She knew what was coming next. 
     Sure enough, the emperor lifted a hand, silencing the
crowd.  He spoke to them in their own harsh, snarling
language, his voice ringingly clear.  Then he called for the
spectacle to begin, and sat back on his velvet throne to
watch.  The little puppet-empress beside him remained
perfectly still, her lovely face a mask.
     Someone was brought out onto the arena's blood-stained
sands.  In her confusion and near-madness, Lara saw the victim
not as a person, someone she knew and loved, but as a
snapping, hissing crater dragon.  She felt a spark of relief
then, thinking that so fierce a beast might have a chance
against the horror that waited for it behind the arena's
mighty force gates.
     Bemused, she looked on as the emperor said something to
the cold, still girl beside him.  She watched as the tiny
empress nodded, then reached out to press a button on the arm
of her miniature throne.  Odd, though, how the crater-dragon
struggled in its chains, seeming almost sentient as its growls
and hisses tried to form words.  The far-away empress touched
the button, started to press it....
     Then a sudden wild roar shook the stadium.  Not chanting
this, time, but the bass thunder of high explosives.  From her
outside view, Lara watched as several hundred audience members
threw off their disguises and stood revealed as rebels.  They
pulled weapons from their robes, and opened fire into the
crowd.  Screams, sirens, the hum and crack of small arms fire,
and then at last, apocalyptic roar.  The arena began to
crumble, its support pillars sapped by well-placed plastic
explosives.  Someone made off with the bound crater-dragon,
A'lara noted, whisking it out of the stadium just before
Lotor's favorite beast-man burst free and began rampaging
through the audience.
     Now something struck the little puppet-empress, who had
remained calm and serene, smiling dazedly as the world erupted
into chaos around her.......*

     *.......A'lara found herself lying prone in the wreckage
of the royal box.  Her head was pounding, blood from some
unseen wound streaming into her eyes.  Getting her hands
beneath her, Lara pushed herself up a bit, seeing nothing but
dust and smoke, hearing screams, Lotor's raging voice, and a
chorus of whooping sirens.  Her legs were pinned, but it
didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  Not the pain, not even the
realization that she could die here, entombed forever in
shattered marble. 
     "Thank you, Father!  Spirits of my Blessed Ancestors,
thank you!  Thank you...!"
     And Lara began to laugh.  They'd done it!  Someone had
finally had the courage to rebel against Lotor's power,
humiliating the bastard in public, and saving Bandor's life. 
Alternately laughing and crying, A'lara curled  herself on the
cracked floor of the royal box and thanked her Ancestors
for the strength and cleverness of those unknown rebels.

____________________________________________________________


     After running the perimeter, Sven left Bull and the
others, and stopped in at sickbay.  He'd once told Hadji (or
had it been Lance?) that if a cat and a doctor were drowning,
he'd save the cat......, and that was saying something.
     Fortunately, sickbay was more of a walk-in clinic than a
hospital, with a staff that consisted of one natural physician
and a handful of special corpsmen (Navy field medics).  Sven's
luck was golden that morning.  His complaint was a minor one,
and the doctor was on the comm with a distant colleague.  So,
instead of seeing the staff physician, he was shuffled off to
one of the corpsmen, who listened to his symptoms, nodded
once, and prescribed plenty of orange juice and a stronger
tranquilizer.
     'Sir, take these with care,'  the fellow told him,
handing Sven a bottle of tiny black tablets. 'No more than one
every twelve hours, and NEVER before flying.  Your mech'll
ground you before you can taxi out of the hangar, Sir.'  And
then, as Ericksen nodded his understanding, 'Would you like a
quick energy scan?  See if you're blocked anywhere?'
     'Nej, Lieutenant,'  Sven sent back in reply.  'that won't
be necessary.'  Too much chance of attracting the doctor's
attention.  A swarm of bitter, deeply-buried memories stirred
then, and were ruthlessly quelled.  The programming and
genetic surgeries, the agonizing growth spurts they'd forced
on him, were past now.  No sense making himself sick dwelling
on it.
     Pocketing the bottle of pills, Sven thanked the corpsman,
signed a release form, and left sickbay.  All he needed to do
now was arrange a seat on the next transport to Earth, pack a
few things, and leave.
     Back at the cramped berth he shared with Hadji,  Sven
pulled out a duffel bag and began rather haphazardly stuffing
things into it.  Extra boots, tee-shirts, underwear, flight
suit and shaving kit, and his old football jersey, because for
some reason, Anya liked sleeping in it.  Dark blue and gold,
with the number twelve and the name 'Ericksen' sewn on the
back, the heavy jersey gave Sven a decidedly odd feeling as he
jerked it off the hangar.
     ....He saw himself as a brand new cadet, a plebe.  He
stood in the snowy yard, looking at a notice posted on the
central bulletin board.  'Tryouts to be held for positions on
the Terran Space Academy Midshipmen's' Football Team' the
notice read, with space below it for interested cadets to sign
their names and ID numbers.   Only naturals played on the
academy's sports teams, he knew that.  Yet... the team
practiced at the same time as the choir group, which he'd just
received a summons to audition for.  They knew he could sing,
it was part of his genetic profile, and unless he had a really
good excuse to skip it, he'd be forced to perform on stage. 
Well, football struck him as damn fine reason not to show up
for choir auditions.  So...., here the vision split.  Sven saw
himself signing up for tryouts, careful to leave off his
'special' status mark.... and again saw himself simply
shrugging in frustration and walking away, name unsigned,
chance not taken.....
     Which had it been?  Both, for a moment, seemed real and
terribly immediate.  Then he glanced down at the jersey and
grumpily banished the other possibility to might-have-been. 
He HAD signed up, HAD gone to tryouts, winning a position on
the team as back-up quarterback to Jeff Ashe, with Keith Akira
as third string.  Everything else was sheer delusion.  Cursing
softly, Ericksen stuffed the jersey into the bag, carefully
added his sheathed sword, and left for the transport station.

____________________________________________________________


     Keith reached the forward mess hall just as Hank LaChance
was walking out.  Nodding pleasantly at the burly general's
son, Akira said, "Hey, Hunk!"
     "Afternoon, Boss!" the fellow rumbled back.  The two men
proceeded a few paces further, then paused, turned and stared
at each other, deeply confused.
     "Sergeant LaChance, have we ever....?"
     "Done a mission together?"  the big man finished,
approaching Keith as cautiously as a nervous stray after
hand-held scraps.  "No, Sir.  I don't think so.  But I got
this crazy feeling.....,"
     "Yeah, me too.  I feel like I know you really well.  Like
we've fought together for years, or something.  Hell, I wrote
someone just like you into my book."
     Hank nodded, his homely face a study in frank puzzlement. 
After a moment's thought, he said,  "Well, a man's gotta trust
somebody....  an' I sure as heck need help.  Or maybe I should
say.... WE do."  And then, very quickly and quietly, he began
telling Keith about the stolen boy.

____________________________________________________________


     Another chance meeting took place on the planet below at
nearly the same time.  Meaning to catch a fast transport to
New Havyn, Lance strode into the recently dropped terminal
building. And there, showing his leave paperwork to a
suspicious counter clerk, was Sven. 
     Lance waited until the pilot finally secured himself a
boarding pass, then hurried after him, almost having to run. 
He finally caught up with Sven at airside D.
     "Two eggs and a side of bacon walk into a bar and order a
beer,"  Lance said to Sven's back, as casually as though
they'd been friends forever.  Replied the pilot, without
turning around,
     "....Bartender says, 'We don't serve breakfast here.' "  
Then he shook his head and pivoted to face Lance, adding,  "I
don't get it."
     The lieutenant grinned.  "You didn't the last two times,
either."
     "You mean you've told me den forbannade lame joke
before?"
     "Yup.  I tried explaining it to you over flat beer and
stale nachos at this sleazy hole-in-the-wall dive back on....
on...., Damn!  Can't remember the name of the planet, for some
stupid reason, but I can see the bar, plain as day!  Can't
you?"
     Sven frowned slightly, and shrugged.
     "Not really..., but I've been doing my damn best to
forget a lot of things, lately."
     Lance promptly changed the subject.
     "So, where you headed?" he asked.
     "Earth.  Two weeks medical leave.  You?"
     "New Havyn.  My sister's coming out this way to visit me
for a few hours, but she isn't allowed any closer, this being
a combat zone, and all.  Figured I'd blow the last of my pay
and meet her halfway.  She's got some crazy notion that I'm
gonna quit the service and become a CPA, but I just can't see
myself working for Dewey, Screw'em and Howe."
     Naturally, Sven was wearing a suppressor.  He didn't need
his psionic abilities to tell him that Lance was troubled,
though.
     "Vad is it this time?  In another life, we var married?"
     "Not hardly, Dude.  You're not my type.  We're friends
and all, but I've got major issues with the deep voice and
tattoos business."
     To his immense surprise, Sven actually responded.  "Guess
I'd better be taking back the ring, then,"  the pilot
dead-panned.
     "Omigod!  He...has...a...sense...of... humor!"
     Sven grunted.  "Just because I don't get stupid damn
jokes about food doesn't mean I'm not funny.  Sometimes." 
     Grinning, Lance clapped him on the shoulder, unaware of
the hard looks they were getting.  Specials and naturals
normally avoided each other.  For the two of them to be
standing there joking together, even with Sven wearing a
suppressor, was enough to upset the terminal's other
customers.  Only the fact that no one present out-ranked
Ericksen prevented an ugly scene.
     Continued Lance, blithely oblivious to the furor he was
causing, "Seriously, Dude.... I've just got a weird feeling,
like something really bad's about to happen.  We won't be here
for the start of it, either of us, but we'll be involved in a
big way at the end...  Shit!  Can't believe I just told you
that!  Most people think I'm crazy when I talk about  my...
'feelings'."
     But Sven took him seriously enough to say,
     "I will inform my commander.  He can contact Captain
Anderssen, on the Achilles, and see to upping our strength,
here."
     After gaping for a few moments, Lance nodded.  "Yeah,
well...,  maybe I'll let Webb in on the secret, too.  He seems
like the kind of guy who could accept a hunch."
     A woman's canned voice came over the comm then, serenely
announcing the docking of transport 367 to Sol system.
     "Det ar my flight,"  said Sven, hoisting his heavy bag
from the floor to his shoulder in one smooth, easy move.  "Jag
maste kila nu, min van."
     "Okay.  Whatever that last gibberish was, I totally
agree.  Wanna get together later?"  This last question was a
lot harder for Lance to ask than it might have seemed. 
Besides Sven, who didn't quite understand how they knew each
other, he hadn't any real friends. 
     "Jaha.  We can go out and play paintball."
     "Paintball?!  With you?  No way, Bro.  I'd like to live. 
How 'bout we find a nice dark bar somewhere, drink too much,
start a fight, and get thrown out?  Still violent, but shady,
and we'll be on the same side."
     Sven smiled.
     "If du can find a bar that will accept my kind... ja,
you're on.  Adjo."
     And a few minutes later, Sven was on his way to Earth.

