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X : TO THE HILLS

It has happened. The Ancient One folded her arms, bringing the central one over her left shoulder and tucking it between her two forward arms.

Ra’pij’okk frowned. "We have been repulsed?"

Sighing, the Mind Queen leaned back. "Pikbuuv failed to hold the shipyards; he no longer has the resources to mount a coordinated offense, and his unique command style has compromised his mind."

"Which means he can’t send back any resources, so his only use is for the diversion of forces from the main Zone thrust from ‘their’ Tertiary Galaxy."

"Exactly."

Aboard Oomlok, Okkche'e'terrchangjon Xonmik shuddered. "Did anyone else feel that?"

His executive officer nodded. "We’ve lost contact with command, sir. It looks like he bolted into hyperspace."

"Just wonderful. So the Zone fleet holds our primary objective and we’re scattered across a quarter of a galaxy." I warned him about stretching so far…

"Orders, sir?"

"No new ones as of yet. The Zoners obviously know what they’re doing, seeing how they took down Pikbuuv so quickly, so they will reinforce their current position and make their fleet self-sustainable. I think this squadron shall do the same."

"Sir?"

Xonmik pointed with the missing index finger on his right hand to the blue-green planet Oomlok was orbiting on the strategic indicator display. Next to its holographic image was a terse resource summary as well as other vital information, such as gravity, air pressure at sea level, hydrosphere, atmosphere, and lithosphere contents. "Begin exploitation operations on that planet. I want as many raw materials as we can pack into our holds as quickly as possible. Standard genetic collection routines as well."

"Understood, sir. Should we also introduce the Symbiote?"

"Yes, if nothing else but for the intelligence gathering."

As his executive officer walked off to follow his orders, Xonmik turned to the display and arched his dexterous hands together, fingertip to fingertip. The index finger of his left hand always went further than the rest, lacking an opposite number to rest against, and the talons of his lifting arm scratched the back of his neck. So soon into the operation, and we’ve been beheaded. Or… "Communications officer!"

"Sir?"

"Tell one of the destroyers to go into hyperspace and attempt to make contact with Slax pij Pikthid. It is to transmit our situation, receive new advisement or orders, then drop back into realspace and relay to us."

"Complying, sir."

Xonmik sighed again, tapping his fingers together in sequence. As always, his left index finger fell until it hit the stubby knuckle of his right hand. Fourteen-fingers. It may have given me a less honorable name, but it taught me how to think… now if only my brethren do the same.

"What’s the situation, Admiral?" M’sharra rumbled to the brown-haired face on her desk communicator.

Fleet Admiral Nibnumber grinned on the other end. "Task Force GLAIVE reports objective captured, Admiral." His grin fell. "Still, it’s tough dealing with these Exploration Corps wet-noses. I had a light cruiser commander almost get vaped by a superbattleship because ‘he didn’t see it.’"

M’sharra shrugged. "That’s your problem, Phil. We could only pull forces from Sector 14. Defense forces against the Thaurian Concordat." She put special emphasis on the empire in a disdaining sneer. "Now you see why we get the second-class material; you boys up in Tertiary Galaxy on the Reaver Cordon get all the good stuff and hard people."

"Yeah…" Nibnumber rubbed the back of his head. "I still think that was a damned dirty trick you pulled, ‘Sharra, but now I see that your hand was sort of forced."

The Kzroth chuckled. "I do what I can. Still, I know you well enough that you wouldn’t waste a coded vidfeed trans on something as simple as reporting in. What do you need?"

"I just got off the horn with the Grand Master Exalted Cleric," Nibnumber rolls his eyes, "and it figures that he has less intel than I do. Oh, there is the Inquisition, but they think the time of day is privileged information. I’m fighting a war here not only with one hand behind my back but wearing a lead helmet too."

"So you need me to talk to the Hiss about getting you ground-level intelligence?"