____________________________________________________________


     Rescue workers dug Empress A'lara out of the rubble some
fourteen hours after she'd been buried.  The empress was
dehydrated and woozy, with a fractured right femur and
concussion on top of hypothermia, but Lotor's doctors soon saw
her to rights.  As for the emperor, he was nearly incandescent
with rage.  He'd been made a fool of at the largest televised
sporting event of the year.  Not a single world of the
Imperium had failed to receive that telecast, and Lotor could
well imagine what his beaten subjects were thinking, though
they stated nothing publicly but a  general condemnation of
terrorists.  How, he fumed,  could the Sk'roven rebels had
succeeded so well?!
     Lotor would have suspected Haggar, except that there
hadn't been any magic involved.  Alarmingly, the witch hadn't
been seen since he'd taken the throne, and Lotor lived in
constant, creeping dread of her return.  Every shadow and
sudden noise seemed to mimic her shape, or the exact pitch of
her cackle.  She was out there, he knew, gaining power and
allies.  The only question was, would he be strong enough to
stop her when she finally struck?
     And all the while that Lotor blustered to cover his fear,
his empress laughed in her heart, sensing that the monster's
reign of blood was soon to end.

____________________________________________________________


     The flight was a long one, covering many subjective
hours, and necessitating five separate warps.  Shaking with
fatigue, Sven retreated to a heavily shielded area of the
little transport, transmitted two quick messages, removed his
suppressor, and went to sleep.  He'd managed to catch up on
most of his lost sack time by the time they docked at the
orbiting space station. A soft chime, sensed as well as heard,
roused him at last.   Taking up his bag again, Ericksen left
the shielded compartment and disembarked at the station with
the other passengers, most of whom gave him a wide berth. 
     The space station wasn't a military establishment; thus,
the walls were lined with winking, moving advertisements and
great banks of shield windows that displayed the blue-white
planet below to best advantage.  He didn't have time to
appreciate it. For, no sooner had Sven stepped out of the
boarding tube, than a blonde tornado swept down an aisle of
hard plastic seats and crashed into him, nearly knocking the
startled pilot to the deck. He recovered his balance in time
to receive a long, ferocious kiss on the mouth.  Ordinarily,
Sven would have shaken the girl off.  Public displays of
affection by uniformed personnel were very much against
regulations. This time, though, he actually pulled her closer
and returned the kiss, even lifting her from the deck a bit. 
When he finally set her down, Anya's grey eyes were very wide,
indeed.  A soft blush and wondering smile lit her pretty face,
which he pushed the golden hair away from and stared into as
though an eternity had passed since he'd seen her last. Anya
drew back just a bit and gave his hands three quick squeezes,
saying,
     "I came as soon as I got your message, but the e-post in
Kiev is so slow, and you hadn't another official leave
scheduled for months.....!  I was afraid I wouldn't get here
in time to meet you, Darling."
     He shook his head a little.  "Better this way, Ljusa. 
You didn't wait long."
     "If you don't call three months long...!  Oh, Sven, I'm
so glad you've come!  All of us are!  Cass is bouncing off the
walls, Papa's got his old boat off the blocks, and Mamma's
planning a feast!"
     Freeing an arm, Sven hoisted his bag back up on one
shoulder and started for the main terminal, right hand still
entwined with Anya's left.
     "Have du eaten yet?"
     "Mmm-hmm.  Breakfast, just before I got your e-mail. 
You?"
     "Nej, and I'm about ready to start tearing chunks from
the bulkhead."
     Anya giggled.  "Then by all means, let's get you fed
before you cause a hull breach!"
     They ended up at a little restaurant on the station's
inner hub.  The place was nearly empty, fortunately.  The
couple who ran the place knew Sven and Anya pretty well and
had no trouble with the mixed relationship, but others would
certainly see the matter differently, and take their business
else
where.  Didn't bother Ed and Partii, though.  They seated Sven
and Anya right by the restaurant's picture window, and damn
public opinion.
     Sven ordered a great deal of food, which arrived very
quickly, though it was some time before he started eating it. 
Anya watched with a fond smile as he spent the next five
minutes carefully separating everything.  Civilian food was
served on plates, with no mess-hall style partitions to keep
the different foods apart.  Alright if you were used to it,
but Sven couldn't eat that way.  He couldn't allow his eggs to
fraternize with the toast, for instance, or the bacon to drape
itself obscenely all over the sausage.  Only when the plate
was properly squared away did he begin eating, and then the
meal vanished with lightning speed.  Anya thought it was cute,
but then, she thought everything he did and said was
wonderful.  All through the meal she kept reaching out to pat
his arm, kiss his hand or rub his shoulders, as if to reassure
herself that he was really, actually, there. 
     When breakfast was over and paid for, Sven cut off the
suppressor for an instant, and used a bit of surreptitious TK
to drag his duffel bag closer. Saying,
     "Before we leave, I have something for du, Ljusa," he
reached into the bag and began pawing through its contents,
searching for a certain flat, blue velvet box.
     "Oh, Sven, you shouldn't waste your pay like that!"  Anya
scolded softly, not really meaning it.  Like most females, she
enjoyed presents. "I don't need anything but you!"
     Oddly, though, the box wasn't there.  Ericksen went
through the bag three times, and found nothing but his
clothes, shaving kit, and the sword.
     "For helvete!  Where the f.....  Sorry!  It ar just.....
I had it for you, right here, Vanina. I don't understand how
it could be gone....!"  For some totally inexplicable reason,
Sven came close to panic, then.  What had happened to Anya's
necklace?!  He suffered a brief vision suddenly, seeing a
short, skinny girl with enormous blue cat-eyes wearing the
thing like a crown.  Cursing under his breath, Sven shook away
the delusion.
     "No trouble, we'll just get du another," he announced
firmly, blocking Anya's protests with an upraised hand.   A
few minutes later they'd found their way to the station's
duty-free jewelry store, where Sven scanned the display cases
until he spotted a golden necklace made of flat rectangular
plates.  The large piece in the middle was inscribed with a
little flower.  Sven indicated it to the counter girl, then
handed over his card without asking for the price.
     Anya got her necklace, 'oohing' over the dainty thing's
fragile beauty as Sven fastened it about her throat.  After
that they went to the toy store, buying a squadron of plastic
fighters and action figures for Cassander.  A bottle of vodka
for Nikolai, and a silk scarf for Irina completed their
shopping.  Then it was off to Kiev, and the crumbling
apartment block that housed Anya's boisterous family.

____________________________________________________________

     Hazaar stepped through the open hatch, past his rigid
honor guard, and into a cavernous hangar bay.  He stood upon a
short, retractable bridge without handrail or shield, looking
down upon perfection.  Lined up in orderly rows, as far as the
eye could see, his regiments awaited their commander's
inspection.  The bay's glaring floodlights lit an invasion
force of armored storm troopers over a hundred fifty thousand
strong.  Further back, row upon row of upper balconies were
occupied by psionically gifted Hunter pilots. Everyone of them
powerful, ruthless, and ready to die in the service of their
emperor.  
     Hazaar did not smile, but his blood-red eyes glowed hot
with fierce, savage pride.  All at once, he lifted both arms
high in the air, and the hangar bay rang with the thunder of
one hundred fifty thousand rifle butts striking the deck and
then whistling around to port arms.
     "Soldiers of the Empire!"  Hazaar roared, waiting for the
echoes to die before continuing.  "In three standard days, we
rise against Kraelyth! In three standard days, the might and
wrath of Dru will sweep the human scum from the surface of our
rightful territory!  There will be no mercy, there will be no
hesitation, and there will be no outcome but victory!  For the
Emperor!  For Dru!  For your own honor and glory, prepare your
hearts for a fight that will be sung of till the end of days,
and beyond!" 
     The chamber erupted in cheers and roars as every man
present vowed to fight until Kraelyth was cleansed.  This
time, Hazaar did smile, the grim, razor-thin expression a
promise of dread and slaughter to come.

____________________________________________________________


     "....And that's how it is, Boss,"  Hank finished, gazing
anxiously into Keith's face.  Drawing the major into an empty
conference room, he'd told him everything; how the Drules had
attacked Balto and seized Pidge, how Cliff Webb's strike force
had then stolen in and snatched the lad right out from under
their startled blue noses. How the poor boy was now being held
captive by the brass, who hoped to use his incredible mind to
defeat the Drules.... and how he planned to help young Pidge
escape.
     For a long, tense moment, Keith said nothing, merely
running a hand through his hair and staring at the deck.  Two
emotions warred in his heart, two concerns.  On the one hand
lay his career, shot to hell already.  On the other lay the
chance to do the right thing, and redeem his tedium-addled,
bureaucratic soul.  There was never really any question what
he would choose.  Looking up again, Keith growled,
     "Okay, let's do it.  Operation Cradle-Robber's a go."

____________________________________________________________


     When Sven and Anya walked through the apartment block
door, Cassander pelted up to meet them, shouting,
     "Sven!  Sven!  Did you get me something?!  Huh, did
you?!" 
     Evidently, he'd been waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 
Like his sister, he was blonde, with wide grey eyes.  About
seven years old, the boy was shorter than Terran average for
his age, and rather underweight.  Not surprising, given the
levels of radiation and heavy metal in the soil and water
hereabouts.  For every day Sven spent in Kiev, he had to
endure three hours in detox.  As for Cassander and his family,
a few bottles of anti-mutagen pills conned at some risk from
the ship's pharmacy took care of them.  It was worth it,
though.  Scooping Cass up at the top of his leap, Sven got him
in a headlock and mussed his tousled blonde hair.
     "Get you something?!  Fy katten!  Why would I be so
stupid?!"
     But Cass wasn't fooled.  Wriggling free of Ericksen's
grip, he tugged the bag off the pilot's shoulder, yanked the
drawstrings open, and began digging through its contents in
search of treasure.
     "He's happy to see you,"  Anya murmured.
     "I can tell,"  Sven replied dryly, as a folded flight
suit went whizzing past his head.  Moments later, Cass located
the neon toy store bag.  Ripping it open, he howled,
     "THE X-50 SUPER GUNDAM AND THE 372!!!!  Oh, COOL!!!! 
Thank you, Sven, THANK YOU!!!"  Clutching the bulging sack to
his chest, Cassander Piotr went reeling off, drunk on
acquisitive glee. By this time, Anya's father Nikolai had
stumped down the rickety stairs to join them.  Fifty-ish, with
balding grey hair and a hefty alcohol paunch, the former
militia-man clapped Ericksen on the shoulder, saying,
     "Sven, good to see you, Lad!  The 74th seen much action
lately?"
     "A little, Sir,"  Ericksen replied, accepting the old
man's proffered handshake.  "Nothing we couldn't handle,
though."
     "Of course, of course!  Only a matter of time till the
Drules are beaten for good, eh Lad?"
     "Yes, Sir."  Rule number one of contact: reassure the
civilians. "Just a matter of time."
     Now Irina came forth, both arms extended, broad, wrinkled
face wreathed in smiles.
     "There he is!  Sven Andrei, welcome back!"  And she swept
him into the mighty  ancestor of Anya's crushing embrace,
kissing him upon both cheeks as she did so.  Catching sight of
the suppressor suddenly, Irina yanked it off of his uniform
collar and cast it aside.  "What is this trash here for?!" 
She scolded.  "You are with family now, Sven Andrei, there is
no reason for such things!" 
     Without the suppressor, their warmth enfolded him
instantly.  Anya's intense, sun-lamp passion,  Nikolai's
mingled pride and affection, Irina's berating/kindly/concerned
love, and Cassander's childish hero-worship.  It was all
rather heady, and addicting.
     "Tack, Ma'am," he responded, as well as he could while
being smashed against her colossal bosom.  "It ar good to be
back."

____________________________________________________________


     In the dark and slimy catacombs below the Imperial
palace, two women met in person for the first time.  One was a
pirate, the other a hard and fearsome rebel leader.  Both were
battle-scarred, inside and out.  Merla had been a queen before
her planet was ransacked by Lotor's forces, and she herself
sold into slavery.  She'd slaughtered her abusive master and
escaped, losing an arm in the process.  Still beautiful, the
maimed Felarr pirate laughed at life because otherwise, she
would have gone mad.  By contrast, the other woman was grim
and focused.  Tall and reddish-blonde, with wide hazel eyes
and a throaty voice, she might once have been pretty, but
hate, and a livid red dagger scar, had long since robbed her
face of its former softness and joy.  
     Staring at the other woman, Romelle said,
     "I thank you for the timely assistance, Merla.  Your
explosives provided just the distraction we needed to carry
off the rescue.  Lotor and his doxy survived, unfortunately,
but there's always another day."
     The pirate shook back her tangled magenta mane, saying,
with a smile that revealed inch- long canines,
     "Happy to be of assistance, Commander Kirrisian.  And at
the prices you're willing to pay, it's a VERY real pleasure
doing business with you. How fares your brother?"
     Romelle's face softened momentarily, but the fleeting
moment of weakness vanished almost as soon as it came.
     "Well enough," she grunted.  "He took a bit of shrapnel
to the knee, but he'll live.  Again, thanks to you.  Only Avok
remains to be rescued now, at double the previous rate, if
you're still interested."
     Merla's golden eyes gleamed wickedly.  "Interested?"  she
mocked, in a voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Let me see...., 
blast Lotor's scaly blue ass off the planet, and get rich at
the same time.  Hmmmm......  Hell, yes, I'm interested! 
Wouldn't miss it for a mountain of lazon and a harem full of
ready males!  We can't do the explosive thing again, though. 
They'll be expecting that."
     "What then?"  Romelle asked, hazel eyes just about boring
holes through Merla's face.  The pirate captain grinned at
her, toying with the handle of her gold-plated sidearm.  "I
propose a swap, Commander.  We kidnap the Imperial bitch, and
trade her back to Lotor for Avok and a butt-load of radium. 
And if the little pink blood-worm gets fatally roughed up on
the way to the hostage exchange, well, accidents happen, don't
they?"
     Romelle thought about it, remembering how A'lara had sat
there and watched while King Agenor and Queen Arianna were
eaten alive by Galran hounds. Slowly, her voice hardly more
than a whisper, the commander said,
     "Yes, Merla.  The universe is full of deadly accidents."

____________________________________________________________



     After picking Cammie up at the New Havyn transport
station, Lance managed to find a Terran-style ice cream shop. 
The sweet and gooey stuff had been Cammie's favorite treat
since babyhood, especially the lemon-custard flavor.  They sat
now at an open booth, munching their ice cream cones and
watching mutated sea life drift by through the colony's
transparent dome.  Ginger had babbled continuously about how
she planned to study dance while attending the space academy. 
Apparently the admissions officer had told her that the
iron-hard military school offered courses in tap and
interpretive movement.  Lance didn't have the heart to tell
her the truth.  There WAS something he wanted to get off his
chest, however.  Leaning forward, he crunched up the last of
his mint chocolate-chip cone and gave his younger sister a
swift tap on the hand.  Mother's old signal, it meant, 'shut
up and listen, I'm about to say something important!'  
     Cammie stopped talking suddenly, quiet for the first time
in over an hour.  Taking a huge swig from his soda cup, Lance
told her,
     "Camms, something you said on the vid-phone's been
bothering me." He stared down at the spangled table-top,
searching for words.  "Look, Hon..... back when the Drules
attacked, after mom and dad got taken off... I was pretty
shaken up.  Uh..., mentally, I was in kind of a fetal
position, too
 scared to move or think.  Then the Combots got there, and
hell got a little hotter.  I had dad's laser rifle, and the
skinning knife, but most of all, I had you.  Ginger-baby, if
you hadn't been there, I wouldn't have had any reason to
fight.  I would've given up and I would have died.  The last
thing dad said to me was, 'Take care of your sister.'  So, I
had a mission, see?  Reason I mention all this, is..., I don't
ever want you to think you were a burden, or that you made it
harder to survive.  Hell, the water thing wasn't your fault. 
You were too little to understand that we had to stay thirsty
until that Hunter patrol headed off to cleanse another
quadrant.  I should've been watching you better.  If I'd been
doing my job right, you never would have gotten out of the
cellar with that bucket.  Got you back though, didn't I?  And
I wasn't shot-up that bad, it just seemed like it because you
were scared.  I shouldn't have yelled at you, either. So, what
I'm trying to say is.... please don't join the service because
you think you owe me something, Camms, 'cause you don't.  If
anything, I owe you. You're the reason I'm still alive.  Got
it?"
     Ginger smiled at him, cocking her head to the side. 
Reaching for his hand, she said,
     "Lance, relax.  I'm not joining up because I feel guilty. 
I'm joining 'cause I want to help.  There's a war going on, in
case you didn't notice, and I can stay home making pretty
pirouettes on the stage while you're out here fighting...., or
I can learn to fly and open up a can of whup-as..."
     "CAMMIE!"
     "Sorry, Bro.  Didn't mean to offend."  Right then and
there, Ginger made a mental note never to tell her
over-protective brother about Lisa's party.  Some things were
better left buried.  "Anyway, just think of me as following
your example.  You're not ashamed to be in the military, are
you?"
     "No," he admitted, "But I sure as hell wish I hadn't
joined the Army!  If you gotta join something, Camms, make it
the Navy.  They've got better food."
     "That's it?!"  Ginger demanded, fists on her hips in mock
wrath. "That's the sum total of your big-brotherly advice?! 
Follow my stomach?!"
     "You'd be surprised how much decent food matters after
you've finished patting yourself down for exit wounds.  You
survive a battle, you want two things; sleep, and chow." 
(Alcohol, too, but Lance had decided not to mention his
drinking, certain that his innocent little sister had never
tasted anything stronger than soda.)  "Go with the food and
facilities, I say.  If I had it to do over again, I would."
     "Okay,"  Ginger grinned sunnily.  "Navy pilot program it
is, then! Say, Lance....,"  she added in a sly little voice,
"any good-looking friends in uniform you could introduce me
to?  I could use a hot date for the upper-classmen's ball in
three years.  Lisa thinks her boyfriend's soooooo cool, just
'cause he's, like, old enough to.... er, drive...., and, um,
I'd like to get her back by showing up at the ball with
someone REALLY stunning!"
     "Well...., uh, there's this kind-of friend of mine
who....,"  and then Lance thought good and hard about Sven and
his prodigious appetite for liquor and women.  "Never mind,
scratch that!  He's ugly as sin, enormously fat, with warts
everywhere, and one big, hairy eyebrow all the way across... 
Nope, don't know anyone but ugly people.  Army's full of
them."
     Ginger giggled.  "Okay, so he's stunningly REPULSIVE. 
I'd still like to meet him!"
     "No!  No, you don't.  Did I mention he's boring?"  Maybe
his sister wasn't so innocent, after all.  "How 'bout, uh....
yeah!  Cliff Webb!  Now there's a guy for you!  Made Captain
in under three years, blonde, handsome, funny accent....
you'll love him!"
     "Cliff....? Oooooh!  Sexy name!"
     Hoping he hadn't just lobbed a hand-grenade into the
latrine, Lance promised to give Captain Webb his sister's
picture and ID number.  After all, Webb had to grow up
sometime....

____________________________________________________________



     After a bit of rest, Sven brought Anya and her family to
the local commissary, where Irina picked out supplies for the
evening's feast.  Only with Ericksen's ID were they able to
enter the place, something Irina looked forward to every time
he visited.
      To Sven, the commissary was nothing special, just the
place he went to for beer, cigarettes, kimchi and frozen
pizza. To the Alexiev family, it was the promised land, with
food of every type and description piled in great, gleaming
heaps.  Not the sad, shrunken vegetables and greying meats of
Kiev's waterfront street markets, either.  Real food,
attractively packaged and appetizing.  Surely, Father
Gregori's heaven held nothing better than this.
     Irina marched past the door scanners and down the aisle
beside Sven, head proudly high, bright new scarf tied over her
salt-and-pepper curls, evidently quite proud to be seen in his
company.  Anya strode along at his other side, looking this
way and that with delighted interest.  The chocolate,
especially, caught her eye, and several boxes of candy ended
up in the shopping cart together with enough food for a
regiment.  Nikolai caged a box of imported cigars, and Cass a
jar of vitamin-laden strawberry drink mix.
     At the checkout counter, Sven paid what to them seemed a
staggering amount, but was truly just a fraction of what he'd
been given.  Like three-quarters of the crowded, desperate,
under-fed population of Earth, they deserved better than what
the war effort forced them to put up with.  Not that EarthGov
had much of a choice, really.  For just an instant, Sven
imagined what would happen were the Drules to reach the
homeworld.  Chilled to the core, he saw Kiev in flames as
Kraelyth had been, and the Alexievs trying to hide themselves
from stalking Hunters and stormtroopers.  Nikolai would fight,
with that vintage museum-piece pistol of his, and Irina would
do her best to defend her children, with teeth and nails, if
nothing else... but they'd be killed.  If they were lucky,
that is.
     Anya saw his expression, and put a light hand on his arm,
whispering,
     "Sven, what is it, Darling?"
     He stopped loading grocery bags into the back of the
rented aircar for a moment, and gazed into the girl's eyes. 
And, then, though he badly wanted to open up his heart, Sven
told a lie, unable to rob her of hope, the only thing that
made all this privation and sorrow tolerable.
     "Nothing...., just thinking about.... min next fitness
report.  Made a few errors recently, and Harrier ar not one to
take such foolishness lying down."
     Relieved, she smiled.  "Oh, Sven!  You'll do well! 
Aren't you the best pilot in the whole Navy?"
     Ericksen smiled back, and resumed tossing bags into the
car.  "Det goes without saying, Ljusa."