"Exactly. I know we have more agents in the TC than carcinogens in smoked beef but I can’t directly talk to them without violating INTSEC; besides, I don’t even know where they are. So I either get the politically correct but up-to-date version from TC Inquiz, which is less than useless, or I get the delayed straight-deal from the Hiss, which I can actually use."

"All right, Phil, I’ll send it up the line." M’sharra shakes her head then looks at the slowly spreading streaks of grey in the mahogany fur of her left hand. "Still, I should have thought of that before sending you out there."

Nibnumber shrugs. "No time; it’s simply amazing we were able to get out here as quickly as we did. Still, I’m going to hole up until the Hiss gets back to me with some real data and wish that we slammed the Reavers so hard that their heads are still spinning."

M’sharra smirked. "Slamming Reavers is what you do best, Phil."

"Yeah," the human grimaced, "don’t remind me. Still, thanks for helping out."

"Hey," M’sharra shrugged, "it’s my job. Take care, Admiral. SEC12DEFCOM out."

"You too, Admiral. Task Force GLAIVE out."

Sighing slightly and leaning back into her chair, M’sharra dialed up the Weirdo Zone Internal Security Services. The WZISS was the spook service, called the Hiss by basically everyone not in it; the connection to the sound an angry serpent makes wholly intentional. After a few moments, her self-contemplation was brushed away by the less-than-handsome visage of Intelligence Director G’t’zazz filling her communications display.

"Fleet Admiral," his buzz-box hummed in time with the clacking of his mandibles, "how excellent to hear from you. I figured that I should take a call from SEC12DEFCOM personally, especially with GLAIVE being out there. How can I assist the war effort?"

"Shit, Mind Parasites." A destitute-looking, ragged figure in an alleyway shoved a blinking device into his rags and quickly pulled a hood over his face, zipping shut what looked like a plastic rain-faceplate. Staggering further into the debris of the alley away from the ignorant eyes of patrols of blue-skinned Reaver Warriors, he checked the flashing device again. "Great, they’re multiplying." Looking up into the sky, he cursed in seven different languages. "I knew those bombers were up to no good. Well, time for the serum."

Biting his lip, he felt for a tiny box tucked in his belt, hidden under the tattered robes, and tapped a tiny button. A collar around his neck hissed slightly as it injected a dose of "The Serum" into his veins. The experience approximates being kicked in the stomach by an industrial robot while concurrently pouring battery acid into one’s veins.

A Warrior, alerted by the noise, peeks into the alleyway to see a peasant growling in pain and rolling about in the trash. It’s only a poor, destitute beggar in the most blighted power in the galactic supercluster; nothing to be concerned about. The reptilian moves on, thinking quietly to itself. Poor bastard. Too bad we aren’t holding this world; we’d clean it up.

Damn straight, thinks Dmitri Alexandreovich Koryanev, Psi-Alpha agent, Weirdo Zone Internal Security Services. Blinking and gasping from The Serum, he regains his shaky feet just as his communicator vibrates. Huddling into a crevice in the façade of one of the decrepit buildings, he flips out the device so he can read the screen:

AGENT DENNIS - NEW ORDERS

RPRT FLT STR IMMED TO HQ.

And how the hell am I supposed to figure out fleet strengths? Dmitri shook his head. Well, I guess it’s time to wander around listening to people’s thoughts again. Sticking his hands into ragged pockets, he walks out into the street and stumbles drunkenly around, absorbing the thoughts around him.

I caught up with Sergeant Pelok in the mess hall; it was the easiest place to intercept people. Looking up from his tray of CHON, he smiled. "Hey, there, ma’am. How can I help you?" Noting that I wasn’t carrying a tray myself, he chuckled. "Not hungry yourself?"

Sitting down across the table from him, I leaned forward. I was aiming for the image of supplication, but not everyone can read Volanti eyes. I’m pretty sure mine were green at the time; still, Pelok leaned back slightly and looked worried. "I’m not in trouble, am I?"

I never was any good with body language except when it really mattered… which, let me tell you, makes everyday relationships difficult. "Oh, not at all." I leaned back-a far less aggressive posture-and held my hands up in the air in the universal "oops" pose. "I’m actually just here to ask for a job."