____________________________________________________________


     The Empress had nearly recovered from her wounds by the
time the rebels struck again.  Nothing big, or fancy, this
time; merely a sleeper virus that disarmed the palace scanners
just long enough to allow two women in.... and three out. 
     A'lara 's suite was located at the base of the east
tower.  It was heavily guarded, but the Galran soldiers were
bored and inattentive, placing too much stock in the palace
alarms.  Merla waited until the last few hours before dawn,
then crept in with her most trusted lieutenant, a Drule
warrior named Kalista Tamath.  Together they dropped a score
of sleepy guards, and gained entrance to Lara's bed chamber by
patient stealth.    
     The room was vast, more an assembly hall than a bedroom. 
A line of tall, narrow windows crossed one long wall,
shuttered against the cold.  Someone had placed space heaters
by the canopied bed, Merla noticed, but the little figure who
huddled there was still cold enough to pull the blankets as
tightly around herself as they'd go. 
     Nodding silently, Merla gave Kalista the signal to cross
around to the other side of the bed.  The Drule did so,
watching the black-and-red tiled floors very carefully for
alarm beams or traps as she went.  The caution proved
unnecessary, though; nothing sprang out at her, or exploded
despite what she'd been warned to expect.  Apparently the
emperor's attentiveness had slipped somewhat in these last few
months.
     When she was in position, Kalista looked across the
yards-wide bed at her captain, and nodded back, ruby eyes
hard.
     There were any number of ways Merla could have handled
the job.  As usual, she chose the nastiest.  Seizing hold of
the covers, the pirate captain ripped them off of the
shivering empress, waking the girl, and sending her scurrying
away across the bed, where Kalista was waiting.  As Lara
started to call out, the Drule tapped her upon one shoulder.
     "Whu...?!"  The empress managed to croak, just before
Kalista sprayed a can of knock-out gas in her face.  Lara
collapsed to the ground at the warrior's feet with enough
force to crack a tile.  Grinning fiercely, Kalista seized the
empress's night dress, and heaved her up over one shoulder.
     A few haads later, she and Merla had left the palace far
behind.

____________________________________________________________


     Lara came to over someone's armored shoulder.  She was
being jounced up and down uncomfortably as the unseen person
strode along a narrow stone passage.  Already nauseous from
the gas, her kidnapper's rough gait made her even sicker.  She
couldn't move her hands, for someone had tied them tightly
behind her back.  She couldn't speak, because they'd stuffed a
rag in her mouth. 
     The young empress should have been terrified, but instead
was elated.  The rebels had come for her!  She was being taken
to their stronghold!  Now, at last, she was free of Lotor! 
She wished they'd loosen her bonds, though.  Surely the rebels
realized that she was one of them, at heart?
     Her bearer halted at last in a circular chamber of
gem-studded rock.  Lara wasn't in a good position to see much
besides legs, but even upside-down, the jewels looked
valuable.  Seconds later, she was dumped to the ground. Before
she could recover, a hard boot prodded her in the ribs.
     "Get up, Pinky,"  someone's cold, amused voice hissed,
"you've got company!"
     A'lara did her best to rise, finally succeeding, no
thanks to her sneering bearers, who turned out to be a Felarra
and Drule.  Getting to her feet, Lara spotted the 'company', 
a cold-eyed human woman who bore a slight resemblance to
Lara's dead cousin Romelle.
     "Take out the gag," the woman ordered, in a voice low and
scratchy.
     "The customer's always right," the Felarra responded
cheerfully, "although why you'd want to listen to her squeak,
I can't imagine....!  Kalista!"
     "Yes, Mistress!"  And then the Drule dug metal-gloved
fingers into Lara's mouth, yanking out her choking gag. After
coughing a few times, the empress ventured a weak smile,
saying,
     "Thank you for bringing me here.  It's a genuine honor
to....."  She got no further.  Face contorted with rage, the
human woman lunged across the chamber and punched Lara in the
face with all her strength.
     "SHUT UP!!!"  And then, as A'lara collapsed to the ground
again, "You are a hostage here, Your Imperial Highness, and
your life is worth only as much as Prince Avok's!  Anything
that happens to him will be taken out DOUBLE on you! 
Understood?!"
     "Bu... but I want to join.... I'm on your...."
     "I said, SHUT UP!!!"  The rebel commander shouted, adding
a savage kick.  Her scarred face contained no pity or
understanding at all, only hate.
     "Toldja you should have kept the gag in," the Felarra
interjected. "Want me to have Kalista put it back?"
     The commander nodded, running the fingers of one hand
along the dagger scar that Lotor had given her.  "Do so," she
ordered, "and have this traitor locked away in the deepest
cell you can find.  See that she gets enough food and water to
keep life in her body, but no more."
     Once more, the gag was jammed into place, though A'lara
tried to protest that they had it all wrong.  As Kalista was
dragging her out the door, she heard the commander say,
     "Inform Lotor of his doxy's whereabouts whenever you feel
the time is right, Merla."
     An ironic laugh, then the Felarra said, "I'd let him
squirm a little, first.  Let him wonder who's next.  His
stock'll drop pretty quickly when people realize that he can't
even protect his own......"
     The rest was lost to distance.  Kalista hauled the
empress along by the hair, dragging her whenever she tripped,
which was often.  Summoning servants to bring food and drink,
the Drule threw Lara into a small, dark cell.  A pile of
ration packets followed, cast unceremoniously on the ground
beside the weeping empress.  Someone thought to remove the
gag, at which point Lara begged,
     "Please..., my hands?  How can I eat if I can't pick
anything up?" 
     "Not my problem,"  Kalista grunted, slamming and locking
the door.

____________________________________________________________
     

     That afternoon they went boating on Dnepre, all except
Irina, who remained behind to cook, breaking out recipes
written on faded paper in her great-grandmother's lovely
Cyrillic script.  She was all smiles, bustling and humming to
herself when they left.
     Nikolai's 'speed boat' was hand-built of varnished oak
boards he'd cut, planed and fitted himself.  The engine was an
ancient Evinrude, maintained by Nikolai's constant tinkering,
his vodka-boosted fuel, and prayer.  Rather amazingly, the
whole thing floated and even ran, kicking up a bit of a wake
on the straight parts of the river.
     At a public dock not far from the apartment, Sven helped
Nikolai get the boat into the water, then lifted Anya and Cass
aboard.  He parked the air car while Nikolai started up the
boat's prehistoric engine, springing aboard from the dock when
everything was squared away on shore.
     Proud as the captain of a super-carrier, Nikolai gunned
the engine and cut away from the bank, heading roughly
south-east toward Kremencug. Didn't get there, of course; too
far.  Instead, Kiev of the golden domes drifted by, a city of
rolling hills, lacy bridges, lofty monasteries, and grim
stands
of huge, dark trees.  The broad river meandered like a lazy
day, casting back a thousand golden sun-sparkles.  Beautiful
from a distance, the buildings and sloping streets were rather
shabby up close.  Almost a century of ceaseless war and
crushing taxes had reduced Kiev to near abject poverty.  Only
the glittering church domes hinted at the city's former
magnificence, still there because the folk of Kiev refused to
ease their taxes by tearing them apart for the gold. After
all, everyone knew it was only a matter of time until the war
with the Drules was won, and then all would be well, and
prosperous, again.
     It was a wonderful afternoon.  No one swam, for the water
was dangerously contaminated with industrial chemicals, but
there was nothing wrong with basking in the late summer
sun.... provided one remembered to slather on the heavy-duty
sun screen. Ukraine had long since lost what remained of her
ozone layer.   Even so, it was one of the nicer regions on
Earth.
     When the shadows began to lengthen, they returned to the
dock.  Back at the apartment, Nikolai tuned his little tri-vee
set to the Academy game, and he, Cass and Sven sat down to
watch.  The Midshipmen were playing UCLA, and losing badly. 
They'd been given a horrendous schedule that year;  the
Bruins, Auburn, 'Bama, Martian Tech, Michigan, Venera
Reformatory, and then, to cap it all off, Nebraska... 
Watching Holgier throw one interception after another, the
pilot sighed.  It was going to be a VERY long season.
     At halftime, Cass begged Sven to teach him to throw, and
since he hadn't much patience for marching bands, Ericksen
agreed.  They went down to the apartment block's cobbled
courtyard and tossed a football around for awhile.  Sven
taught the boy to drop back, plant his foot, and then whip the
ball forward using his whole body mass rather than just the
strength of his arm.  Cass soon learned the proper grip, as
well as how to let the ball roll a little on release, so that
it developed a nice, tight spiral.  Otherwise, the thing would
wobble like a wing-shot duck.
     After about fifteen minutes, Sven overthrew a bit, and
Cassander had to leap for the ball.  He ended up catching it
with his stomach, rather than his hands, and got the wind
blasted right out of him. Sven lunged forward and caught him,
helping the boy to a seat on the rusted hulk of a crashed air
car.
     "I'm sorry, Pojke," he said, sitting down nearby.  "I
forgot myself for a moment."
     "S'okay...,"  the little fellow wheezed, clutching his
belly, "....doesn't hurt!  Really!"
     "Ja, I can see det."
     Cass stayed quiet for a bit, then asked,  "Sven, what was
it like, playing football at the academy?" 
     Ericksen considered.  Exciting, he supposed, and,
well..., it was very hard for him to explain without sending.
     "It var like.... Kors!  Kanske I can show you?"  Cass
nodded, so Sven touched a light hand to the boy's forehead,
and gave him a memory.
     ......The rain had stopped.  It was fourth down, with
UF's goal just yards away.  The stands were packed; one
hundred and seventy-five thousand people stomping, clapping
and chanting in booming, roaring unison.  It was bedlam, and
Ericksen had to scream to be heard over the crowd.  If it
weren't for the damn suppressor he could have sent the play
rather than calling it, but his psionic talents were strictly
forbidden, and tightly bound.  He must play like the naturals,
or not at all.
     The center snapped the ball.  Sven caught it, barely, and
sprang from his crouch, cleats somehow finding a grip in all
that torn, muddy turf.  His offensive linemen surged forward
en masse, bellowing threats and grisly insults as they forced
the Gators' defense back a step or two.  A pair of linebackers
bore down from either side, meaning to scissor him to the
ground.  He dodged, eyes on the busy end zone.  No receivers. 
All three of them were covered so tightly that Sven couldn't
have gotten the ball to them in phase.
     Beckett rushed up, ready to accept a hand-off, but Sven
had a better idea.  He dove forward, calling on Beckett to
block for him.  The hulking tightend smashed into the Gators'
defensive line like a Coast Guard icebreaker, opening a brief
sliver of daylight.  Tucking the ball against his left side,
Ericksen lunged through.  A lineman crunched helmet-first
against his bruised ribs, but he shook it off.  Then someone
else got a piece of his jersey.  He never even felt it rip. 
Instead, Sven leapt up and over the remaining defenders,
coming down hard on the back of an unfortunate right tackle
and using the fellow as a human springboard.  Someone seized
his left ankle on the way, and he crashed to the soggy turf
like a missile.  Stretching out as far as he could, Sven
thrust the ball into the end zone with both hands just before
a pile of Gators buried him.  Touchdown. The whistle blew, and
seven hundred pounds of cursing linebackers got off him,
finally.  His jersey was ripped and his chin strap busted. 
Breathing was extremely painful, and there was another quarter
yet to play..., but damn, he felt good.
     Beckett offered him a hand up, grinning from ear to ear. 
Sven was too hoarse to say much, but he accepted the hand, and
smiled back.  Then the rest of the team gathered round, and he
was pounded, shoved, and congratulated, while the adulation of
nearly two hundred  thousand screaming people flooded right
past the suppressor, completely drowning out the pain and
exhaustion.......
     The memory ended, leaving Cass wide-eyed and trembling. 
"Want to play football...!"  he whispered, as hoarse as Sven
had been after that game.  Ericksen shook his head, wishing
he'd recalled a less dramatic moment.  Spring training, maybe.
     "Nej, Pojke," he protested.  "Det ar inte all fame and
touchdowns. Du var not dar for the morning after, when the
crowd-rush faded and everything started hurting.  Head and
body both, for mig, because all of that emotion var like a
drill.  Det business started to hurt after awhile, suppressor
or no, especially when we var losing.  When two hundred
thousand people want you dead, you feel it."
     "But you mostly liked it, right?"
     He had to be honest.....  "Ja.  Det var how I first got
to know vad naturals... your kind.... ar truly like.  Before
det, I knew only vad others had told mig."  Which hadn't been
good.
     "If you're different, then I want to be different, too!" 
Cass announced, with the true, firm earnestness that only a
child could muster.
     "Funny.  I thought the same thing, after getting to know
a few naturals.  At first nothing they did made any sense. 
Then Keith became min friend, and he explained all den weird
behavior.  He var my backup.  Jeff Ashe var the starter." 
Sven shook his head again, remembering. "Coach Landry used to
say he var 'a real piece of work'.  Don't know vad det means,
exactly, unless it ar some kind of code for 'mean as hell'. 
Win or lose, didn't matter to Jeff, as long as we hurt the
other team.  He forced the play a lot, too.  Threw when he
should have taken a hit.  Ended up with as many interceptions
as touchdowns.  One day, the offensive line got enough of his
insults and let the Wolverines through at him, and Jeff var
hospitalized. Then I got thrown in.  I guess the coach thought
I couldn't be any less popular than Ashe, but he var wrong."
     Oh, had he ever been wrong!  The first time Ericksen took
the field, the sheer level of ferocious, stabbing hatred from
both sides of the crowd had nearly brought him to the point of
collapse.  He'd botched the first play, fumbling the ball and
recovering it himself for a six yard loss.  Landry had called
time out and signaled him to the sidelines for a quick
conference.
     "Son, you want to shut them up?" the thin, white-haired
coach had asked him, indicating the crowd with a scornful jerk
of a callused thumb.
     "Yes, Sir."
     "Then throw a touchdown.  Nothing succeeds like success.
Win a few games, and they'll start loving you just as hard as
they're hating you now. Understand?"
     "Ja."
     "Good man.  Block 'em out, and do your job."  And,
funnily enough, it had worked.  He'd ended up playing for two
seasons, until his class had been graduated early and shipped
out to fight.  Ericksen had been offered the chance to remain
behind and continue playing, but he'd chosen to go with the
rest of his class.  Didn't make much sense to stay at the
academy playing a stupid game when his friends were battling
for their lives.  But that was past, and done with.  Glancing
around the darkening courtyard, Sven got to his feet, and gave
Cass a hand up.
     "Come, Pojke.  Halftime's over."
     "Okay, but I still wanna play football when I grow up!"
     "Nej."
     "Uh-HUH!!"
     "Try golf, you'll live longer, except for the
blood-pressure problem."
          They went on upstairs, arguing about Cassander's
     brilliant future career.

____________________________________________________________


     Lotor was kept guessing for over week, during which time
he claimed that the empress had taken to her bed with a slight
cold.  He had Vraghur's men out night and day, combing Galra
for any trace of A'lara.  Not that his feelings for her
mattered as much as his image.  His wife's  disappearance
was a political catastrophe rather than an emotional one. 
Still, he did look, and when the ransom note arrived, he
strode to this office and played it on the desk comm with only
Vraghur present to hear it.
     At first there was only static.  Then an electronically
distorted female voice said,       "Greetings, Lotor, from one
of your more mercenary subjects.  I believe I have something
that belongs to you.  Something I am willing to sell back for
the meager sum of thirty-seven thousand radium marks.... and
one Sk'roven prince.  Avok will do nicely, I believe.  If you
would see your little apeling returned to you with all body
parts intact and still attached, you will have the funds
transferred to Kannabrett Independent account number
725-53-334-01, and the prince brought, unharmed, to the
Denubian Federal Trade Commission building on Zlarkth. 
Failure to follow these instructions to the letter will result
in the televised torture and execution of your little
monkey-girl.  Thank you, and have a pleasant day!"
     Lotor said nothing at all for a long, tense moment.  Then
he looked up at Vraghur, his golden eyes reduced to spiteful
slits.
     "Trace that account number," he snarled, rising from his
big leather chair.  "Find out who it belongs to, and bring
them before me!"
     "Sire, I will do what I can, but these numbered accounts
are purposely made to be untraceable," his grey-skinned
lieutenant hedged nervously.
     "Someone knows,"  Lotor growled, fists clenching.  "That
much money isn't left to sit unattended.  Someone programs the
computer, someone makes the withdrawals.  FIND OUT!!!!"
     "At once, Sire!"  Vraghur amended hastily, bowing very
low indeed. "I will have a  corpse for you by this time,
tomorrow.  I swear it!"
     And he did, though not the one they'd expected.

____________________________________________________________

     
     Sven's message reached Commander Scott about the same
time as Lance sat down to talk with Cliff.  Both said pretty
nearly the same thing; they'd received warning that the Drules
would counter-attack some time within the next few days.  Sven
didn't mention Lance, not wishing to draw attention to the
sniper's unregistered precognitive talents.  For the same
reason, Calvin worded his prediction in such a way as to leave
Cliff thinking that it was a nameless civilian who'd felt the
cold breath of approaching disaster.
     Precognition was known, but not entirely trusted.  The
winds and eddies of time shifted far too frequently for any
seer to ever be one-hundred percent accurate.  The failure
rate for even a registered government talent usually hovered
around fifteen to twenty percent, and that was with computer
enhancement and constant, mind-searing sensitivity drugs.
     Still, a warning was a warning, and neither CO was
disposed to take this one lightly.  Instead of acting upon it
themselves, Cliff and Harrier did the normal military
hand-off, and informed THEIR commanders.  Commander Scott told
Erick Anderssen, on the Achilles.  Webb passed the news on to
Colonel Shaw.
     In the end, after being sent across no less than fifteen
desks, the urgent messages resulted in the dispatching of the
super-carriers Augustus and Apollo to Kraelyth, and the
addition of a reinforced artillery brigade.  Another three
Combot squads, the Wolfpack, the Thunderbirds, and the Sharks,
arrived within hours, doubling the outpost's air strength.
     When informed of all this, Lord Hazaar nodded
impassively.  "A few more greth-bucks wander into the meadow,"
he remarked.  "There will be trophies enough for all."
     
______________________________________________________________

     All he needed was a gimmick, Keith figured.  Some way to
trick the boy's jailers into thinking he was still in his room
when in fact he'd been stolen away.  He settled on the room's
surveillance camera as the likeliest option.  Since Pidge
didn't move around much, anyway, Akira figured that he could
make a continuous loop of the boy sitting on his cot, alter
the time signal at the bottom, and feed the false signal into
the psychiatrists' monitors.  They'd see an image of Pidge
doing pretty much what he always did; staring at the wall with
a forlorn look on his face.  Hopefully, the Army doctors would
be too bored to notice that something was wrong.
     The timing would be critical.  They couldn't make their
move before breakfast, or the kid's meal time would arrive
with no change in activity, and no meal. Even the least alert
of his watchers would catch on to the trick then. Similarly,
the hour just before dinner was out.  Night time would have
been safest, except that the ward was locked-down and
triple-guarded after 1800 hours.  There would be no sneaking
Pidge past security like that, unfortunately.
     For some reason, Keith found himself thinking about Sven
Ericksen, then. A friend and team-mate of his from the
Academy, Ericksen had left school in his second year, along
with most of his class.  Akira had never been able to learn
what had become of him.  Before he'd left, though, Sven had
become an expert at using psionic influence to break curfew
and help them all sneak into their girlfriends' dorm.  For
Sven, it would have been yawningly simple to break Pidge out. 
Drumming a pencil on the mess hall table, Akira shrugged the
notion aside.  Sven was a universe away, probably, if he was
even still alive.  They'd sure had some good times together,
though....
     With a sigh, Keith went back to planning.  Just after
lunch, he decided. Once the meal was cleared away, he'd have
Hank go to the door and appear to step through.  Then he'd cut
on the false video signal, and Sgt LaChance would make off
with the boy.  At that point, they'd need some kind of
distraction.... or else a way to hide Pidge.  If they could
arrange to have a laundry cart nearby, Pidge could perhaps
bury himself amid the linens while Hank wheeled him right past
the nurse station. 
     Chewing on his lower lip, Akira considered the plan, even
drawing diagrams and maps on his napkin while the food he'd
ordered congealed unnoticed before him.  It was a long time
before he left the mess hall.
____________________________________________________________