He raised an eyebrow slightly. "Ma’am?"

"Asla told me to come to you for a position on combat sensor crew. I have experience from my time on survey duty aboard Drake, if that means anything."

"Whoa, slow down. You want a job on sensors? Why?"

I explained to him my motivation.

"Ahh. I get it. Well, it isn’t too tough; in combat our job is mostly to ensure that the computer doesn’t put up the wrong information or too much of it."

"I thought our sentient computers were designed to handle that." I realized it was a silly question; if his position wasn’t needed, the sergeant wouldn’t be doing it. Still, my experience was with a civilian vessel without even a pre-sentient algorithm to its name.

"They are," Pelok grinned, "but they like the feedback. I know LCR-Brisbane takes comfort from the fact that someone’s checking her work."

"I see." Checking the work of a hyperintelligent computer… how odd that seemed. Pelok could somehow tell that I didn’t see. Sensors operators-never get the obvious but always note the subtle. Go figure.

"Well, there was that superbattleship scare," he explained, "Brisbane thought it was relatively obvious from the icon she used that it was rather dangerous and big. Apparently, the Captain didn’t quite see it that way. Our job is to prevent stuff like that by highlighting important bits that aren’t being highlighted enough… then again, we all missed that one. She is still apologizing for it, but hey-our loss, right?"

I found my mind wandering to the ethical implications of using electronic intelligences in warships as facilitators rather than organizers. It was absolutely necessary given the complexities of modern technology, but it did bring an interesting twist of the symbiosis between a ship and her (always her… some old human tradition or something) crew. The concept of fully automated ships had been thrown out because neither idealistic organics nor the electronic intelligences themselves liked it; the strange task-sharing that developed remained because it seemed to work.

I suddenly found myself wanting to talk to Brisbane and asking her (it?) what it thought. "When can I start?"

Pelok grinned. "Well, I’m about to go on my extended duty shift; best way to learn is to do, especially when there’s little chance that the training will destroy the ship…"

Pikbuuv sat up, leaning out of the recessed bunk. His head swimming, he picked up the nearest fruit. Piercing it with his teeth, he sucked out the juice first. He always had, it was a habit; but now it gave him time to think, to concentrate on something that wasn’t…

I have to protect my fleet and my motherland. I can’t let that feeling, that helplessness I felt (feel?), stop me. So, here’s the situation: We don’t have the shipyard, but we have multiple outlying systems. Force is scattered along the perimeter of a wedge covering a quarter of the galaxy… if we coalesce, then the Zoners will know where we are, and that would lead to a series of battles. We can’t retake the shipyards because, knowing them, it will be reinforced and they will not fall for such a simple trick. We know that Thaurian intelligence is compromised, and even then they’d never share…

But we aren’t going to be receiving reinforcements. We were sent out to gain territory, resources; and such a desperate move… we are buying time. That means our new objectives are to keep the Zoners busy and prevent them from building up more forces-prevent a second front-while still causing enough damage to force them to replace losses.

Pikbuuv sighed. This is not going to go well. The instant this group drops out of hyperspace, the Zoners will know… unless we scatter it to existing groups.

There was a knock upon the door; it opened slightly as the executive officer peeked in. "Sir, a vessel from Xonmik’s squadron has contacted us, requesting orders."

Xonmik. He’ll be helpful in this; he has the spirit of combat in him. "Inform him that Slax pij Pikthid will meet him. Order the rest of our squadron to scatter to the other squadrons. Standing orders are to hold still and avoid contact against superior odds but strike against easily defeatable forces. Extra emphasis on easily."

"Understood, sir." As the door closed, Pikbuuv received the XO’s thoughts: He must really be shaken up… not giving the order directly.

Great, Pikbuuv thought to himself, the last thing I need is pity and doubt amongst my brethren. He bit into the fruit; it felt cool and sweet but slightly dry in his mouth. Dry… like dust.

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