     Irina called them in to dinner, making the men sit while
she and Anya served up a glorious feast.  The table was small,
and rather crowded by the addition of Sven and several hungry
neighbors, but nobody minded.  The food was presented in
waves.  First borsh, then sausage, cabbage rolls, chicken in
cream sauce, cheese varenyky, hot bread and even Irina's best
attempt at kimchi, the fiery-hot pickled cabbage dish that
Sven was addicted to. His food was served in many small,
separate dishes, but everybody else just ladled their own out
of the big cooking pots.  There was vodka and strong coffee,
as well, and a sweet, sticky dessert of brandied fruit to
finish off with.  Everything was delicious, and the cramped
seating arrangements meant that Anya was squeezed almost as
tightly against him as she had been on the Tokyo subway car
where they'd first met.  He ate with one arm around her,
entertaining his hosts with heavily edited descriptions of the
battles he'd fought in since his last leave.  Without the
suppressor, he was able to project what flying and fighting
(parts of it, anyway) were really like.  Anya shuddered at the
close bits, and hugged him even harder. 
     Except for the cats, he was entirely happy.  The sly,
sneaky, malevolent animals lurked seemingly in every corner of
the apartment, staring at him with their lamp-like yellow
eyes.  They set his teeth one edge; the big blue one,
especially.  He had his own ways of fighting back, though. 
Using just enough psionic influence to cover what he was
doing, the pilot managed to nudge open the window whenever one
of Anya's damn cats slunk past it, and hurl the beast through
with a burst of TK.  Because he loved her, he eased their drop
and got startled cats, not dead ones.  The fuzzy monstrosities
soon learned to stay out of any room that Sven was in. All
except Sasha, that is. The fat yellow tabby actually seemed to
enjoy being thrown from the second floor.  Maybe if he dropped
the loathsome thing in a puddle, next time....
     When dinner ended, and the neighbors at last wove their
unsteady way across the hall, Nikolai blew out the lamps, and
everyone went to bed.  For appearances' sake, Sven stretched
out on the couch, but when everything was still, and quiet,
Anya crept downstairs to fetch him.  Taking his hand, the girl
gave him a quick kiss, and brought him up to her tiny loft of
a bedroom. Once the door was shut, she found a candle stub,
which Sven lit with a focused thought. The neighborhood's
power had been turned off at seven PM, so candles and lamps
were their only source of illumination till sunrise.  The
warm, flickering light revealed a narrow bed covered in bright
quilts, piles of stuffed animals, a cedar clothes chest...,
and lovely Anya. 
     Standing there in a flowered nightgown, bare toes curling
on the cold linoleum floor, she looked like one of those
angels the religious types were always going on about.  Anya
caught his projected mood and blushed, still prone to bouts of
shyness despite their three years together.   Reaching out, he
 brushed the long, honey hair away from her face, bringing his
mind againsthers as he did so.  And all at once, she was in
his arms, shaking and crying and whispering his name over and
over again.
     "Sven...., Sven....., I've missed you so much!  And
you're here, you're really back!  It feels like it's been
forever....!"
     So, he kissed her, calming her tears with a quick, warm
thought.  And again he had that feeling, oddly intense, that
he'd been away for a lot longer than three months.
     'I missed you, too,'  he sent, pulling her closer.  Then,
for a while, there were no more words.

     
______________________________________________________________

     Vraghur didn't do the job himself.  Too much risk of the
deed being traced back to his master.  Instead, he hired a
group of  chip-heads to hack into Kannabrett Independent's
account files.  After initial datanet contact, they arranged
to meet at the back of an empty warehouse in Dra-Lotor. 
Vraghur wasn't impressed, and had trouble hiding it.  Not that
they cared. Pierced, tattooed and chromed, the skinny
humanoids were so deeply addicted to black-market VR chips
that they'd do absolutely anything for the latest brain-frying
joy ride.  Their leader was a twitchy chain smoker who called
himself Slash.  He had a computer jack and chip slot grafted
to his right temple, and the far-off look of someone on a
permanently long, strange trip.
     Vraghur handed him a folded bit of parchment.  "Here is
the account number,"  the Galran warlord grunted stiffly. 
"Can you trace its owner?"
     "Depends, don't it?"  Slash responded in a creaky
whisper, not quite focusing on Vraghur's scowling face. 
"Where's the motivation?"
     Signaling one of his underlings forward, Vraghur had two
black cases placed on a crate beside Slash.  "Open them," he
commanded.  The hacker did so by shorting out the cases'
electronic locks with a tap of his finger. They popped open at
once, revealing a pewter credit disk in one, and a stack
 of black VR chips in the other. 
     "These are brand new,"  said Vraghur, indicating the
chips.  "Straight from the lab, and marked too dangerous to
test."
     Slash bared his filed teeth in a weird, mirthless grin. 
The other three hackers gathered round, faces slack, eyes
avid.  Ignoring the credit disk, Slash lifted the chip case
and held it against his sunken chest with hands that shook.
     "Done deal, Clyde.  We'll get you name, address, and
effin' shoe-size!"
     "Good.  There will be more where those came from, if your
work goes undetected.  Now, see to it, and meet me in a rihadt
with the answers."
     "You the boss, Lizard-man.  Come back in an hour."
     Vraghur left, hearing behind him the sharp click of four
black chips being slid into mechanized skull ports.

____________________________________________________________
                         

     Afterward, they cuddled a bit, whispering together while
the candle flame guttered and hissed.  They had a great deal
of catching up to do.
     ".....and Misha says that the factory will open again,
soon.  Next month, maybe.  He said that I'd have my old job
back, as soon as it does.  It'll be a relief, having something
official to do again."
     Sven sympathized as best he could.  Seemed as if he
ALWAYS had something official to do.  Now that the GA's drugs
were fading from his system, he was starting to worry about
Lance's prediction.  No sense scaring the girl, though. 
Shielding his thoughts just a little, he sent,
     'Well, I have some un-official work for you, Miss, if
your schedule permits.'
     She giggled and started tickling him, which demanded a
severe and immediate response.  It was awhile before they
spoke again, but when they did, Sven's mood changed utterly. 
Anya put a hand on the inside of his left forearm, whispering,
     "It's new, this one?  I don't like it as well as the
others."  Wondering what she was talking about, Ericksen
glanced down, saw something that looked like a brand, or
tattoo.  It was difficult to make out clearly, but resembled a
snarling red cat's head.... and he was positive he'd never
seen it before.  All of a sudden, his heart froze, and Sven
sat up.
     'Vad i helvete?!   Vad ar det har?!'    A horde of emotions
flooded him, most of them frightening, none of them with a
clear memory attached, and all of them centered on that
hideous mark.  Anya had not a spark of psionic ability (the
reason she wasn't bearing future soldiers in some government
facility), but she read Sven's moods very well, nevertheless. 
Reaching out, she blocked the strange tattoo with her hand.
     "Darling, it's alright.  I'm sure you just went out with
your friends, one night, and did a few things you don't
remember.  It's happened before, hasn't it?"
     "Ja," he admitted, still deeply shaken.
     "And you can have it removed, can't you?"
     "Ja."
     "Then let's not worry about it anymore. It doesn't
matter. Oh, look....!"  She enthused, genuinely delighted at
the site of her corpulent yellow tabby.  "Sasha's back! 
There's mamma's big, beautiful baby!!  He likes you, Sven! 
Why don't you pet him?"
     Ericksen took a very deep breath.  "Anya, I love you, but
if you don't get den damn cat off the bed, you're going to
have yourself a new stuffed animal....!"
     Eyes very wide, Anya flipped the covers bit, sending
Sasha gallumphing away in a huff.  The other cat was still in
the room, though; the big blue one with the gleaming yellow
eyes.  He tried to shove it out with a quick telekinetic
burst, but for some reason it didn't work this time.  The
brute simply settled itself on the clothes chest by the
peeling wall, curled that nearly hairless tail around its
forepaws, and stared at him through slitted, intelligent eyes. 
Needless to say, Sven didn't get much rest that night. Damn
cat. 
     In the morning, Nikolai and Irina made a great deal of
exaggerated waking noise, giving Sven ample time to return to
his couch.  Dressing hurriedly, he gave Anya a swift kiss,
thrust a cat from his path, and slipped out of the room. 
Seconds later he was back on the couch, beneath patterned
quilts in  the mercifully cat-free living room.  He was asleep
in seconds.

____________________________________________________________


     A warning ping told Merla that someone was making an
unauthorized attempt to access one of her accounts.  A nibble,
already?  Putting her sole remaining hand on the computer
terminal in her temporary 'office', the pirate sent her mind
deep into the photon-swift, constantly fluxing world of the
datanet.  The familiar transfer was quick as thought, taking
her out of the physical world, and into another.  Emerging,
Merla looked around.
      A floor of phosphorescent webbing spread as far as the
mind could reach, taking in programming systems all across the
galaxy.  Overhead, a sky of sparking blue-white energy burned
and pulsed, alive with instant communication.
     Needing security and silence, she manifested herself as a
spark of magenta light rather than taking her usual silvery
tiger icon. Less obvious, this way.  Not that she really
feared capture or deletion. The neon world within was as much
her home as the deck of the Scylla.  More so, maybe.
     Following a glittering bit stream, the spark that was
Merla soon arrived at Kannabrett Independent's systems node. 
It was a giant, glowing dome complex, with the lesser systems
and programs attached to the master node by thousands of
spindly HTML commands.  The whole business resembled a Day-Glo
lunar colony as designed by some demented impressionist. 
Hooking into the surging data traffic,  Merla rode along until
she came to the bank accounts, specifically, hers.  The
account files were stored in a massive, golden fortress
bristling with roving security programs and searing electronic
counter-measures. Good enough to stop the amateur hackers, but
wet tissue paper to a professional.  Nosing around, Merla
disguised herself with a stolen security code, entered the
fort, and went for the source of the ping.  Nanoseconds later,
she found it.    
     At a sky-high firewall of blazing alpha-numerics, a
skinny silver homunculus was hard at work inserting various
code keys into the password slot.  A few of his codes were
close enough to cause trouble, so Merla decided to stop him. 
Looking him over, the pirate spotted a great many black stains
and surface tears. In some places, his icon was little more
than a wire frame scaffold. A VR addict. 
     Chuckling to herself, Merla altered her form, becoming a
nightmarishly huge metallic insect.  The hacker whirled to
face her just as Merla reared up and brought her saber-like
forelimbs crashing down through the program floor.  A rippling
wave of black ice spread from the point of contact at the
speed of light.  Her savage counter measures caught the hacker
just before he blinked out, tearing away half of his crumbling
icon and destroying his bootleg codes. Fierce and dirty, the
program she'd used was completely illegal, and very effective.
Problem solved, Merla changed forms again and transported
herself away.
     
____________________________________________________________

     When Vraghur returned to the warehouse, three of the
hackers were gone. The fourth, their leader, lay in a
twitching heap on the ground, eyes rolling, mouth twisted in a
long, silent scream.  He died moments later. 
     Uttering a stream of vile curses, the Galran warlord
kicked Slash's emaciated corpse aside, then thought better of
it, and decided to bring the body back to his emperor. 
Anything to excuse the failure and divert Lotor's rage. 
Signaling his men, Vraghur had one of them pick up the corpse,
and began drafting up a better plan.

____________________________________________________________


     At second watch on the appointed day, Hazaar met with his
war council on the shielded bridge of the flagship Dredh.  The
vessel's crew busied themselves with various pre-flight tasks,
pointedly not eavesdropping on their high officers.  They knew
better.
     Before speaking, Hazaar looked closely at his assembled
lords, and lady. In all the universe, there were no others he
trusted as completely as these three.  Keezor Ghren, Supreme
Marshal of the ground forces, Fleet Admiral Mongoth Vrik, and
most importantly of all, Lady  Dorma Garroth, Hunter pilot and
commander of the Dagger Squadron.  Like him blue-skinned and
ruby-eyed, she differed from her elder brother in having black
hair, rather than white.  She was less tall, but more agile
and equally strong, having several times hurled him across the
family compound in Gsted.  She was the youngest child of his
sire's fifth woman, and..... good to have at one's back in a
fight.
     Keezor was a comrade from earliest childhood, when strong
allies had equaled survival.  White hair cropped in a short
brush cut, broad and rather stooped, Marshal Keezor was
nevertheless one of the deadliest hand-to-hand fighters Dru
had ever produced.  Fond of alarming practical jokes, too.
     Mongoth was another relative, a distant cousin from a
dishonored branch of the family who owed his very existence to
Hazaar's sire.  Rakishly moustached and goatee'd, the
dark-haired admiral was a well-spring of sage and steady
advice.
     Leaning forward just a bit, Hazaar looked at each in
turn, then asked the warleader's traditional question.
     "Shall the battle be joined?"
     Mongoth replied first.  Bowing, the slender admiral
brought his clenched right fist to his armored left shoulder.
     "My lord, the fleet clamors for blood and victory!"
     Now it was Keezor's turn to speak.  Saluting his leader,
the field marshal said,
     "Lord Garroth, the ground units anticipate an epic
slaughter, in your name, and the Most High Emperor's!"
     Lastly, for in this company she ranked the least, spoke
Dorma.  With a ringing clash of mailed glove on armored chest,
she said,
     "The Hunters are gathered for the feast, my lord."
     Satisfied, Hazaar nodded.  "Then let us strike.  And let
not a single warrior fail in his duty to the Emperor, and the
gods."
     "So be it, Lord,"  came the ritual response, from each of
his advisors.  Released by his gesture, Mongoth and Keezor
left to see to their men.  Dorma lingered a bit, however, for
he'd not given her leave to depart.
     "You will fight honorably and well, then return to boast
of it,"  Hazaar told his sister, wishing her well the only way
he knew how.  Dorma saluted him again, saying,
     "Just as your leadership will bring us victory,
lord-brother."
     They understood each other.  "Go then,"  Hazaar rumbled
softly, "and the Dread Lord of Battles go with you." 
     It was just before third watch that fleet Dro-Shrahd
warped for distant Kraelyth.

____________________________________________________________

     
     Lance strode through the 32nd Airborne's brand new
headquarters, scowling ferociously.  He had a splitting
headache, and was so jumpy that the slightest unexplained
noise or motion had him reaching for his sidearm.  It took
longer than it should have to locate his quarry.  Damn prefab
box was a warren of partitions and cubicles, none of which
contained Captain Webb. 
     Stomping along amid hundreds of clattering computer
workstations, Lance muttered one vicious curse after another. 
At least the foxhole had been simple to search!  He finally
found Cliff out back, wearing BDU pants and a tee-shirt, up to
his elbows in the entrails of a malfunctioning crawler.  The
captain looked up when Lance called him, blue eyes narrowing
against the glare of Kraelyth's broiling sunset.
     "G'day, Lance!"  he responded warmly, wiping his greasy
hands on arag.  " 'Ere f'r an earbash, Mate?"
     "Uh...., yeah.  The ammo you wanted me to check on? 
We're low.  Enough for a few weeks' sentry posts, but sure as
hell short if it comes to a fight..... (and it's going
to)...."
     "Well! Can't be having that, now can we?"  Cliff was so
cheerful, Lance wanted to punch him.  " 'Ere's the ticket;
fill out a requisition form, an' pop on up t' supply f'r a
'undred more boxes.  An' see
if you c'n pick up another cannon while y'r at it, eh, Mate?"
     "A CANNON?!"  Lance groused,  "How the hell 'm I supposed
to talk supply out of a damn pulse cannon?" 
     But Cliff only grinned at him. "Use y'r ruddy
imagination, Mate!  Have a naughty with the clerk, or
something!  She'll come across wi' the cannon, big bikkies, or
no!"
     Lance closed his eyes, counted to ten.  "Okay.... what?! 
Care to try that again in English, Sir?"
     "Sorry, Lad.  One more time:  G'wan up t' supply 'n fetch
back ammo an' a cannon.  Be sweet t' the clerk, and she'll
come across aces. No worries."
     Thinking, 'somebody just shoot me!',  Lance saluted
sharply and fibbed a little.  "Gotcha, Cap.  I'm off."  He was
halfway through the door when he recalled his promise to
Ginger.  Turning around again, the grumpy sniper fished out
the holo she'd given him and returned to Cliff's side.
     "Forgot something, Sir.  My sister wanted me to give this
to you.  She needs a date for the upperclassmen's ball."
     Taking the holo from Lance, Cliff looked it over, then
uttered a low whistle.  " 'Ello!  A real beaut, n't she?" 
Nudging Lt. Calvin in the ribs, Webb added,  "Never tell me
she's related t' an ugly bastard like you!"
     He was at fifty-three now, and still counting.  For the
sake of his blood pressure, Lance left the holo with Cliff,
who hadn't taken his eyes from the thing, and stalked off to
find transportation to Terre Haute.
     Meanwhile, Keith and Hank made their move, sending a
video loop of Pidge huddling on his bed to the cell's
surveillance camera.  They timed it for just after dinner,
having first warned the boy how and when to position himself. 
Moments later, LaChance whisked the boy out of the room and
into the waiting laundry cart.  All they need do now was reach
Akira, and the waiting scout ship.

____________________________________________________________


     The attack was sudden and vicious as a hammer blow to the
skull.  One moment, all was calm.  Then Kraelyth's automatic
defense system pegged the intruders and opened up full bore;
the boom and roar of plasma cannons nearly drowning out the
shriek of incoming missiles as a million red tracer rounds
turned night into screaming day.  Hunters were everywhere,
seemingly appearing from empty space as they de-cloaked and
thundered toward the base.  They weren't alone.  The
Dredhde-cloaked directly afterward and fired a plasma bolt of
such withering power that Augustus was vaporized instantly,
with all hands.  The blast raged onward, boiling away a
million cubic feet of seawater, then carving a hundred-foot
crater in the planetary crust and incinerating everything
organic for ten miles around.
     Ash and steam filled the sky.  On base, pilots raced for
their fighters, and gunners for their cannons.  The Viper
squadron had the good luck to be patrolling that night, so
they were already in their mechs and able to fight.  They
provided what cover they could, but most of the others were
shot down on takeoff.  Only eighty more Combots made it into
the air.

____________________________________________________________


     Sven was watching tri-vee with Anya when the news reached
him.  A shrill beep interrupted the broadcast, and then a
coded bulletin flashed by too quickly for a natural to
comprehend, or even see.
     ***....Uniformed personnel from GA vessels Achilles,
Apollo, Augustus and Terre Haute are ordered to report at once
to their duty stations, or the nearest base.  All leaves are
cancelled, effective immediately.  Repeat: Uniformed personnel
from GA....***
     Sven turned pale and surged to his feet.  His squadron
was under attack. Without a word to Anya, he raced up the
stairs, taking them three at a time, and yanked open the hall
closet where his things were stored.  It took him about thirty
seconds to re-pack his bag.  He was transferring all of his
remaining funds into Anya's account when the girl caught up
with him.
     "Sven, what's happened?"  she asked, eyes wide and
fearful.  "You're not leaving so soon, are you?"
     "There's been an attack," he explained reluctantly.  "I
must go, Ljusa, but I'll come back as soon as possible. I
promise."
     Her eyes filled with panicky tears.  Seizing hold of his
arm, she whispered, "Sven, can't someone else....,"
     "Anya, don't do this.  It ar bad luck!"  Then, relenting
a little, he kissed her forehead.  "Say, 'good hunting', and
leave it like that." 
     It took several attempts, but Anya finally managed to
whisper,
      "Good hunting, Sven."
     "Tack, Ljusa."  Faking a smile, he gave her another quick
kiss and his football jersey, then left the apartment, bidding
a hasty farewell to Nikolai, Irina and Cass on the way. 
Fifteen minutes later he'd reached the air base, and pulled
enough  rank on a shipping clerk to get himself transported
back to Terre Haute using seven different mattermission
stations.  Jaw-droppingly expensive, but he figured that the
squadron could take the money out of his next hundred
paychecks, if he lived that long.
     
______________________________________________________________

     Lance was drumming his fingers on the supply counter,
explaining for the fifth time WHY the 32nd needed another
cannon, when a long, brazen alarm klaxon shredded the air. 
The XO's voice came over the intercom seconds later, calling,
     "General quarters, general quarters!  All hands to battle
stations!  Take port side to go forward, Starboard to go aft! 
This is NOT a drill!  Repeat, not a drill!"
     "Oh, SHIT!"  Lance growled, as a sudden concussion shook
the vessel, "here it comes!  I gotta get back to my unit!" 
Shoving the requisition form across the counter at the
frightened clerk, he muttered,  "Send it when you can," and
lunged through the hatch.  He emerged in a madhouse.  People
were rushing along the passages, clinging to bulkhead braces
whenever another explosion rocked Terre Haute.  They were
purposeful, rather than panicked; damage control and safety
teams, mostly.  Lance ignored them.  All he wanted was a ride
back down to the surface.  He was halfway to the hangar deck
when a sudden, mighty compulsion made him stop and turn
around.  Breaking into a run, he went back to supply, reaching
the mattermission station just as Sven materialized in the
freight booth.  The pilot looked a little sick; not
surprising, given how far his atoms had just been tossed.
     It was seeing Ericksen materialize like that, dressed in
a black flight suit, that finally clinched it. All of a
sudden, Lance realized the truth.  Yanking open the freight
doors, he shouted,
     "Dude, that's it! The teleporters!  The lions!  The
big... robot....THING!  We've gotta get out of here, get the
others and bring it back!  There's no other way to..."
     But Sven wasn't having any.  Shoving the frantic gunner
aside, he snapped,  "Later.  They need me."  For he could
feel, like a knife through the temples, the danger his wingman
and squad mates were in.
     "Sven, LISTEN!"  Lance seized both his arms above the
elbow, and used      something like a judo move to slam the
pilot's back against a bulkhead. "We're not gonna win this! 
The Drules are gonna turn Kraelyth into a radioactive damn
graveyard!  And if you go out there now, you'll be helping
them!"
     That got Sven's attention.  "Vad the hell are you talking
about?!"
     Lance shut his eyes for a moment.  The intensity of his
vision, and the headache that came with it, had just doubled.
     "We're not supposed to BE here!  I told you that before! 
There's..... another universe.... with a big... battle robot
thing.  You flew one of its parts, and me, and three other
guys!  They're here too, someplace, and all five of us are
gonna be killed in this battle, unless we can get back where
we belong!"
      Sven shook his head, black eyes grim.  "Nej.  I will not
desert my squadron."
     "Dammit!  You're NOT deserting!  They're going to die if
you stay! Maybe if we go back to... to... Arus..., we can find
the damn robot and bring it back here to help them survive
this!  Sven, you've GOT to listen to me!  Please!"
     Ericksen stiffened suddenly, closing his eyes as a cold
psionic blast tore through him. "Cowboy..." he whispered. 
With a deep, shaky breath, he gathered himself and stared hard
at Lance.
     "You'd better be right, Calvin, because they're dying,
and I'll kill you if you're lying to mig!"  Another shudder,
as a second friend disappeared in a cloud of metal and blood. 
Brendan, this time.  "Who ar the other three?!"
     "Uh....., you, me...., a kid, I think.... Yeah!  That's
it!  The kid from the mission, and that big guy, General
LaChance's son, whats-his-name!"
     "Det ar only four.  You said five."  Another violent
concussion shook Terre Haute, throwing both men to the deck. 
The overhead lights flickered, went off, then returned,
augmented by red battle lanterns.  Getting to his feet, trying
hard not to think about what his friends were facing, Sven
said, "You're better at this than I am.  Who var the fifth
man?  Webb?"
     "No.  No, it wasn't Cliff.  It was..... I don't....,"
     Lance was drawing a blank. Forcing himself to be calm
despite the screaming need to hurry, Sven thought back, past
the wall of drugs he'd set up, past the moment he'd awakened
in his bunk, to....
     "Keith," he announced, sensing that somewhere on the
ship, his old team mate had lifted his head suddenly and
replied, 'Sven?'
     "That's right!"  Lance crowed, punching the air. "The
only guy who should be with us, who wasn't on the mission is
ol' Fubar Akira!  Come on, Bro!  We've got, like, seconds."
     "Vad about the boy?"  Sven protested.  "He var sent to an
American war orphanage.  How can we get to him in time?!"
     Lance looked back over his shoulder, but didn't break
stride.  "Is that what they told you?"  He scoffed.  "Dude! 
Use your head!  Nobody sends a covert mission to a hostile
world just to rescue an orphan!  The kid's on the ship, in the
psych ward!"
     Ericksen didn't bother to reply.  Every wasted breath and
motion made it likelier that another of his squad mates would
punch out.  Superstitiously, Sven forced himself not to think
of his wingman.  It was desperately bad luck to give fate a
target.
     Rounding a corner, they nearly collided with LaChance,
panting up the accessway with the boy in tow.  (He'd abandoned
the laundry cart as soon as general quarters was sounded.  Too
bulky.)  Finding himself face to face with two of the officers
who'd been sent to kidnap Pidge from Balto, Hank reacted by
pulling a stolen sidearm.
     "Clear off, y'all,"  he rumbled, waving the laser pistol, 
"and won't nobody get hurt!  I said... STEP!!  Now!"
     Sven tore the weapon from Hank's grasp with a sudden,
vicious burst of TK.  "LaChance, if we meant to harm you or
the boy, you'd already be dead,"  he snarled.  "You're coming
with us if I have to break both your legs and carry you! I
don't f*cking have time to play!"   They just didn't get how
much it cost him to stand there talking, when every nerve and
fiber was screaming at him to rejoin his squadron.     
     Lance was more diplomatic.  "Hunk, it's okay!  Trust me! 
We're getting the hell outta Dodge, and back where we belong. 
ALL of us."
     The big man looked down at Pidge, whose small hand was
engulfed in his own huge paw.  Slowly, the young genius
nodded.
     "I believe that they mean well, Sergeant," he said in a
still, quiet voice.  A long series of  tooth-rattling
explosions shook the vessel.  This time, the lights stayed
out.  Only the crimson battle lanterns lit their route, now. 
Using psionic influence to avoid unwanted attention, Sven
guided Lance, Hunk and Pidge to the upper hangar deck, where
he knew Keith was waiting.

____________________________________________________________


     Hazaar watched from the bridge as his battle fleet
reduced the humans'pitiful hive on Kraelyth to cinders.  As
he'd predicted, the slaughter was glorious, and deeply
satisfying.  Half a watch should see the matter through, he
decided, ordering another salvo.
     Dorma, meanwhile, had led her squadron on a low-altitude
strafing run.  Scurrying humans were blown to crimson rags as
soon as they came into view, guns and tanks converted to
puddled slag.  Again and again she gave the firing command,
enjoying every kill.
____________________________________________________________


     They found the cursing major by the hangar's shield
generator.  His battle station was hangar safety officer, and
the generator had begun to falter, allowing atmosphere and
small tools to escape into space.  Racing to his side, Sven
shored the thing up telekinetically, not repairing it,
exactly, but wringing a few more minutes operation out of the
mechanism with a little creative re-wiring.  Keith did a
sudden, startled double-take.
     "Sven...?!  Son of a gun, it IS you!"  Akira blurted. 
"But how? I mean, where've you...?"
     "Keith, ordinarily I'd be helluva glad to see you," 
Ericksen snapped,  "but right now I don't have the time!  We
have to go!"
     All of the ship's hangar decks were stacked in a long,
vertical column.  This made it easier for fighters and
transports to be moved from one level to another, and now
allowed the five men to take a set of narrow emergency ladders
down to the mech hangar.  Without discussing the matter, they
all knew that Sven needed a Combot to get them back home. 
Three minutes, five, and then they were there, Ericksen
disguising their presence long enough to commandeer the one
remaining mech in the hangar.  An older bird, but still
serviceable, she hadn't been flown in several weeks.  The
stasis field that normally would have supported her had cut
off when the lights did, leaving the fighter resting rather
precariously on an access bridge.  Sven used TK to steady her,
then got everyone aboard.  The hangar was nearly deserted,
fortunately, or he would have had to choose between salvaging
the plane or keeping the lot of them hidden.  Skipping the
preflight, he introduced himself to the computer, ran up the
engines, cut on the impellers, and eased his new fighter onto
the landing deck.
     The runway was a cratered and pitted ruin.   The hangar
had taken at least two direct hits, and the shattered wreckage
of several Combots still smoldered on the deck.  He was going
to have to taxi almost to the very end of the runway before he
could take off.  Hoping like hell that there were no Hunters
nearby, Sven sank his mind into the mech, and began gliding
her forward.  Over a sparking bomb crater, around a blackened
derelict, past the scorched remains of several ground support
crew, and further, almost nosing the atmosphere shield.  His
luck was golden.  No Hunters. 
     Sven was just about to launch, when Lance burst through
the cockpit hatch and came forward.
     "I hate flying!" he groused.  "But if I've gotta do it, I
want to damn well see what's going on!"
     Sven freed part of his mind from the computer long enough
to call another seat into existence, and the sniper strapped
himself in.  "Thanks, man. Luck."
     "Ja.  Hang on."
     They launched, blasting away from the hangar deck like a
missile.  The space around Terre Haute, Achilles and Apollo
was a nightmare of explosions, plasma blasts, hurtling
fighters and missiles. Almost immediately, Sven went into
evasive, twisting, dodging and slipping into partial phase to
avoid being riddled. It was horrendously dangerous flying that
way, for he couldn't be certain what lay in his path.  If he
intersected another fighter, or battleship, he'd shut down
their systems, leaving them helpless.   
     He should have warped away immediately.  Instead, Sven
raced to the aid of his squadron.  With the base a near total
loss, they'd pulled out into space to defend their battle
group.  Coming out of phase at the last possible instant,
Ericksen opened fire on a trio of Hunters who were pursuing
Icepick and Ralph.  One of the Drule fighters erupted at once,
while the second evaded his hellcat only to collide with the
other surviving Hunter.  Their shields locked, flickering just
long enough for Vitorrio to get a plasma blast through.  The
Drule battlemechs vanished in a huge, silent fireball. 
     'Gracias, Loki!'  Icepick sent briefly, before veering
off to intercept a Hunter that had targeted Terre Haute's
bridge deck.  Bull closed in from Sven's port side, deeply
relieved to see him. 
     'Loki, there is making a dramatic entrance, and there is
just plain insanity!  Welcome back, my friend!'
     'Ja, well, leave var getting sort of boring.'  He had to
go, though. He didn't need Lance's impatient thoughts to
remind him of what was at stake.  Helping Bull incinerate a
Drule gunship, Sven sent,
     'Harrier?'  It was several long minutes before the
commander replied.  Having lost his wingman, Harrier was
little more than a stunned shell now, fighting automatically. 
If he survived the battle, and his own suicidal urges, he'd
need weeks of reprogramming to erase the awful pain of
experiencing Cowboy's death.
     "I copy, Viper three...," he responded at last, voice
listless and empty.
     "Commander, I'm not crazy, or possessed, I swear it.  I
var gone for awhile, and where I went, there is help.  If I go
back dar, I can return with back-up, kanske even stop this
attack before it happens.  With your permission, Sir, I'd like
to try."
     Their exchange had been heard.  Another wave of Hunters,
these led by a particularly fierce and skillful pilot, now
raced toward Sven, Hadji and Commander Scott, firing all the
way.  Before they quite got close enough for a targeting lock,
Harrier said,
     "Go on, then.  We'll hold them, until your return. Hurry,
though, or there will be nothing and no one left to save."
     "Aye, Sir,"  Sven replied, deeply torn.  "I'll be back in
a moment."  Then, slipping into phase, he located what he
hoped was the right future, and warped away.

                     To Be Continued.......